Sunday and Monday driving

crazy taxi (TM)

Some highlights from working the past few days.

  • I took an older Mexican lady to see her family and grandchildren in Daly City. She was one of the chattiest passengers I’d ever had. At first, I could barely understand her. Between her strong latin accent, a speech impediment apparently related to her age, and a strong smoker’s rasp, her speech was uniquely filtered. But, as soon as my brain started to process the filter I had no problem understanding her. We had a great time.

    She had me stop by a bakery in the Mission on the way. When she came back with the bread she insisted that I feel it through the bag. It felt like bread.

    We also got to talking about some mutual interests, especially meat. We both like meat. We talked about all the different kinds of meat we like. She likes to cook steak. Turns out, I like to cook steak too. She was taken aback to learn that the school her grandchildren attend will no longer be serving meat in school lunches. Indeed, the sky is falling.

  • I took a middle aged French guy from the Outer Richmond downtown. He’s a pastry chef. He still had a thick French accent even though he has lived in the City for over 15 years. He commented on the proportions of the butt of a lady walking down the street, just like my French friends would do when I lived in Scotland. You can take the Frenchman out of France…
  • I took a Dutch couple from their hotel to have breakfast on Fillmore. I was happy they were venturing out of the Fish Wharf hell and into the glorious City neighborhoods.
  • I picked up 3 older Mexican guys in the Outer Mission around 3 or 4 am. They were in a great mood. We stopped by a liquor store on the way to their flat in the Tenderloin. They were in such good spirits I felt comfortable trying out some Spanish with them. They helped me learn a few words I had been wanting to learn… press the button [to open the sliding van door]! On the corner? Which street? They gave me a great tip.
  • I picked up 2 hipsters in the Mission and took them back to their homes in the Haight. I knew they were hipsters because they fit various hipster stereotypes:
    • They lived in the Haight.
    • They went out to a dive bar in the Mission.
    • One had insanely detailed knowledge of guitars and vintage guitar resale values.
    • One knew how to play the Ukulele. I didn’t even know how to spell Ukulele until I consulted my trusty Goog.
    • One was speaking of his impending plan to sell all his worldly possessions and travel. The other asked how he was going to travel. The other responded, not sure about that — I’ll just see what happens.
    • One had a mustache like a cowboy, which upon further research I have now learned is called a “Wild West Moustache”. (Search for it on this page for an example.)

    I was excited to have seen such premium hipster specimens. If they were butterflies and I were a lepidopterist I would have caught them and put little pins through them and put them in a case for exhibit in a butterfly museum as being prime representatives of their species. But, alas, hipsters are not butterflies and I am no lepidopterist.

  • I picked up a few younger Mexican guys, maybe in their late teens or early 20s. They had me turn up 92.7 really loud. But, then one of them started playing reggaeton music on his cell phone as loud as it would go. I offered to turn the radio down, but they wanted both. It was so strangely funny that I had a hard time not laughing out loud.
  • I took 3 older Mexican ladies from the Inner Richmond down to the Mission. One of them had just been in the hospital and, I guessed, her friends had come to see her. At the end of the journey one of them said, You are Americano? Yes, I said. She said, Oooh, you have a very pretty (pressing on her cheeks). I wasn’t sure if that meant I had a pretty face or my beard was getting out of control. (It’s been a few weeks since I shaved so I’m starting to look like a mountain man.) Either way, it was a compliment of some sort. Thanks, Mexican lady. You have nice cheeks too.
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One Response to Sunday and Monday driving

  1. Pingback: Working Memorial Day « kfarr

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