renovate\REN-uh-vayt\
verb:to restore to a former better state (as by cleaning, repairing, or rebuilding)
:to restore to life, vigor, or activity : revive

Yesterday, after attending a reading by five poets from the women’s movement, I hailed a cab on 116th and Broadway. I got into a prius (yay, my favorite of cabs) and was whisked away crosstown, back to the Upper East Side. The middle-to-senior-aged driver had an amazing mustache and a pair of classic spectacles. The thing about the prius cabs, unlike others, is that there is a vast amount of open space that allows for conversation between driver and rider. Sometimes, this is not a good thing, but tonight I was feeling congenial.

“Did the Yankees finally win?” I asked.
“Yes, finally! About time they started winning.” The driver answered.

That got us started. Picking me up was almost like Déjà vu, he explained. Just an hour earlier he had stopped for a professor, who had been tied up in class, unable to watch the game, and asked the very same question about the game, hoping too, that the Yankees had renovated their talents. Continuing to chat, I found out that the pitcher from Texas, whose name slips my mind, is going to make $200 million next year, that the cab driver teaches dancing lessons – more specifically international folk dance in Central Park – as his primary career, that a Gemini’s best match is really a Gemini, and that he thinks I should either work/write for the President or become a diplomat.

I really liked this guy! I told him that yes, I actually did contemplate at one time or another becoming a diplomat because “diplomatic” is one of the words that people use to describe me most often. He also said I was a polished conversationalist, which would surprise many people (including my Mother and Father, who had recategorized my communication skills as “Dulcy Speak” years ago).

So, according to the fab Mr. Cab man, I need to call up some diplomats and start talking to them about how it all works, get some ideas, and start making my way. It was about that time that we found ourselves on 88th street behind a posse of ConEd trucks. Not going anywhere. “Hey, Buddy,” someone shouted, “Didn’t you see the road closed sign back there?”