Tales From Taxiville – Volume 12

As I have mentioned numerous times before, I take a lot of taxis. 

Between being car-free, working in the city where I would never drive to work even if I was car-ful, and liking a drink, cabs are one of the three main ways I get around.  Feet, trams and cabs.

So I’m respectful of the cab driver.  They provide a service I value, and I know that they must have to put up with major amounts of crap from all sorts of horrible people, or regular people in borrible states (even, occasionally, me).  I’ll chat to them if they want to chat, I’m happier if they don’t.  I even went so far as to write down the name of that awful James Blunt song for the driver a couple of weeks ago who turned it up – instead of off like any self-respecting person – when it came on the radio because he’d been wanting so long to know what it was called and who sang it.  So, I am a generous soul.

Today, however, that generosity was called upon to a ridiculous extreme by not one, but two cab drivers.

I take taxis to meetings, between offices, home from friends’, home from dinner.  But more than anywhere else I take taxis to and from the airport.  I don’t expect taxi drivers here to be like they are in London with an encyclopaedic knowledge of every part of the city.  I do expect taxi drivers, even if it’s their first day on the job, to know how to find the bloody airport.

This morning’s driver needed directions to the airport. 

No only how to get on the freeway – which I could have forgiven even though you can practically see it from my house – but which exit to take to get off the freeway, which lane to be in to go to the departures section instead of the car park, and that no, stopping in front of the first class international check-in area was not in fact the Qantas Domestic terminal.  You know, the one with the giant sign on the front of the building saying “Qantas Domestic” right in front of you.

I have to add here that getting from my house to the airport is about as simple as it gets without me actually living on the freeway.  The directions are, literally, drive straight for about a minute, turn right on to the freeway, get off at the airport exit.  Even if you’re new to the country, or not that great with the language, or fundamentally lacking in any sense of direction, you should be able to do that on your own.  Especially given that there are pictures of planes right there on the signs showing you where to go!

Then, on arriving back tonight, the driver had almost as much trouble.  Leave airport, drive on freeway until exit “X”, turn left, drive straight until I say stop.  Easy.  Except I had to actually tell him where the exit was.  It’s a main road, idiot!

Mind you, at least neither of them was this guy.

Comments

[Stomper Girl]

And was it that guy's first day? Maybe he was filling in for a mate. How annoying. Probably lucky for him that you were his first customer and that you have a Be Nice to Cabbies policy

[laslig]

I feel your pain. Many are the times I have had to point out the exit to a major arterial to the cab driver.

I don't mind if they stop and look in the Melways, though - at least they are making an effort.

[Nat]

Navigation systems have been put on this earth for one reason (ok, maybe two, seeing as the first reason is to be faulty) - to get you from A to B. My suggestion to all cab drivers - acquire one (and if it's faulty buy another...)