This is a story about a taxi ride.

The first thing the driver says to me (when I tell him my destination) is, “Ah. One of the last white streets in Paris.”

“Hmm,” I think, “that’s a weird thing to say.” But we’re speaking in French, and I can’t be sure that I had understood correctly, so I just mumble “yeah.”

BIG mistake. I guess he had been testing the waters, because he seems to take my awkward response as a sign that I am a fellow white power enthusiast, and he cheerily makes a fist and declares, “We are strong!”

About 2 minutes into the ride we come to a stoplight and pull up next to an Asian cab driver. My driver grins, and then assumes a Chinese Kung-Fu movie-dub accent and runs through every clichéd Asian stereotype in the book, laughing the whole time. Alright, I figure; this guy’s from a different era—he’s probably just your run-of-the-mill sort of racist old guy.

Then he rolls down the window, gives the Asian guy the finger, and peels out. So much for that theory.

Now at this point in the story, I feel like I should add that this guy’s driving is borderline insane. The man is insistent on taking “shortcuts” that consist of finding a significantly more circuitous route with as few stoplights as possible, and flooring the acceleration to make up for the difference. I imagine it’s something like having Jason Statham from ‘The Transporter’ as your driver, except with way more road rage, and instead of a BMW 7-series you’re riding in a Peugeot hatchback.

Anyway, back to the action.

After leaving a bewildered Mr. Lee (the Asian cabbie’s name, according to my driver) in the dust, my driver decides that it’s time to get to know me. It takes approximately 30 seconds of conversation for him to realize that I am not French, and his opinion of me immediately takes a nosedive. His disappointment is slightly alleviated, however, when he discovers that I am American. Turns out Mr. (read: Monsieur) Taxi lived in Los Angeles for a few years, where—surprise—he drove a cab, and believes that in spite of its inherent inferiority to France, the U.S.A. is an all right place to live. He does, however, have a cultivated distaste for our female population, and over the next few minutes I am subjected to a thorough lesson in the shortcomings of American women. (Fat, lazy gold diggers just about sums it up.)

“French women,” he informs me, “are much better.” While we drive, he points out women on the sidewalk, citing them as evidence for his claim. His commentary makes it sound as though he is trying to sell cattle for breeding:

“Ah this one. She is truly young and fit, yes?”

“And ours know how to behave.”

“They won’t be lazy, too. In America they just cost you money and never work.”

Eventually, Mr. Taxi decides that he has successfully imparted his personal brand of misogyny upon me, and I am blessed with a few minutes of silence.

Sadly, my reprieve from 1800’s social philosophy is cut short when we arrive at a busy traffic stop. There are some people out in the street with buckets and scrapers, cleaning windshields for change. Obviously this sends Mr. Taxi flying off the handle, and he immediately launches into an anti-gipsy tirade. “Lazy good for nothing bastards—look!” he says. “See how the women do the work while the men sit on their asses! Sons of bitches.” At this point he rolls down the window again and yells, “Go back to your country you assholes!” He looks back at me with a big grin on his face, but all I can offer in return is a nervous glance. It appears that, once again, he has again mistaken what I thought to be a noncommittal action as a sign that I am sympathetic to his cause, because he says, “Disgusting people, eh?” before flooring the cab into some kind of special lane that I’m pretty sure was not reserved for us.

Mr. Taxi spends the next ten minutes weaving in between traffic, edging out motor scooters, and generally disregarding the rules of the road, all the while complaining loudly about the other drivers. Then, as we are entering an intersection, someone makes an ill-advised lane change—essentially cutting us off—and, as you might suspect, this does not make Mr. Taxi happy.

He sets his sights on the offending vehicle.

“You want to play?” he demands. “You want to play?? You want to play with ADOLF HITLER?!”

Well, I guess I won’t be mentioning that I’m Jewish.

“You want to play with Adolf? Okay!!” With all 78 horses engaged, our Peugeot overtakes the offender, and, after swerving to avoid a hapless cyclist, Mr. Taxi looks into the rearview mirror and shouts triumphantly, “You don’t play with me! I am the last druid!” The next few minutes consist of celebratory laughter punctuated by the Peugeot’s horn and interjections of, “The last druid!”

At this point I’m just hoping that we don’t spark a race riot.

Miraculously, we don’t, and I arrive at my destination with everything intact. We pull over to the curb, and I think, “What a surreal experience. Thank god it’s over.” I begin to climb out of the cab, and as I swing my legs out the door, I see Mr. Taxi looking at me in the mirror. He nods once, and with the utmost sincerity he says, “You’re a good boy.”

I used the metro for the rest of my trip.