Riding in Cabs with Boors & Other Errata

Comic courtesy of Married to the Sea

You have now nearly made it through the week. Rejoice!

Of course, now that the weather is turning, it’s getting harder for people to GET to work. It’s wiiiiiindy right now, and the wee people of this city do not take kindly to being tossed about. Lines for the bus in the morning are quite long, and it’s standing room only, grim people cheek-by-jowl. And trying to get a cab can take forty-five minutes; the up-side is that we get to stand in the foyer of our building and chat with the neighbors while we practically press our noses against the glass and wait… and wait…

Since the bus company has hiked and hiked the fares in the three years we’ve lived here, we actually find it less expensive to take a cab when we can’t walk to our destination. To us, that seems a bit insane, as the point of public transportation, one would think, would be to get individual cars off the road, but somehow the city hasn’t quite gotten the same memo.

While riding the bus does in fact some days give one a slice of city life that one would not otherwise touch with a ten foot pole, riding in cabs has its own special… funkiness. Namely in the form of …er, occasionally throat-closing funk. And there we shall draw a veil.

Other than malodorous drivers, the second most common pitfall of riding in cabs in the city is the fractious temperament of some of the drivers.

Now, one expects a driver to be somewhat of a people person — in that one has to ferry people about all day. (T. disagrees – one does not have to be a people person to drive people; merely an individual who knows six ways to get to the same place. Case in point: T’s dad. Formerly a Muni driver – currently a cranky introvert with a good sense of direction.) However, since bus drivers in the UK are in their own wee cages, away from the general hoi polloi (and sometimes on the phone!!!!), some don’t find it necessary to even acknowledge the people in the bus. This is actually just fine, what with the rest of the sturm und drang of humanity and the mini-dramas going on in the seats, the driver is quite welcome to his lofty solitude, and the rest of us only wish at times that we could share it.

A cab driver, however, is sitting within five feet of the passengers (or much closer, if it’s a standard car and not a hansom cab), and despite usually being on the phone as well (which is illegal, yes, but it doesn’t faze anyone here as far as we can tell), or having the radio on to some extremely loud, hip hop music (or, worse, bad country), football game (or people arguing about the calls a coach made on a football game. Or rehashing the drafting of players for football — can you tell these people love their sport?) or singing in a lounge singer-y fashion (happens more often than we want to acknowledge), usually interacts with us, whether we want interaction or not. And really, it’s sort of inevitable.

When we first arrived in this country, the interactions were usually funny – nosy questions, mocking of our “Hollywood accents,” snickers when we bungled pronunciation (“It’s not Sauchie Hall, lass. It’s Socky hall! [Sauchiehall]), and the inevitable comparisons on weather – California vs. Glasgow. Sometimes the discussions were political (especially when we first arrived) and we were treated to rants on GW, or, during the election, enthusiastic support in broken English for Mr. Obama, and sometimes philosophical and interesting, and we were disappointed when the ride was over. However, there have always been the sniping remarks. Personal sneering about our clothes, about our destination, about the fact that “back in my day, we just hoofed it up to University,” (Yes, well, back in your day perhaps you weren’t carrying zucchini bread for your entire department, plus your laptop and a camera and a tripod and all your books, but whatever), etc. Just lately it’s been about the time of day we call the cab.

D., as a student, has a flexible work schedule with his office at Skypark, and spends a lot of time working from home, logging time for phone conversations and quick fixes he does on the days he’s not actually supposed to be working, and generally doing his best to appease his [insert adjectives here] boss. The days he actually goes in he’s sometimes quite early, and other times goes in a bit later than everyone else, but he puts in a certain amount of hours, and that’s that. It’s what tech guys do. Apparently it does not meet with the approval of certain cabbies.

Just the other day, D. got a dressing-down for going in to work late. Seriously. The driver acted as if he were doing this massive favor just by stopping at the house instead of driving aimlessly with no fares, and proceeded to lambaste D. about nothing in particular, and then snarl, “What time are you supposed to be in, anyway?” To which D. replied, “Whenever I get there.”

