Thursday, August 30, 2007
Tuesday, July 03, 2007
Tuesday, June 26, 2007
Saturday, January 13, 2007
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
When I got back in Philadelphia, I took a train from the airport and got out at Market East, and walked to have a solitary dinner at the Pho restaurant at Tenth and Arch Streets. Afterward, after several unsuccessful minutes trying to hail a taxi from the street corner and with a great amount of reluctance, I walked over to the Greyhound Station and the line of taxis parked out front. (Anyone from Philly who’s ever tried to pick up a taxi there will know what I’m talking about.)
The first taxi driver in line rebuffed me—“I’m eating,” he said, holding up his takeout. “Try the next one.” The next driver told me to go to the first in line. “He says he’s eating,” I say, after which he hails his friend’s taxi that is driving past. “Open the truck, man!” he admonishes his friend, and I load in my suitcases, mad at myself because—for just a minute—I start to feel surprised and indignant that neither of them helps me with the bags I’m so obviously struggling with. And then I remember where I am.
I get in the back—after first waiting for the driver to finish with his friend so that he can unlock the door. After throwing off the last off my bags and my unseasonably warm coat, I give the driver my destination. “Fifteen dollars okay?” he asks. “Um…” I start, hesitantly, “Can you just use the meter?” “Special rate tonight—Eagles game!” he replies, with enthusiastic insincerity. “Sure,” I reply, begrudgingly. I figured it for a ten or twelve dollar ride, so I resign myself to a three dollar or so increase, figuring the tip on a regular fare. “Welcome back to Philadelphia!” I say to myself.
When he drops me at my door, I hand him a twenty and ask for a five back. He hesitates, as though expecting some sort of tip in addition to his extorted rate. I take my change, pop the trunk with the passenger door still open (so he can’t drive off with my luggage), gather my suitcases, and shut the trunk and back door without a word before going up the steps to my door. He doesn’t wait for me to get inside before driving off.
The first taxi driver in line rebuffed me—“I’m eating,” he said, holding up his takeout. “Try the next one.” The next driver told me to go to the first in line. “He says he’s eating,” I say, after which he hails his friend’s taxi that is driving past. “Open the truck, man!” he admonishes his friend, and I load in my suitcases, mad at myself because—for just a minute—I start to feel surprised and indignant that neither of them helps me with the bags I’m so obviously struggling with. And then I remember where I am.
I get in the back—after first waiting for the driver to finish with his friend so that he can unlock the door. After throwing off the last off my bags and my unseasonably warm coat, I give the driver my destination. “Fifteen dollars okay?” he asks. “Um…” I start, hesitantly, “Can you just use the meter?” “Special rate tonight—Eagles game!” he replies, with enthusiastic insincerity. “Sure,” I reply, begrudgingly. I figured it for a ten or twelve dollar ride, so I resign myself to a three dollar or so increase, figuring the tip on a regular fare. “Welcome back to Philadelphia!” I say to myself.
When he drops me at my door, I hand him a twenty and ask for a five back. He hesitates, as though expecting some sort of tip in addition to his extorted rate. I take my change, pop the trunk with the passenger door still open (so he can’t drive off with my luggage), gather my suitcases, and shut the trunk and back door without a word before going up the steps to my door. He doesn’t wait for me to get inside before driving off.
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