Night on Earth is a great Jim Jarmusch film. It's composed of vignettes which are all taxi rides in different cities, including Los Angeles, Paris and Rome. I'll admit that I'm not crazy about the first section with Gena Rowlands and Winona Ryder, so fast forward through that one if you feel the same way.
I saw Night on Earth long before I had much experience with taxis or cities like Paris. Growing up in Huntington Beach, everyone drove; I don't even know if taxis existed there. Now taking taxis is an integral part of my travels, and one that's fraught with interesting questions and concerns. Is it safe? Will I be able to communicate? Will the driver try to cheat me?
A taxi ride can be many things. Elegiac, as when I'm leaving Barcelona, watching my beloved streets reel past. Anxiety producing, when the driver seems to be unable to get us there, or drives too fast, or is busy sending text messages or talking on the phone. Delightful, in the case of the driver in Oslo who pointed out the sights, talked about how the city was changing, who closed our short ride to the train station with "you're always welcome in Oslo." Daunting and outrageous: the guy who tried to quick change us in Budapest.
Taxi drivers are city ambassadors, for better and for worse. They are often the first and last people you deal with outside the airport. Here in Rio, they don't speak much English, which doesn't allow for conversation. They have music on, sometimes they ask questions I can't understand. I proffer my Post-It with the address and hope for the best.
Last night I went to a restaurant near the Botanical Garden. It seemed to take a very long time, in terrible traffic. We passed tables where people were selling fruit, buses going to Urca and Sugarloaf, and the sky was deeply dark, 8:00 on a winter night. We made it finally, after stopping once to ask and finding that we were almost there.
The restaurant was lovely, the air around us cool and clear. I could see the chef inside, drinking wine, and his assistant in a red toque. Our hostess ordered everything she likes and we had a great evening. At one point a guy came by and offered to paint for us on some tiles. He sat at our table and painted two tiles with scenes of Rio, souvenirs. We drank caipirinhas with ginger, passion fruit, lemongrass.
Our evening was finally over. I flagged a taxi and gave the driver my orange Post-It. We drove past the park, past the Lagoa Rodrigo de Freitas, through Ipanema. I was seeing parts of the city I hadn't seen before. At one moment I wondered if we were taking a circuitous route, and decided that if I was having a tour, I would have a tour. Just then we came into a familiar intersection. In a few minutes I was in the hotel elevator and my taxi was disappearing into the night streets.
I saw Night on Earth long before I had much experience with taxis or cities like Paris. Growing up in Huntington Beach, everyone drove; I don't even know if taxis existed there. Now taking taxis is an integral part of my travels, and one that's fraught with interesting questions and concerns. Is it safe? Will I be able to communicate? Will the driver try to cheat me?
A taxi ride can be many things. Elegiac, as when I'm leaving Barcelona, watching my beloved streets reel past. Anxiety producing, when the driver seems to be unable to get us there, or drives too fast, or is busy sending text messages or talking on the phone. Delightful, in the case of the driver in Oslo who pointed out the sights, talked about how the city was changing, who closed our short ride to the train station with "you're always welcome in Oslo." Daunting and outrageous: the guy who tried to quick change us in Budapest.
Taxi drivers are city ambassadors, for better and for worse. They are often the first and last people you deal with outside the airport. Here in Rio, they don't speak much English, which doesn't allow for conversation. They have music on, sometimes they ask questions I can't understand. I proffer my Post-It with the address and hope for the best.
Last night I went to a restaurant near the Botanical Garden. It seemed to take a very long time, in terrible traffic. We passed tables where people were selling fruit, buses going to Urca and Sugarloaf, and the sky was deeply dark, 8:00 on a winter night. We made it finally, after stopping once to ask and finding that we were almost there.
The restaurant was lovely, the air around us cool and clear. I could see the chef inside, drinking wine, and his assistant in a red toque. Our hostess ordered everything she likes and we had a great evening. At one point a guy came by and offered to paint for us on some tiles. He sat at our table and painted two tiles with scenes of Rio, souvenirs. We drank caipirinhas with ginger, passion fruit, lemongrass.
Our evening was finally over. I flagged a taxi and gave the driver my orange Post-It. We drove past the park, past the Lagoa Rodrigo de Freitas, through Ipanema. I was seeing parts of the city I hadn't seen before. At one moment I wondered if we were taking a circuitous route, and decided that if I was having a tour, I would have a tour. Just then we came into a familiar intersection. In a few minutes I was in the hotel elevator and my taxi was disappearing into the night streets.
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