Guess where I'm from

(I love this game.)

In the taxi on the way home from the Antarctic Center, the driver and I talk for a little bit about where I'm going and how we're going to get there. Then:

Driver: So, you're just travelin' around?
Me: Right.
D: Where do ya come from?
M: Can you guess?
D: Ah, you're an English geerl!
M: No.
D: Not Australian, are ya?
M: Nope.
D: Hmmm ... European?
M: Nope.
D: Sweden?
M: No. Sweden is in Europe!
D: Ah, right!
D: Native English, aye?
M: Totally.
D: I give up.
M: I'm American!
D: American? You're lyin'. There's no way!

He presented this shock at my American-ness as though it were a high compliment, which I gladly accepted. After this introduction, the driver, Gordon, went on to tell me all the details of his recent separation from his wife, how he is living in a "backpacker" (i.e., a hostel) so he can be "footloose and fancy free" (he loves to use this phrase), and how he struggles with the idea of moving to the north island because then he will be far away from his children. After a little while he said, "Wow, you couldn't-a picked a place fah-thah away, couldya?" which didn't seem to bode well for my fare. But then I hired him to take me to the airport on Thursday morning for the flight to Melbourne, and he gave me a NZ$4 discount (that's US$3). And I cheerfully observed the no-tipping rule, which keeps costs down, but is difficult sometimes. For example, Gordon is picking me up at 3:45 a.m. on Thursday for my 6:15 a.m. flight. I mean, shouldn't I tip him for coming that early? I'll check with Gail, who knows everything.