I am Bob White. My last name is ______.

A:I wonder ______ your full name please. B: My full name is Jack Wiuiams.

A．if you will tell me

B．if you'd mind telling me

C．if you'd tell me

D．if you will offer

The Woman Taxi Driver In Cairo

  Her name is Nagat.

  I first saw her outside Cairo's airport terminal. A woman taxi driver -- the only woman, for that matter, among a large crowd of her male counterparts.

  Do you know what it is like to arrive in a strange city in the middle of the night? Nobody, not even a ray of sunshine is here to greet you. When I walk out of the terminal, I am facing the crowd of taxi drivers milling about in front of every airport the world over. Here in Cairo, it is large and noisy. "Taxi!" "You want taxi?" I hear all round me.

  I feel a firm hand holding my left arm. "You want taxi, follow me," the woman says. She doesn't ask, she simply pulls me through the crowd. I follow her willingly. There is this moment when a tourist, particularly a woman, simply has to trust someone. We stop at a worn car. It has seen a better day, there are quite a few scrapes on its body, the tires are bald and there is a crack in the windshield. But it is a car for hire, and the woman will personally drive me. I breathe a sigh of relief when she puts my bag into the trunk, locks it and gets behind the wheel. "I will drive you. don't worry," she says.

  Nagat, as she now explains to me, works as a taxi driver several days and nights a week. She has another job, working in an office, but details of it remain vague. The little old ear is not hers; it belongs to a boss from whom she in turn rents it whenever she can. She has been a driver ever since her husband died some ten years earlier and left her with two teenage kids and her parents to support.

  She knows every nook and cranny in and around Cairo -- no easy feat. Cairo with its complex system of streets and lanes, its quarters and markets is like a labyrinth invented by ancient storytellers. Hundreds of mosques -- many of which are masterpieces of Islamic architecture, old neighborhoods with houses boxed together, huge apartment buildings on the outskirts and the Nile calmly running through it; all are part of this overcrowded city.

  With a mild sense of humor around a deep core of understanding of human nature, Nagat takes control of my sightseeing schedule. Every morning punctually at nine o'clock, I can depend on seeing her short, solid frame outside the hotel lobby, her round face turning into a big smile as soon as she sees me coming down the stairs. Most every day, she wears an earth tone-colored Jellaba. Her movements are energetic and she doesn't waste any time. Her determined approach seems to have grown on a bed of economy, on the necessity to get as much done as she possibly can.

  What becomes clear to me soon as she drives me from museum to pyramid, from one part of town to the opposite, is this: she is a true exception here. Wherever we stop, be it for a cup of tea during a break or upon arriving at a historical site where her male colleagues gather in the parking area everywhere, she is being noticed. Men walk up to her in the car with questioning faces. As she tells me, they all have one question first of all: "Are you a taxi driver?" She then explains in a few short sentences, and I see the men's faces soften, smile and respectfully and kindly chat with her. This scene repeats itself over and over again. I get the sense that she invites goodwill from the people she meets.

  Nagat is proud and independent. One day, as I find her waiting outside a museum, she is just taking a spare tire out of the trunk of the taxi. One of the bald tires had finally gone flat, and she was going to change it herself. Several curious people gather around her and she receives offers of help -- but no, she wants no part of that. In her efficient, deliberate manner, she changes the tire, and having done so, washes her hands with bottled water, gets in the taxi and asks "Where to now?"

  Should you find yourself at Cairo's airport, look for Nagat outside the international arrival hall. If you are lucky, you will have a chance to see Cairo through the eyes of a woman taxi driver.

My father was, I am sure, intended by nature to be a cheerful kindly man. Until be was thirty-four years old he worked as a farmhand for a man named Thomas Butterworth whose place lay near the town of Bidwell, Ohio. He had a horse of his own, and on Saturday evenings drove into town to spend a few hours in social intercourse with other farmhands. In town he drank several glasses of beer and stood about in Ben Head's saloon—crowded on Saturday evening with visiting farmhands. Songs were sung and glasses thumped on the bar. At ten o'clock father drove home along a lonely country road, made his horse comfortable for the night, and himself went to bed, quite happy in his position in life. He had at that time no notion of trying to rise in the world.

It was in the spring of his thirty-fifth year that father married my mother, then a country school teacher, and in the following spring I came wriggling and crying into the world. Something happened to the two people. They became ambitious. The American idea of getting up in the world took possession of them.

It may have been that mother was responsible. Being a school teacher, she had no doubt read books and magazines. She had, I presume, read of how Garfield, Lincoln, and other Americans rose from poverty to fame and greatness, and as I lay beside her—in the days of her lying-in—she may have dreamed that I would someday rule men and cities. At any rate she induced father to give up his place as farmhand, sell his horse, and embark on an independent enterprise of his own. She was a tall silent woman with a long nose and troubled gray eyes. For herself she wanted nothing. For father and me she was incurably ambitious.

According to the narrator, his father's life used to be______.

A．quite poor

B．quite hard

C．quite happy

D．quite rich

SECTION A CONVERSATIONS

Directions: In this section you will hear several conversations. Listen to the conversations carefully and then answer the questions that follow.

听力原文：W: Good evening, sir! Welcome to Dreamland Hotel. I am Cathy Lee. May I help you?

M: Yes, I booked a single room three weeks ago. My name is David Arden.

W: How do you spell your last name, please?

M: It's A-R-D-E-N.

W: Thank you, Mr. Arden. Please wait for a minute. I'll check the arrival list... Yes, we have your reservation. Mr. Arden, a single room with bath. You have paid 850 as advance deposits. Am I right?

