Taxi Drive

When you get to a new city, you have to find how to get around. In some places like New York or Paris, making use of the subways or busses often is convent and reasonable. In both cities, when you want a taxi, they’re usually unavailable, occupied, stuck in traffic In the case of Paris; they’d prefer that 75 Euro drive to the Charles De Gaulle Airport to ferrying passengers up and down the boulevards.

When we got to Buenos Aires we decided to use taxis, since by US standards they’re inexpensive. The other day we went completely across town. The cost with the tip was six bucks. In Boston that would get me from Beacon Hill to the Ritz, I mean the Taj/ Boston, not far at all. Usually the fares have been around $ 2-3 U.S. dollars with tip. The drivers are grateful for the gratuity since often locals don’t tip.

Buenos Aires taxis are more on the European standard, a small boxy VW, Peugeot or Fiat painted black and yellow. You have to be careful; some taxis are better than others. The recommended ones are the “Radio Taxis”; hotels use them because they’re numbered and there’s a place to call if you have a problem.

With small cabs, drivers squeeze into lanes that don’t exist, get close to other cars, turn corners on a dime, and perform as if their other job was on the Grand Prix race circuit.

Drivers have been friendly. One evening when we arrived at a restaurant the driver said it was a very good place with good food. It was just what we wanted to hear, good food, not so touristy.

Concerning that drive across town... The driver had rock and roll on the radio. Wendy and I started to sway back and forth to the music, and he noticed our gyrations in the back seat. He called himself “Pee turr Gabe real al.” He started a “Spanglish” conversation about rock and roll music and all the performers from the 60’s, and ‘70s while driving at break-neck speeds, weaving through boulevards of Buenos Aires. He got a large tip.

We tried the subway. It worked and was cheap, 25 cents a ride. But there are lots of cabs.

One morning, during rush hour we got a taxi from our hotel to take us to the ferry for Uruguay.
The driver could have been Woody Allen’s brother in exile, an old small thin man, grey hair, wearing glasses and a checked shirt. As he slowly drove down the street, the pedestrians seemed to be walking faster than us. Methodically, he wove slowly through the traffic, squeezing the car into non-existent lanes, puttering in his diesel powered Peugeot past cross streets to our destination, safely and on time, which is just what we wanted.