roundabout

The other day I went to pick up my rental car. After the lady took me on a walk around the car pointing out the dents and dings, she handed me the key and left me to it. I think this is what new parents feel like when the nurse hands them their baby as they are about to leave the hospital: you're actually going to let me leave with this thing? I don't need to take a test or something? Are you sure?

I opened the right hand door and got in, thinking about how I probably should have studied up on road signs or something before this moment. Funny, the key still goes in on the right. I thought it would be completely mirror opposite and the ignition would be on the left of the steering wheel. I put on my seatbelt, checked my mirrors and headed out, chanting "Left, left, left. Stay to the left."

A quarter mile down the road I thought "This isn't too bad." Then I thought, "Man, this car is awfully squeaky." Then I thought, "Crap, the emergency brake is still on."

At the first left, I put on my turn signal and the front and back wipers went on, complete with spray. I managed to stop the front ones but not the back. At subsequent red lights I tried to figure out how to stop the back wipers. Move the thingy up. Down. Twist the thingy. Twist the thingy the other way. Flip the switch on the thingy. Why are there so many moving parts on this thingy? It's a Ford Focus for crissakes. Finally, almost home, I figured out that the thingy moves forward and backward too, and that is what controls the back wipers. I sighed with relief just as my left wheels nicked the curb for the third time. I imagine the rental car lady will spend an extra few minutes pointing out existing dents and dings to the next renter.

Why do the Brits drive on the left anyway? It seems purposely contrary. It seems like something the French would do. Ah, but it didn't start with cars. It started with wagons, apparently. And horses before that. And pedestrians before that. If all the wagons are driving on the left, one can't start driving cars on the right. But why did horsemen stay to the left? Why, in self-defense, of course. Staying to the left protected the weaker side and put your fighting arm closest to the passer-by. Says the all-knowing Wiki: "…the need to be ready for self-defence on rural roads inclined most horse-riders to keep to their left when encountering oncoming wayfarers, so as to be able to deploy a sword or other hand-weapon more swiftly and effectively should the need arise."

So now I know if I ever need to "deploy a sword" inside a car, it's best to do it in the UK, where my fighting arm will be closest to the oncoming wayfarer. Oh wait, I'm left handed.

You can't swing a dead cat without hitting a Starbucks here

I arrived in London on Monday night. The driver and I chatted about Florida. Everybody in Britian has been to Florida, I think. It's become the item I chat about most with strangers, besides the weather and the traffic. Everyone has a story about Florida.

This gentleman got roped into replacing another relative on a family reunion trip to Orlando. He and his girlfriend eventually skipped out and drove to Clearwater beach and took the second B&B they found "after the roundabout." It was immaculately clean to the point of it being threadbare due to the patron's OCD with the vacuum cleaner. He had been to Frenchy's and walked out on the pier at Clearwater Beach, and the sunset and the extra starch in the sheets improved his opinion of Florida immensely.

We spoke about all the different sorts of accents there are in the UK. How intresting it is that such a relatively small country should have so many. It tells such a story. The British Library has a great website on the study of this: Sounds Familiar? I know there is a similar project in the US to document regional dialects before they die. With the advent of mass media and even the most remote places losing their remoteness, everybody is beginnig to sound like everybody else.

There is a Starbucks on virtually every corner in London. As prevalent, if not moreso, than Boston. There was a time where the sight of a McDonalds or a bottle of Coca-Cola would be an unexpected comfort after spending days, weeks, months, in a place where nothing reminded you of home and everything smelled and tasted different. I can imagine trekking your way out of the Amazon and, like an oasis, a cherry red ice box filled with green glass bottles of Coke being the best thing you've ever seen. (Yes, I've seen Romancing the Stone one too many times.) Or, after days of eating the local fare, a visit to the McDonalds would be just the right thing, even if you don't eat it at home, even if it costs you $30. To experience something familiar while you're away can be a memorable experience in itself.

I remember being in Rome in 1989, and seeing someone walking down the street with a Dunkin Donuts bag. Where in the world did you find a Dunkin Donuts? we all asked incredulously. McDonalds had become ubiquitious, but anything else was a shock. And Dunkin Donuts of all places? Even now, you can't find a Dunkin Donuts in parts of the U.S. But back in 1989, seeing someone walk by the Trevi fountain with a "coffee regulah" was absolutely shocking. And of course we decended on that Dunkies like wild dogs and bought our $5 donuts and ate them in a sugared haze and laughed at all the other Americans who, walking by, took a double take and stopped and said Where in the hell did you find a Dunkin Donuts around here??

