By Steven Shepard, Contributing Columnist
Three weeks ago I took a taxi from downtown Toronto to Pearson International airport, on my way back to my home in Vermont. My driver, a genial, soft-spoken and well-educated man from Cairo who spoke halting but charming English (far better than my mastery of his language), carried on a lively conversation with me during the 90 minutes it took us to drive through rush hour traffic to the airport.
In fact, because of our conversation, we have been in regular e-mail contact since, carrying on the conversation thread that we started in his taxi.
When I hopped in the car, we chatted for a few minutes before getting to the Highway 401 parking lot (the local name for the 401, which rivals the Los Angeles 405 freeway for its level of automotive paralysis). He sighed, and then he asked me what I was doing in Toronto.