Have you tried Uber? I haven't. I'm leery. I like the sound of "safe, reliable, on-demand taxi service." But I'd want to see the driver's full CV, arrest reports, character references, favorable reviews on Trip Advisor, and a note from a high school guidance counsellor before I'd get into a cab with one.
I am a taxi-phobe. And for good reason. I'm lucky to be alive today.
Now, I know each one of these situations I'm about to tell you is going to sound glamorous — a weekend in Paris, a business trip to Montreal, a one day jaunt to New York for a meeting with an architect. You're thinking I must be some kind of expense-account, career-gal-type; a sophisticated, seasoned traveler. Wrong. I'm about as seasoned as boiled cod.
So, as you read my sorry saga of bad cab karma, try to imagine a person for whom travel induces mega-watts of anxiety. Not somebody who should be allowed out on her own.
Fasten your seatbelt, folks, this is a wild blog ride this week (also slightly over the editorially prescribed 500 words.)
Taxi Tale No. 1 - Montreal
Off I go as a young interior designer, employed by a large Canadian retailer, on a mission to check out new stores recently opened in Montreal. One such store is located in a mall miles away from the airport hotel where I am staying. I will need to take a cab. Easy enough to get one at an airport hotel. It is winter; late afternoon, already dark. I ask the nice driver to take me to the shopping center in St. Bruno. He is reluctant. St. Bruno is almost an hour drive one way in rush hour. But he agrees, "Ok, I will take you there, but may I wait for you to bring you back....so it will be worth my time?"
Not translating the full meaning of this question, I agree, thinking that it will at least save me trying to get another cab for my return trip. After my store visit, I exit to find the faithful cabbie waiting for me.
We embark on our return journey. He glances in the rear view mirror and says, "Mademoiselle, I wonder if you would like a tour of Montreal? I'll turn off the meter and show you the city!"
"It's Mrs.," I reply, "And no, thanks very much, I will go back to my hotel."
"Oh, but the city is so, how you say, beautiful." His Francophone accent is getting thicker. "Let me show you the lights of old Montreal."
I am kidnapped in this taxicab and cell phones aren't invented yet. No kidding. He takes me to a parking lot up on Mount Royal which offers an astonishing view of the city. I have to admit — it is pretty spectacular.
"This is where les amoureux, the lovers, come for romance," he says.
"That's nice. Can we go now, please?"
"Will you have dinner with me?"
"NO! I'm married and I want to go back to my hotel. I'm meeting someone." A lie, but that's all I've got.
"Please! It's so lonely driving around all day!"
"Non, monsieur! Not my problem! Allons-y!"
Maybe it was my speaking the only French I could dredge up from memory or maybe it was writing his name down in my notebook that made him take me to the hotel. As I got out of the cab, he tried one more time, "May I come inside with you?" "NO!!!!" And then this horny little morceau de caca has the nerve to be annoyed with ME! He charged me full fare.
Taxi Tale No. 2 - Paris
Fast forward several years. The Mister and I enjoyed our very first visit to Paris on a whirlwind, madcap weekend that we tacked onto a trip to London. When it came time to go to the airport, we got a cab. What could go wrong?
A traffic jam on the way to Charles de Gaulle, for one thing. Cars bumper to bumper, crawling at a snail's pace. Not a satisfactory situation for the cabbie behind us, apparently, who honked his horn with nagging regularity. Our driver stopped his vehicle right in the middle of the highway, got out and walked back to have a little tête-à-tête with the guy behind us. When traffic started to move again, I called out, "Allons-y!" (It worked in Montreal.) Our driver, however, was still deep in conversation with the other guy. Now we heard a lot of honking.
When the driver finally got back to us, he asked which airline we wanted. "Air Canada," we said, "and it will be at Terminal Deux." We knew this because we had received notice that Air Canada had recently moved terminals.
"Non! Air Canada est a Terminal Un."
"Non, monsieur, Terminal Deux, s'il vous plait!"
It went on like this for awhile. He drove us to Terminal Un.
Arguing with a French cabbie is mostly futile. Suffice to say that the Mister and didn't have enough vocabulary between us to make this man understand that we were at the wrong terminal. There were signs indicating every other imaginable airline, but not ours. And he continued to insist very loudly that he had delivered us to Air Canada.
The Mister got out to go inside to confirm. I stayed in the cab, summoning the only French I could think of to fit the circumstances - which came from twenty years of being on hold with Air Canada listening to their phone message in both official languages, "Toutes les linges sont occupees." Except I didn't want to say, "All lines are busy." So, I blurted, "Toutes les lignes ici, here, are NOT Air Canada!!!"
The Mister returned. "They have a bus that will take us to Terminal Two." We insisted on getting out. The cabbie insisted on us staying. He yelled at us that we couldn't leave his cab, locked the trunk and wouldn't let us have our luggage! I don't remember how this dispute ended. We're here in North America now, so I guess we caught our flight.
Taxi Tale No. 3 - New York
Many years later, I was coordinating the design process for a visitor center at a Frank Lloyd Wright house museum in Buffalo, New York. My job made it necessary for me to attend a meeting with our architect in New York City. It was March. It was a drizzly spring morning when I flew into La Guardia with all the confidence of a nervous jellyfish. I lined up at the taxi stand outside the airport terminal and got into the car hailed for me by the dispatcher. Totally up to fate who I got as a driver.
Luckily, he was uncommonly courteous. He kept a running commentary on what landmarks we were passing and what route he was taking to get me to Tribeca for my meeting. "Nice guy," I thought.
Traffic wasn't bad and I commented on that. "Oh, it will be later," he replied, then added, "With this rain, it will be hard to hail a taxi. Are you returning home later today?"
Lack of luggage might have been a tip-off. I explained that I was.
"What time do you need to return to the airport? May I pick you up at your meeting and take you back?"
Apparently I had learned nothing from the Montreal Incident. "Sure," I said, "Pick me up at 3:30?"
It was a deal. I felt very smart and resourceful. My colleagues at the meeting thought I was nuts, hopelessly naive, and definitely not a savvy New Yorker, but our head Buffalo architect, a gruff older man, was returning on the same flight, and he thought it was a plausible idea. He agreed to share the cab. I shall always be grateful that he did.
At 3:30, we went down to the street and there was my taxi driver, waiting for me. "Nice guy," I thought. Traffic was slow, as predicted, and 4:00 came along before we even reached mid-town. The driver turned to us and said, "My shift is over."
"Pardon?"
"My shift is over."
"What does that mean?"
"It means I have to get the cab to my partner. He starts his shift at 4:00. Would it be okay if we go to Queens so I can give him the car?"
"Do we have a choice?"
"Sure, but I'll have to charge you double."
We might have protested more strongly, but once again, captive in a cab. To Queens we go. Up one street and down an avenue and through residential neighborhoods, until finally we come to a stop. "That's my house!" says the driver. He hops out and disappears. Gruff Architect and I are sitting in a cab on a street in Queens. Waiting to see what will happen next. Kind of laughing. Nervously. Glad he was with me.
In a few minutes, another driver came out and our ride resumes. Nice tour of Queens for free. I could have ended up in the East River.
As I mentioned, bad cab karma.
