New York State of Confusion

On those special weekends when my husband and I steal away to New York, I try to clad myself in a layer of authenticity.  I pull out my classic yet upscale black wardrobe, fill a designer bag with essentials, and apply a little more make-up than usual for a day of schlepping and shopping.  We try not to be caught gawking at landmarks, avoiding Rockefeller Center (except to procure a few of my husband’s favorite Teuscher dark chocolate-covered salted caramels) and the 10-block stretch of 5^th Avenue from 59^th street south.

My favorite way to see New York is without any plans, allowing for the appeal of a cute Soho boutique to draw us in, or for impossible cross-town traffic to hold us captive.  New York is a place where I prefer go with the flow; swimming upstream is a fool’s errand.  But during those times when we need to get from point A to point B, our cover is blown, betraying us as the geeky tourists that we are.  It is the simple yellow taxi cab—that icon of metropolis—that gives us away every time.

Taxi cabs are the plasma of New York City, the life force that brings vitality and circulation.  Without taxis, this greatest of all cities would come to a grinding halt.  I have sat on street corners studying as seasoned New Yorkers saunter off the curb, making a nuanced gesture in the direction of an approaching cab.  Instantly, the yellow car pulls up like a regal coach, offering its assistance as the lucky riders tuck themselves inside.  The roof lights switch off, telling wannabe riders that they are not worthy while the taxi speeds away in line with the flow of traffic.

Though commonplace among the natives, to us, getting a taxi in New York is like trying to jump onto a speeding locomotive.  The hackney industrial complex is engaged and operating at full speed, unable to accommodate the clumsiness of an unpracticed tourist.  We stand on corners as dozens and dozens of taxis drive by, signaling and gesturing in vain.  I loathe making such a scene, being left with my hand in the air for no apparent reason.  It’s like waving to someone you think you know in a crowd, or offering a high-five to someone who is too cool to complete the motion.  I cringe as I am left hanging, hopelessly uncool against the backdrop of the chic New York populace.  I am a fraud.  I am a tourist.

The rules for hailing cabs elude us.  We have tried standing at the end of the block before the light, at the beginning of the block after the light, on the right and on the left.  We walk to the nearest one-way street facing in the direction we wish to go.  We have even learned to avoid the interval between 4 and 5pm when taxis “turnover”—the dead hour when drivers will not go uptown for any amount of money.   This is when hundreds of taxis fly by empty with their “Off Duty” lights on.  Strangely and inexplicably, they stop for other people on the street, but never for us.  Shouldn’t a driver heading downtown at the end of his shift prefer to be paid and tipped for his final excursion?

Last night, I watched three Off Duty taxis in a row stop to load up people who had signaled them at a red light.  When a fourth approached, I waved knowingly.  I was delighted when he pulled up in front of the curb where we were standing.  I walked over and tried to open the back door.  It was locked.  The driver rolled down his window and asked, “Why you touch my door?  I am off-duty?”  “Why did you stop?” I asked, sincerely confused.  “I don’t need your permission to stop!” he shouted at me.  He then gunned the engine and screeched away from curb back into traffic.

I love New York.  I love the hustle and bustle, the fabulous restaurants, and the glittering lights of the Great White Way.  I love the street-corner pretzels, the magnificent Chrysler Building, and the refreshing deliciousness of the tap water.  But although New York is deeply inside my heart, I never seem to be able to get my head around the New York taxis.  The difficulty with which I procure transportation makes me question my need to get where I think I want to go.  It sends a subtle message that perhaps I belong at home.