The story of our final hours in Baltimore warrants its own entry. But first let me say that I never liked riding in taxis in Baltimore. We didn’t use taxis often, but occasionally needed a taxi on the way out of town or upon our return. My experiences by and large consisted of taxi drivers that:
2pm came and went, so I called the taxi service to check on the status of our van. They said someone was on the way and would be at my house soon. By 2:10 when the taxi still hadn’t arrived, I called the taxi service again. The dispatcher nonchalantly repeated that someone was close to my house and would be there soon. When I pointed out that I was on a tight schedule and had a flight to catch, they mentioned that perhaps I should have asked for the taxi to arrive at 1:45 if I wanted to leave by 2. I politely explained that this suggestion was ridiculous and that they should have either explained this when I made the reservation or simply try harder to accommodate their customers’ requests. By 2:15, I started calling other taxi services because I was losing faith that the original company would ever send a van. My calls to the other taxi services left me more disappointed—they either didn’t have vans in their fleet (despite an ad in the yellow pages that sayes they do) or required 24 hours notice for the van.
· Need directions – even to the airport, which should be a no-brainer for a taxi driver
· Don’t follow directions – “turn left here…here! Oh, never mind…”
· Drive too fast – even between red lights, when driving 20 miles per hour or 40 miles per hour got you to your destination in the same amount of time
And the taxis rattle down the road and seem to be one pothole away from falling to pieces. Despite the anxiety and frustration, the taxis had always accomplished the fundamental task of delivering us to our destination. So, a few hours before we needed to leave for the airport on our last day together in Baltimore, I called a taxi service that claimed in their yellow pages listing to have vans. I explained when I booked the taxi that we were transporting eight suitcases and a box—I was hand carrying several items to Ramallah and my darling was taking a few things to her family. (She decided to spend some time with her family before joining me in Ramallah.) A normal taxi car would not accommodate our load, but the taxi service confirmed they would send a van.
I requested the taxi arrive at 2pm. My flight was at 4:30. We gathered the suitcases and boxes at the front door just before 2pm, took a photo to capture the moment, and then watched out the front window for a van to arrive.
2pm came and went, so I called the taxi service to check on the status of our van. They said someone was on the way and would be at my house soon. By 2:10 when the taxi still hadn’t arrived, I called the taxi service again. The dispatcher nonchalantly repeated that someone was close to my house and would be there soon. When I pointed out that I was on a tight schedule and had a flight to catch, they mentioned that perhaps I should have asked for the taxi to arrive at 1:45 if I wanted to leave by 2. I politely explained that this suggestion was ridiculous and that they should have either explained this when I made the reservation or simply try harder to accommodate their customers’ requests. By 2:15, I started calling other taxi services because I was losing faith that the original company would ever send a van. My calls to the other taxi services left me more disappointed—they either didn’t have vans in their fleet (despite an ad in the yellow pages that sayes they do) or required 24 hours notice for the van.
Finally, at just after 2:20, a taxi arrived. Not a van, though, as I had requested and required, but a standard sedan. My frustration at this point led me to yelling at the driver for being late and for not driving a van. He became defensive and said I shouldn’t yell at him because he is just doing his job. Quickly, though, I turned my back on the driver and was back on the phone with the dispatcher, explaining that the car that showed up at my house was not adequate for transporting me and my things. (At some point, the driver said he was "pretty sure" everything would fit in his car, although he had not even seen the amount of luggage we had.)
The taxi service dispatcher apologized and offered to try to find a van, but soon, a neighbor—with whom I’d only had a few short conversations over the years—came out of her house. I’m not sure whether she heard the commotion or left her house to carry out other plans, but soon she was offering to drive us to the airport in her conversion van. I waved the taxi driver off—frankly not sure why he was still waiting in front of my house—and ran up the steps to my house to start loading suitcases into my neighbor’s van. In short order, we were on the way to the airport. Our neighbor told us stories about her family and other people on our block while I let my blood pressure and overall anxiety wash away, trying also to enjoy one last drive on the streets of Baltimore before moving to Ramallah. We arrived at the airport overwhelmingly grateful to have a neighbor who was willing to drop everything to drive us 30 minutes to the airport.
After a quick photo, we rushed into the airport. This was, I suppose, a fitting exit from Baltimore—a place full of contradiction, dysfunction, hope, and humanity.
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