Driving test

Today I saw the first female cab driver I’ve come across in New York. My attention was drawn to her cab because a) it was travelling along at a reasonable speed, b) it indicated before moving across lanes, and c) it came to a gentle stop that did not leave the customer dazed, with a nice egg on their forehead as a memento of their trip.

I watched her passenger emerge with a smile on his face, not something you see terribly often when a yellow taxi is involved, and I just had to give the driver a thumbs up. She looked straight back at me, poker faced, obviously weighing up whether I was flagging her down or was just a little crazy. Then, having decided on the latter, she proceeded to drive off as fast as her cautious nature would allow. I swear she would have pulled away with a screech of the tyres had she not been a woman driver. I waved my thumb in her direction until she was out of sight.

My last journey in a cab began with a request to take us to the Flatiron Building. Not only was I asking to be delivered to one of the most iconic buildings in New York City, but it wasn’t all that far and did not involve taking any complicated route or braving the West Side Highway, which is enough to give anyone nightmares. Particularly a nervous passenger like myself. (I admit it, I absolutely hate it when I’m not in control. Ask He Who Knows Best.)

Anyway, the driver, who spoke one of the 800 languages for which this city is renowned – it just wasn’t our language – apparently had no idea where the Flatiron Building was. Or what direction he might head in. Or which direction might be east. Still, we are understanding folk, so we reassured him we would be able to direct him. He nodded enthusiastically and blatantly couldn’t make heads or tails of what we were trying to convey.

Still, we were willing to give it a go. All well and good, until the driver, now fondly referred to as Mr Flatiron by those of us hanging on for dear life in the back seat, roared off at speed without a glance in his mirror or any consideration for his fellow road users. Trying to gesticulate directions while keeping your eyes tightly closed and wishing you knew how to pray is nigh on impossible. All we knew was that all around us people were making full use of their horns. And getting their money’s worth.

When we finally emerged from our ordeal unscathed, He Who Knows Best turned to me with a weak grin and promised never, ever to tease me again about being geographically challenged. I promised to return the favour by never, ever criticising his driving again. Then he had a bright idea: we could become  taxi drivers. After all, we were more than qualified.

Inspiration struck today at ... Starbucks, West 15th Street and 7th Avenue

It had to happen. When you come across a Starbucks store every couple of blocks, it’s inevitable that you will end up there one day – and not just for the free drinks you usually get for giving your order in a terribly British accent.

Pros: this is a brand new store, so the baristas aren’t jaded yet. You might even call them perky.
Cons: they serve cold sweet drinks for the summer that just beg to arrive with whipped cream on the top. Not good, not good at all.