Chatty Taxis

After working abroad for ten years, I missed the Metropolitan Museum, ubiquitous Asian nail salons and Lenny’s turkey sandwiches. But perhaps the most important: a quiet taxi ride. In Barcelona, taking a taxi was like being a therapist for ten minutes, as I heard all about drivers’ woes, affairs with Cuban women, how much they hated the PP (partido popular, the right-wing Spanish political party), and especially, upon hearing my accent, long tirades against our former President.

If the animated chatter wasn’t enough, taxi drivers in Barcelona often smoked with the windows rolled up, or had a drink while on duty. One driver complained about the new strict breathalyzer limit. “I can’t even have oil and vinegar on my salad,” he shouted, throwing his arms in the air, and off the wheel, while driving. Another got angry when I suggested a specific route and asked if I’d like him to pull over and let me drive. After a sheepish “No,” he offered me an olive branch: “Hey, my son is about your age. Maybe you could go out with him? Best way to learn English is an American girlfriend!”

I was happy to be back in the New York, where I’m lucky if the cabbie mumbles an acknowledgement when I get into the car. Sure, they zigzag across the Manhattan grid as if on crack and the leather seats spew funky smells, but NYC cabs are usually fast, efficient and quiet. Whispering in mysterious languages in their terminator-like ear attachments, they rarely want to talk to me – and the cool new (at least, new for me) TV screens in the back give me an excuse to zone out.

That is, until recently. Two weeks ago I was heading downtown when the white-haired Jamaican driver turned around and said: “Are you a movie star?” Flattered, I smiled and said I wasn’t. “You look like movie star,” he insisted. I blushed and said, “I wish.” Suddenly it was as if I had slipped him and extra 20 bucks to be my own personal Dr. Phil. “How can you say you are not a star? You have to believe you are a superstar. If you don’t believe in yourself, who will?” This went on for the rest of the ride and ended with me shouting, “OK, OK! I am a superstar!” As I got out of the car, he asked me if I was married or looking for a man. Disturbed, I passed him a five dollar tip through the window and politely declined.

A few days later I hopped into a cab in Battery Park to go to the Upper East Side. It was a long ride on the FDR and I planned to close my eyes and sleep. As soon as we set off, the dishevelled Eastern European driver started to drop F-bombs. I checked if the barrage was directed at me – but he didn’t seem to be talking to anyone in particular and was not wearing a Bluetooth or cell phone wire. Was he angry to have to drive so far uptown, or was he suffering from a flare-up of Tourette’s syndrome? The insults got louder until, much to my relief, we pulled up at 77th and York. As I gathered my cash to pay, he turned to me with a genuine smile and said, “It’s supposed to be nice out later. Let’s hope so. Have a really nice day.”

And just the other day I had a disgruntled chauffeur with a serious grudge against the NY lotto. “People don’t need that much money,” he insisted. “Why do you need 100 million dollars? What could you possibly spend it on? It will make you crazy. One, two, even three million, and maybe you are still Okay. More than that – you’re crazy. I know a guy drove a cab for years, then he won the lotto. You know what happened to him? He’s crazy. Spread it around, I say – give more people a chance. I hate the stinkin’ lottery.”

“Yes, it’s better not to play,” I agreed, desperate to end the conversation.

“Not to play? This is crazy talk. You have to play to win!”

Maybe I'm just moody and antisocial or have no patience. Possibly I'm a hypocrite because plenty of cab drivers have had to suffer my annoying cell phone calls to friends, relating last night’s drinkfest and subsequent hangover, the excruciating pain of my recent bikini wax or other mundane details of my life. Or I’ve changed since living abroad. Whatever the case, I never thought I’d yearn for a spin in Barcelona, where at least I could pretend that I couldn’t speak the language. And with the new laws preventing cabbies from chatting on their cell phones, I think there's gonna be a whole lot more talkin going on!