Now, everything has become global, and those welcome little surprises of turning a corner and seeing something familiar in an unfamiliar place have become so prevalent that they do not provide that same sense of comfort that one might seek after weeks away from home. Now, it's almost embarassing how invasive it is. How every city looks the same. Am I in London or New York? Now, here I am outside of London, and there's a mall down the street that has a Chili's, a T.G.I. Friday's, a McDonalds, a Domino's, a Bennigan's and a Gap.

So, that day, I bypassed the Starbucks on that corner in Covent Garden, to go across the street to a more authentic coffee house. It was bigger and had nice tables and a few leather chairs and was populated by locals. I crossed the threshhold and was greeted with a lungful of cigarette smoke. I always forget how un-used-to second hand smoke I have become. I sat at a table with a view of the street and sipped equal parts awful cappuccino and second hand smoke and had a debate in my head about the real value of insisting upon an "authentic experience" while I watched hoardes of Englishmen and Englishwomen walk in and out of Starbucks with smiles on their faces, greedily gulping their venti mochafrappacchinos.

Note to self

Note to self: next time you feel the need to get bangs. Don't.

Argh.

yet another blog on cabbies

Today I learned the inner workings/dirty politics of cabbie-life in Cambridge from an insider (read: cabbie).

Conclusions:

1) Cabbies are still a-holes for refusing to answer any job other than a "good job", meaning, going to the airport or, say, Rhode Island. If you have boxes to transport from point A to point B and point A is within two miles of point B, you're not a "good job" and therefore screwed. Try it. I cannot get a cab to my house unless I'm going to the airport. I have waited over an hour. Nobody comes. My dissertation on public service, the fact that people who need short rides also need long rides, and good/considerate tipping for short rides, fell on deaf ears.

2) Ambassador-Brattle Taxi is as corrupt as expected, giving these "good jobs" only to friends of the dispatcher and issuing checks on empty bank accounts to the poor immigrants (read: non-friends of the dispatcher) who work for them and who don't know how to or don't want to complain. These checks are reimbursement for voucher rides - prepaid by companies. So, basically the companies are reimbursing Ambassador-Brattle for the submitted vouchers. Ambassador-Brattle is writing checks to cabbies. And cabbies are decorating their sunvisors with the checks because the money is "lost" somewhere in between this transaction. An after-effect to this: cabbies are now not taking voucher rides either, which will be an excellent impression when that company is trying to send the candidate for the super hard to fill VP job back to the airport and she misses her flight after having to hear a half hour bitch-fest about taking a voucher. (Yes, it's only 15 mins to the airport, but not if you look clueless and have a voucher.). Soon, the only way to get a cab to come to you will be to say you need to go to the airport and you're paying cash. Otherwise, grab one on the street and make them drive off before you say where you're going, but be prepared to hear major whining if you ask to go anywhere in the greater Boston area because that's not a good enough fare.

I empathize with the cabbies, I do. Nobody is living la dolce vita on taxicab income. But they make it awfully hard when they are pissed off that you're "only a $10 fare" and get on the radio to bitch about it to the dispatcher who said you were going somewhere farther. Empathy is wearing a little thin at that point. At that point, I don't care how much your taxi medallion costs ($2,200) or want to see and hold your worthless check ($625) as proof of Ambassador-Brattle as the Evil Empire. I'm with you. But why, pray tell, are we in the Ted Williams Tunnel? Answer me that, Mr. Cabbie. I'm trying to get to Harvard Square. From Kendall Square.

And no, I don't want extra blank receipts. Some of us aren't corrupt and trying to get what they can get. And if I were, I'd be a little more pleasant along the way. I swear, every cabbie around here is flat out miserable. There is one exception: West African cabbies. I don't know what it is, but they are so nice and friendly. I get where I'm going in a fairly straight line and a decent price. I get called "mama" or "princess" and where I'd typically be a little annoyed at this, somehow it sounds endearing. I think the West Africans should ban together and start their own taxi company - Mama Princess Cab Company. As for now, I've limited my use of taxis to a bare minimum. I can't contribute to this dysfunction anymore. I am withdrawing my dollars from this corrupt system. I will pack lighter. Plan ahead. Wear more sensible shoes.

Or more likely, I will be pinch-toed and late for work, but I will have justice. OK, blisters. I will have blisters. And justice.