Picture It

Yesterday, at 7:15 in the morning, I looked out the window of the old Toyota minivan that takes me to work and saw the following: Amid beat-up old yellow-and-white taxis, starved horses pulling carts loaded with carrots, and buses spewing black smoke, an entire Afghan family floated down the street on one very shiny motorcycle. The man was driving, his henna-dyed red hair flowing in the wind, his Paris Hilton-like sunglasses reflecting the bike's chrome. Sitting in front of him on the fuel tank was a boy of 3 or 4, desperately clutching his father's elbows, but looking like he was enjoying the ride. Behind the man was his wife. The wind caught her shiny blue burqa to reveal the brightly colored, vividly patterned outfit and high-heeled shoes she was wearing underneath. Finally, squeezed in between the parents was the newest addition to this picture-perfect biker family: a tiny baby girl dressed in pink from head to toe. I am not sure how to explain it, but for some reason that image stuck on my retina and made me happy for the rest of the day.

Never a dull moment.