Well, that set him off all over again. “‘Tis all right for some,” he sniffed, and with much eyerolling and profanity stewed and spat the rest of the ride.

One of D’s coworkers reports being dressed down for her makeup and being driven out of her way, to a dicey part of town, and threatened with being let out there since that was where her kind lived. Which is really enough to terrify one into walking. (Hello? Sociopaths Anonymous???)

Inasmuch as it is really sort of spirit-bruising to start one’s day with criticism and sniping and traffic and horn-blowing and general boorishness from total a stranger, we both have decided that it’s not only dangerous but really foolish to respond in kind. A.) There’s no point in fighting with strangers, as it just makes you cranky, and B.) Plato’s aphorism, “Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a battle,” has never been more true, plus there’s the whole Golden Rule thing. Impersonal malice is much more easily ignored with that in mind.

There are at least three major cab companies in the city, and the drivers who are “shirty” and pugnacious aren’t from any particular company… so, we sometimes wonder if this is a.) just a city thing, b.) just a Glaswegian thing, c.) just a Scottish thing? Having lived in the ‘burbs and the States all of our lives prior to this time, we just have no idea. Any thoughts from knowledgeable urbanites very welcome!

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We might as well start a TV series called Stuff My Choir Master Bellows, because what we hear there is loads better than any nonsense either of our fathers say. This past week, Sir Nearly Knighted was at his melodramatic best – striding up the aisle, mocking the second altos (which seems to be a favorite pastime), flinging himself to his desk over the tenors (“Tenors! You’re killing me! You’re singing with such long faces!” to which they protested, “It’s a requiem man!”), and glaring at the sopranos. His best line from the whole night was when we were going over a piece in the Cherubini where the sopranos missed reading the dynamic and muffled what was meant to be a very loud entry.

He glared up at the sopranos again and bellowed, “Libera eras! Libera! That means, “save your servants!” Not, “‘Och, weel, God, and if you get a moment, could you gie us a wee hand with things down here!'”

We really wish you could have heard the thick accent he put on for that. Sometimes we’re tempted to record rehearsals, but that’s a bit intrusive and rude and beyond the pale even for us, so we’ll content ourselves with still pictures sometime soon!

Meanwhile, the Met Office has proclaimed this weekend to be the most glorious weekend of Indian summer (which truly — TRULY begs the question. There were never any Indians here, and the South Asian transplants don’t count on this one, so why is it called Indian Summer in the UK?? According to this helpful phrase site, “The English already had names for the phenomenon – St. Luke’s Summer, St. Martin’s Summer or All-Hallown Summer, but these have now all but disappeared and, like the rest of the world, the term Indian summer has been used in the UK for at least a century.” Once again, the U.S. exports popular culture…), and that we should brace ourselves for a horrific time until March. As we’re still waiting for the faithfully promised “bbq summer” the Met Office forecast for us two summers ago, we’ll cheerfully go on ignoring their advisories, but do plan to have Foraging Weekend II on Cumbrae Isle again, rain or shine. There’s been a good frost or two, and it’s time to go and get those rose hips/haws!

T’s been having a brief flirtation with Greek, Turkish, and Cypriot foods and cultures, in service of her newest middle grade novel, and so we’re eating lots of “kebabs,” (aka “kabobs,”) tomatoes, olives, yogurt, cucumbers and olive oil as well as imagining some really fabulous desserts. T’s found a Turkish doughnut recipe that uses rose hip syrup and is eager to try a fairly common autumn “hedgerow recipe” of apple and rose hip jelly. Meanwhile D’s in the mood for bagels, and Axel’s parents have given us their kitchen for the weekend. Interesting photos sure to follow.

Finally, enjoy the horror that is haggis-flavored crisps. Axel complains they “weren’t even very haggis-y.” One would think he would be just a bit glad of this.

Happy Weekend.