Adventures in Cabbing
13/06/08 11:36
DC is very hot this
week — it was 97 degrees F when I landed on Monday,
and yesterday was much hotter. And very humid. On
landing, I needed to get to my B & B quickly
and decided to opt for a cab. Taxis are a little
out of favor in the climate change world,
especially in cities with a decent mass transit
system like DC. But I didn’t see an alternative.
Popping out of the terminal, I took the first cab
in line. The small man in the front seat turned to
me and said in a thick accent, Hello. Where are you
going? Seventeenth and Lanier, near Adams-Morgan, I
said. Where’s that? I leaned back, suddenly very
hot and very tired.
We sped out of the
airport and then veered onto the shoulder of a busy
freeway under a bridge. He pulled out a large atlas
of the District, holding it very close to his face
so he could read the street index. He couldn’t fid
the street. Raneer? No, Lanier. Raner? Wayne?
Maine? No. I smiled and spelled the name out. He
pulled out an ancient pair of very thick
tortoise-shell glasses with a large paperclip
(curiouslyblackened) standing like a flagpole where
his right earpiece joined the lens. His finger
moved slowly over the page. Sitting in the opposite
corner of the car in the backseat, I could see
Lanier rather clearly. He looked back at me — here,
you find it. The meter was up over $8 and we were
less than five blocks from the terminal. I pointed
to the street. That’s Lanier. He nodded. Glancing
slightly over his left shoulder, we shot out into
traffic.
Normally a great tipper of all sorts, I began calculating how much this ride was going to cost me. Nervously.
We sped along in silence through the heat. Over the river, past the Watergate complex, nearing Adams-Morgan. Over Rock Creek, he turns into a neighborhood that ... is not the right area. He pulls over when he sees a traffic cop walking down the street. You want to go where, honey? she asks. He’s given her his fifth version of the street’s name. The meter is over $18 now, and I yell out Lanier from the backseat. Oh, Lanier. Yeah, you got a ways to go. You know where the Safeway is on Columbia? Back over there. Yeah sure he says.
We move forward again and then stop at another corner. The atlas and the glasses are out, the thick finger pacing the wrong part of the page. This street is next to Raneed, he says. But where is it? We’re on Ontario Street now, which I can see does actually run next to Lanier in another eight blocks. Look, turn right here. I’d rather pay for my losing us than him.
So, have you lived in DC a long time? I ask. Twenty-seven years. Where are you from? Afganistan, he says. Kabul.
Wow, I said. And shit, I thought. We fucked up his country, and now I have to tip him. And tip him pretty well, too. Sometimes I really hate being a Democrat.
We turn again, then I spot a major intersection. And there’s the Safeway, I point out. Turn down there. Do you still have family there? He is now driving while wearing the glasses, the paperclip riding high. We dodge a few cars and a horn rings out in anger. He passes where I told him to turn. Does an illegal u-turn. Heads back and still turns down the wrong street.
Yes, brothers and sisters. And you are married here? Yes, an Afgan woman I met here.
Have you been home? Last year, first time in 22 years. So much has changed. He shakes his head. Shit shit shit, I think. We’re over $25, plus tip.... I glance at the sheet on estimates for taxi fares they handed me at the airport — $17 was the average. They are so poor there. I will now try to go every two years. I took my son, so he could see. That’s really ... great, I say.
We come up to the old Spanish-colonial firehouse by the hotel. This is it, I say. You can stop here. OK. I look at the meter — $30, plus the airport surcharge. I’ll just charge you $27, because I took a little long.
Thanks, I say. I’ll definitely need a receipt for that.
Normally a great tipper of all sorts, I began calculating how much this ride was going to cost me. Nervously.
We sped along in silence through the heat. Over the river, past the Watergate complex, nearing Adams-Morgan. Over Rock Creek, he turns into a neighborhood that ... is not the right area. He pulls over when he sees a traffic cop walking down the street. You want to go where, honey? she asks. He’s given her his fifth version of the street’s name. The meter is over $18 now, and I yell out Lanier from the backseat. Oh, Lanier. Yeah, you got a ways to go. You know where the Safeway is on Columbia? Back over there. Yeah sure he says.
We move forward again and then stop at another corner. The atlas and the glasses are out, the thick finger pacing the wrong part of the page. This street is next to Raneed, he says. But where is it? We’re on Ontario Street now, which I can see does actually run next to Lanier in another eight blocks. Look, turn right here. I’d rather pay for my losing us than him.
So, have you lived in DC a long time? I ask. Twenty-seven years. Where are you from? Afganistan, he says. Kabul.
Wow, I said. And shit, I thought. We fucked up his country, and now I have to tip him. And tip him pretty well, too. Sometimes I really hate being a Democrat.
We turn again, then I spot a major intersection. And there’s the Safeway, I point out. Turn down there. Do you still have family there? He is now driving while wearing the glasses, the paperclip riding high. We dodge a few cars and a horn rings out in anger. He passes where I told him to turn. Does an illegal u-turn. Heads back and still turns down the wrong street.
Yes, brothers and sisters. And you are married here? Yes, an Afgan woman I met here.
Have you been home? Last year, first time in 22 years. So much has changed. He shakes his head. Shit shit shit, I think. We’re over $25, plus tip.... I glance at the sheet on estimates for taxi fares they handed me at the airport — $17 was the average. They are so poor there. I will now try to go every two years. I took my son, so he could see. That’s really ... great, I say.
We come up to the old Spanish-colonial firehouse by the hotel. This is it, I say. You can stop here. OK. I look at the meter — $30, plus the airport surcharge. I’ll just charge you $27, because I took a little long.
Thanks, I say. I’ll definitely need a receipt for that.
