The Crazy Roman Taxi Driver

       Rome 25 July 2010

Janneth and I were at the Vatican late Saturday night because we wanted to see the Vatican glowing: St. Peter’s Basilica, the fountains, the columns, the statues. We had arrived taking the subway. It was probably about midnight, and the subway crowd was less than savory. We did not feel particularly at ease walking to the Vatican, but as we stood there admiring the soft glow of the Basilica our concern was forgotten as we slipped into a state of awe and peace. The square was blocked off for some event that was going to take place that Sunday—probably mass—so we could only stand at the far end of the square. After about ten minutes of reflection, we decided it would be in our best interest to get some much-needed sleep. We had spent the entire day walking around the most popular sites in Rome. Our feet were miserable, our bodies were exhausted, and our minds were way past functioning. We knew our hotel was in the vicinity, but we forgot to bring our map and we really had no desire to get lost at one in the morning, in Rome, in our present state of exhaustion. So, as we contemplated a better solution, we realized that there was a Taxi stand just behind us with a rather expectant looking Taxi sitting at it.

What a convenient solution: hop in a taxi, relax, arrive at our front door easily within five minutes. We gingerly walked over to the idling Taxi. The cab was dark inside obscuring the figure of the man behind the wheel. We asked in our ever-improving Italian if he could take us home. A sound issued from the window, resembling “Si” and so we crawled into the back seat. We handed him the card with the address of our hotel. He looked at it for a while. He seemed to have trouble reading it—this man was probably eighty years old! His face was wrinkled like that of a man who had spent his life in the sun instead of in a cab. He had a golf-ball sized wad of tobacco in his lower left lip that he chewed contemplatively as he regarded our address. Janneth and I just sat there, too tired to care much. This ancient man put the card down on the seat, mumbled something in a gruff voice and drove off. We buckled up. It was Rome after all, the Italians there are know for their driving… skills.

Well, we did not get far before he stopped. Much to our surprise he stopped next to another cab. Why would we stop to talk to another Taxi driver? How would this help us get home? The old man leaned out the window and started talking to the other Taxi driver—keep in mind that our meter was still running. We realized that he was asking this Taxi driver where our hotel was! He had not had trouble reading the card, he was trying to remember if he knew where the address was. We gathered that the other Taxi driver had no idea where the street was either. We probably would have understood what was happening sooner had the radio not been effectively overpowering the conversation between the two Taxi drivers. Instead of hearing the conversation about how to find our hotel, we learned how to prepare the perfect dish of spaghetti con pomodori.

Finally, our ancient Taxi driver drove away from the taxi stand and Janneth and I assumed that this meant he knew where he needed to take us. We were quite mistaken. He began to grumble something in Italian to us. We could barely make out what he was saying through the wad of tobacco, the thick accent, and the loud radio. It became clear that he was telling us, while driving, that he was not sure where the street of our hotel was. In fact, he was trying to ask us for directions as he was driving. We were weaving in and out of traffic, and he kept looking back at us to yell over the radio and through his wad of tobacco, asking which direction he should take us.

Janneth and I sat desperately clenching the seats in front of us, leaning forward so as to hear this old man’s gravely, raspy voice over the radio. We rarely took our eyes from the road because of the frequent oncoming traffic. He was yelling questions at us about where he should turn, where the street was, and many other things we could not make out. We realized we might have more luck if we told him the name of the Metro stop near our house. He seemed to understand because one second later I was pressed back into my seat as he threw the Taxi into third gear.

We sped down street after street. After a few minutes the old man slowed down and turned to look back at Janneth and I. From what I could tell, he was trying to ascertain if he was headed in the right direction, but I was preoccupied with the direction the car was headed at the moment. With his hand on the wheel and his eyes on us, chewing and grumbling, the Taxi driver veered into the oncoming lane. For what seemed like a minute the oncoming lights grew rounder and rounder, filling our windshield faster with every passing second. The old man was yelling at us with but I could hear nothing—I was immobilized by fear. Fortunately, the crazy old man turned back around to steer the car to momentary safety. What had felt like two seconds too many in the headlights of another car had passed. The car to which the headlights belonged honked, annoyed at our ancient taxi driver. This act of impatience frustrated our taxi driver who spat out a strain of profanities dripping in chewed tobacco.

After about ten minutes of flying past streets, slowing down only enough to turn ninety degree turns, and speeding off again, we arrived at a spot Janneth and I recognized. We were almost home! But, instead of turning towards our hotel, the crazy Taxi driver turned in the exact opposite direction. Janneth and I had had enough. We yelled at him to stop. We yelled out of urgency. We yelled because we were competing with the voice of a woman explaining how important it was to dice the tomatoes instead of slice them.

The crazy old Taxi driver pulled over, but because we were in the middle of a round about he needed to move the car out of the way of the traffic. He pulled the cab up onto the sidewalk. The car made a wretched grinding sound as its underbelly scraped the cement. A car should never make such a horrendous noise of grinding metal and cement. The old man growled some profanities and we could see he was working his wad of tobacco just to say them. He was annoyed that he was letting us off at what to him seemed a random place but to us looked like a five minute walk from our hotel and an escape from another ten minutes in the clutches of this crazy Roman Taxi driver.

We wanted to pay him the ten-euro charge with a fifty, because that was all we had. Naturally we were expecting change, but he had none. Due to some small miracle, we were in an area that apparently was one of the frequented night places of Rome. The unassuming fruit stand from which we had bought our lunch earlier that day, was surrounded by an affable crowd of laughing, chatting, and relaxing young Italians. We followed the old man to a nearby bar where he got change for our fifty. Janneth and I practically took off at a run after receiving our change, revitalized from the blood-pumping ride. As we walked back to our hotel, we could not stop laughing at the crazy old Taxi driver.

Next time, I think we will just walk to our hotel.