Trip to America like boot camp for the listening impaired

Chatty cabbies give Adrian a workout

The bad news — apparently, these days we’re talking more and listening less. A typical Psychology Today article says only 10 per cent of people listen effectively. The writer blames technology, the distraction of smartphones and so forth. Instead of listening, most of us just wait for pauses in the conversation so we can blather away.

How sad. Of course, for years, I was as guilty as anyone. When someone said “Listen to this!” I’d invariably start thinking about Netflix, poutine or that shiny piece of cellophane on the ground.

But now it appears I’ve become a excellent listener. Why? Because people are always talking to me. Often at great length. And sometimes they reveal deep, dark secrets.

Last week, we took a trip to San Francisco. Took lots of taxis. Invariably, the drivers regaled us with the fascinating stories of their lives.

For example:

• A 60ish, pony-tailed cabbie says he’s been driving for 40 years. Came to San Francisco from Motown in ’77 to see his sister and never left. Informs us there are many gay people living in the Castro district where we’re staying. The cabbie suggests we not be alarmed as — thanks to the tutelage of his wife and daughter— he’s learned they’re “regular folk” just like anyone else.

Then the cabbie takes a call from his mom and tells her he loves her dearly.

• A 50ish, unshaven cabbie blames the influx of young workers from the high-tech industry for driving up San Francisco condo prices. Says these tech-nerds making tons of dough mostly spend evenings in high-priced condos eating takeout food and watching Netflix instead of taking taxis to restaurants and bars like normal human beings.

• A 70ish cabbie with a mustache and a distinctive accent (Turkish?) tells us his wife died of cancer. We learn this 30 seconds after entering. Asks where we’re from. Says Canada is a good place to live because fresh air and nonpolluted crops means contracting cancer is less likely. Asks if we’ve seen any orcas in Canada. Tells us orcas are super-smart. • A 60ish cabbie in a Hawaiian shirt says we’re his last fare of the night. Says he will go to a blues bar after — and adds we can come too, if so inclined. We decline, citing exhaustion from climbing Coit Tower and seeing a drag queen show (not at the same time). Cabbie says he met his longtime girlfriend at blues bar. Says they each live in rent-controlled apartments which they’re reluctant to give up. States his belief that living apart is good for their relationship. Reveals he’s a former clinical psychologist and that his girlfriend is a famous costumer for commercial mascots.

For some reason, strangers always want to talk to me (the people who know me, not so much). This phenomenon really stepped up after I bought an 1966 Jaguar sedan a year ago.

It turns out if you have a weird old car, people are keen to talk to you about it. This particular automobile attracts an exclusive brand of conversationalist, i.e., loquacious elderly men. Over the past year I’ve had chinwags galore with these guys. It’s a mixed blessing. Such tête-à-têtes happen mostly in parking lots. I’ll be approaching my car with a cartful of groceries. A grandpa in a Tilley hat will be standing beside it. He’ll have a beguiling grin, which means “car chat time.”

This isn’t great for me. Lacking mechanical skills, I don’t know anything about my car except that it uses gas and oil.

When I convey this to Tilley hat guy, he’ll invariably give me an automotive lecture.

“Did you know the S-Type is a redevelopment of the Mark 2, and in some ways, it’s a superior automobile?” he says. “No,” I say. “Oh my word, yes! It has independent rear suspension — a major improvement over the Mark 2’s live rear axle. I believe, too, the S-Type has a twin carburetor, as opposed to the triple.”

I always feel like mumbling in heavily-accented English, “I — drive — car,” and then zooming away. But I never do.

An old gent at a florist’s shop once gave me a 40-minute talk on Jaguars. He told me how he and his wife used to enjoy driving their Jag on summer weekends. She liked to wear a sun bonnet! Also he gave me a full run down on the Mini Coopers he used to own. There was quite a few of them.

I complained to my wife, saying that the ancient Jag had turned into an old-man magnet. She pointed out I’m well on the way to old-manhood myself and should be glad of the company.

Next week: Choosing your Tilley hat.