Taxicab Confessions
29Jan2007
Sunday. 7:30pm. Newark Liberty Airport. The US of A. Our hero sinks into the back seat of a beaten up yellow cab for his trip to Gotham.
“Wall Street”, he intones, somewhat exhausted from the journey. The driver, unkempt, stares quizzically into the rear-view mirror.
“War Street? Me know no War Street”.
“The New York Stock Exchange”…
A dull stare.
“The Bronze Bull”…
A scratch of the head.
“The Centre of Capitalism”…
Nothing. None of the potential clues our hero offers up seem to ignite any lights in the driver’s dim eyes. As he drives, our geographically-challenged friend makes a stilted ‘phone call to a similar friend, who is none the wiser.
Our hero now knows he may struggle to reach his destination, so he attempts, thanks to the wonders of an EDGE-enabled blackberry device and Google maps, to direct the man to take the correct terminus.
And it works. Eventually. Some hour and twenty minutes later, the warren of one-way streets conspire to try and thwart our hero at the end, but the womb-like warmth of the hotel lobby draws him in.
Taxi ride: $53. Tolls: $8. Sitting on the slippery rear seat of a cab whose driver desperately needs GPS and isn’t used to driving slower than 70 miles an hour, even in the maze-like back-streets of the financial district: Priceless.
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