Each of the various cabbies has been tethered to a mobile 'phone, and, with the brief exception of nodding when we announced our destination (and, in one case, asking "Which way do you want to take?" in our quest to get from late-night SoHo to Midtown East), prattled endlessly in a tongue I could not identify. Occasionally I caught words of English, or French, but always wrapped into another tongue which was at one point subject to the expanding empire of one European country or another.
My amazement continued: only one trip featured a native English-speaking, traditional-looking cabby (who would no doubt prefer to be called a hackie), and he did not sport a mobile 'phone. One driver rattled endlessly into a 'phone which had a most elaborate ring-tone (a Bengali pop song?), and switched off occasionally with another 'phone. Another driver took twists and turns through Ell-icey to avoid the bridge approaches, and navigated this all while enjoying a heated debate (argument? how could I tell?) in a tongue I could not place. In San Francisco this happens only occasionally, and somehow I feel more comfortable asking the drivers what language they are using, but here in Manhattan I simply sat quiet, in awe. And the airwaves crackle with three thousand different languages.