M: Yes.

W: Your room number is 505. It's on the fifth floor. Would you please fill out this form. while I am preparing the key card for you?

M: Yes. Should I write down my passport number here?

W: Yes. I am afraid you have to.

M: Here you are.

W: Let me see... Oh, Mr. Arden, you forgot to put in the date of your departure. You are leaving on... ?

M: Well, Sep. 21.

W: Everything is all right now. You will be staying in Room 505 from Sep. 19 to Sep. 21 for two nights. The daily rate is 850 per night. Here is your key card with all the information about hotel services and rules and regulations on it. Please make sure that you have it with you all the time. You need to show it when sign for your meals and drinks in the restaurants and the bars.

M: OK. I'll take good care of it.

W: And now if you are ready, Mr. Arden, I'll call the bellboy and he'll take you to your room.

M: Yes, thank you.

W: I hope you enjoy your stay with us.

What is the man's purpose of being here?

A．To reserve a room with bath.

B．To pay the deposit.

C．To check his reservation.

D．To stay in the Dreamland Hotel.

SECTION A CONVERSATIONS

Directions: In this section you will hear several conversations. Listen to the conversations carefully and then answer the questions that follow.

听力原文：W: Good evening, sir! Welcome to Dreamland Hotel. I am Cathy Lee. May I help you?

M: (5) Yes, I booked a single room three weeks ago. My name is David Arden.

W: How do you spell your last name, please?

M: It's A-R-D-E-N.

W: Thank you, Mr. Arden. Please wait for a minute. I'll check the arrival list... Yes, we have your reservation. Mr. Arden, a single room with bath. You have paid $50 as advance deposits. Am I right?

M: Yes.

W: Your room number is 505. It's on the fifth floor. Would you please fill out this form. while I am preparing the key card for you?

M: Yes. Should I write down my passport number here?

W. Yes. I am afraid you have to.

M: Here you are.

W: Let me. see... Oh, Mr. Arden, you forgot to put in the date of your departure. You are leaving on... ？

M: Well, Sep. 21.

W: Everything is all right now. (6) You will be staying in Room 505 from Sep. 19 to Sep. 21 for two nights. The daily rate is $ 60 per night. (7) Here is your key card with all the information about hotel services and rules and regulations on it. Please make sure that you have it with you all the time. You need to show it when signing for your meals and drinks in the restaurants and the bars.

M: OK. I'll take good care of it.

W: And now if you are ready, Mr. Arden, I'll call the bellboy and he'll take you to your room.

M: Yes, thank you.

W: I hope you enjoy your stay with us.

What is the man's purpose of being here?

A．To reserve a room with bath.

B．To pay the deposit.

C．To check his reservation.

D．To stay in the Dreamland Hotel

My heart sank when the man at the immigration counter gestured to the back room. I'm an American born and raised,and this was Miami,where I live,but they weren't quite ready to let me in yet.

"Please wait in here, Ms. Abujaber," the immigration officer said. My husband, with his very American last name, accompanied me. He was getting used to this. The same thing had happened recently in Canada when I'd flown to Montreal to speak at a book event. That time they held me for 45 minutes. Today we were returning from a literary festival in Jamaica, and I was startled that I was being sent"in back"once again.

The officer behind the counter called me up and said, "Miss, your name looks like the name of someone who's on our wanted list. We're going to have to check you out with Washington."

"How long will it take?"

"Hard to say...a few minutes," he said. "We'll call you when we're ready for you."

After an hour, Washington still hadn't decided anything about me. "Isn't this computerized?" I asked at the counter. "Can't you just look me up?"

Just a few more minutes, they assured me.

After an hour and a half, I pulled my cell phone out to call the friends I was supposed to meet that evening. An officer rushed over. "No phones!" he said. "For all we know you could be calling a terrorist cell and giving them information."

"I'm just a university professor," I said. My voice came out in a squeak.

"Of course you are. And we take people like you out of here in leg irons every day."

I put my phone away.

My husband and I were getting hungry and tired. Whole families had been brought into the waiting room, and the place was packed with excitable children, exhausted parents, even a flight attendant.

I wanted to scream, to jump on a chair and shout: "I'm an American citizen; a novelist; I probably teach English literature to your children." Or would that all be counted against me?

After two hours in detention, I was approached by one of the officers. "You're free to go," he said. No explanation or apologies. For a moment, neither of us moved, we were still in shock. Then we leaped to our feet.

"Oh, one more thing." He handed me a tattered photocopy with an address on it. "If you weren't happy with your treatment, you can write to this agency."

"Will they respond?" I asked.

"I don't know--I don't know of anyone who's ever written to them before." Then he added, "By the way, this will probably keep happening each time you travel internationally."

"What can I do to keep it from happening again?"

He smiled the empty smile we'd seen all day. "Absolutely nothing."

After telling several friends about our ordeal, probably the most frequent advice I've heard in response is to change my name. Twenty years ago,my own graduate school writing professor advised me to write under a pen name so that publishers wouldn't stick me in what he called "the ethnic ghetto"--a separate, secondary shelf in the bookstore. But a name is an integral part of anyone's personal and professional identi-ty-just like the town you're born in and the place where you're raised.

Like my father, I'll keep the name, but my airport experience has given me a whole new perspective on what diversity and tolerance are supposed to mean. I had no idea that being an American would ever be this hard.

The author was held at the airport because ______ .

A．she and her husband returned from Jamaica

B．her name was similar to a terrorist's

C．she had been held in Montreal

D．she had spoken at a book event