Thursday, March 18, 2004
Monkey in a Taxi
I'm a day late, but so what. This month's installment of the 12 Monkeys project asks for taxi-ride stories.
I have had a number of memorable taxi rides, but in the interest of interest, I'll include a couple of tales from my long list of memorable hitchiking rides.
New York Taxi
One crazy ride was in NYC, of course. I was there on a wild Brass-Monkey drunk weekend with some friends when I was about 18, and we took a cab back to our hotel and were driven so fast with such bizarre swerving and turning that I was hanging on to the seat in front of me for dear life. In the haze of alcohol and fear, I turned to see my friend L. hanging on to a hand-strap (funny that they see the need to provide such a thing) with both hands and looking at me with a maniacal expression, screaming "Fuckin A!" I cracked up mightily, I tells ya.
Lisbon Taxi
After being mugged in Barcelona (and who hasn't been?) my friends and I hitchiked to Madrid and then to Lisbon to get my passport renewed at the Canadian consulate there. It was pouring buckets and we couldn't find our way, so we got in a cab. This driver outdid the NYC cabbie by a long shot, driving so insanely that we were literally in fear for our lives. He actually sideswiped a parked car, making a horrible wrenching metal sound. But he got us there, much to our immense relief. Unfortunately the consulate wouldn't let my friends in (for security reasons) and they stood on the doorstep in the drenching rain for more than an hour while I went through bureaucratic hell inside. Good friends! Incidentally, the hilarious 1940s-style passport photograph (complete with giant chin-zit) was worth all the trouble; it provided us with many laughs on the rest of our travels.
Hitchhiking
I could write a book about my hitchiking adventures at home and abroad, but I will limit myself to two here:
1. Trying to get up to a small town in the Pyrenees mountains to begin a long hike to stay with a shepherdess friend, we got a ride in a sports car up one of those roads that I thought only existed in movies and Bugs Bunny cartoons. You know the kind, winding along the side of a mountain with a sheer drop to one side and sheer rock mountain to the other, at top speed, complete with a screeching stop to allow a herd of sheep to cross. I still wonder how we didn't die.
2. A very weird story: Thumbing back from a night of drinking and drugs downtown, we were picked up by a tiny dude named Rudy (I remember cuz we were singing "Rudy can't fail" to him). He took us off the route to where we were going and drove us into a very dark, very secluded field. I was only somewhat scared because he was only one small dude and we were two tough chicks ( and I was carrying a switchblade up my sleeve). While I was demanding that he tell us what was going on, my friend piped up from the back: "Hey Bec, I smell hot dogs!". I was like "What?" and Rudy shamfacedly started the car and drove us back to the highway and let us out. He had pissed his pants, I'm sorry to tell you. Luckily for us, he wasn't cut out for the life of a psycho-rapist-killer.
Ah, life is precious.
I'm a day late, but so what. This month's installment of the 12 Monkeys project asks for taxi-ride stories.
I have had a number of memorable taxi rides, but in the interest of interest, I'll include a couple of tales from my long list of memorable hitchiking rides.
New York Taxi
One crazy ride was in NYC, of course. I was there on a wild Brass-Monkey drunk weekend with some friends when I was about 18, and we took a cab back to our hotel and were driven so fast with such bizarre swerving and turning that I was hanging on to the seat in front of me for dear life. In the haze of alcohol and fear, I turned to see my friend L. hanging on to a hand-strap (funny that they see the need to provide such a thing) with both hands and looking at me with a maniacal expression, screaming "Fuckin A!" I cracked up mightily, I tells ya.
Lisbon Taxi
After being mugged in Barcelona (and who hasn't been?) my friends and I hitchiked to Madrid and then to Lisbon to get my passport renewed at the Canadian consulate there. It was pouring buckets and we couldn't find our way, so we got in a cab. This driver outdid the NYC cabbie by a long shot, driving so insanely that we were literally in fear for our lives. He actually sideswiped a parked car, making a horrible wrenching metal sound. But he got us there, much to our immense relief. Unfortunately the consulate wouldn't let my friends in (for security reasons) and they stood on the doorstep in the drenching rain for more than an hour while I went through bureaucratic hell inside. Good friends! Incidentally, the hilarious 1940s-style passport photograph (complete with giant chin-zit) was worth all the trouble; it provided us with many laughs on the rest of our travels.
Hitchhiking
I could write a book about my hitchiking adventures at home and abroad, but I will limit myself to two here:
1. Trying to get up to a small town in the Pyrenees mountains to begin a long hike to stay with a shepherdess friend, we got a ride in a sports car up one of those roads that I thought only existed in movies and Bugs Bunny cartoons. You know the kind, winding along the side of a mountain with a sheer drop to one side and sheer rock mountain to the other, at top speed, complete with a screeching stop to allow a herd of sheep to cross. I still wonder how we didn't die.
2. A very weird story: Thumbing back from a night of drinking and drugs downtown, we were picked up by a tiny dude named Rudy (I remember cuz we were singing "Rudy can't fail" to him). He took us off the route to where we were going and drove us into a very dark, very secluded field. I was only somewhat scared because he was only one small dude and we were two tough chicks ( and I was carrying a switchblade up my sleeve). While I was demanding that he tell us what was going on, my friend piped up from the back: "Hey Bec, I smell hot dogs!". I was like "What?" and Rudy shamfacedly started the car and drove us back to the highway and let us out. He had pissed his pants, I'm sorry to tell you. Luckily for us, he wasn't cut out for the life of a psycho-rapist-killer.
Ah, life is precious.
# posted by becca : 7:26 AM
