Taxi Two: The Airport

I ask concierge for a taxi.

“How much to the airport?” I ask.
‘Sixty Real.’
“Sixty Real?”
‘Yes, sir.  Sixty Real.’
“To the airport?”
‘Yes sir.’  There’s that look again.

“Sixty Real to the airport.” I state to the driver.  He nods.  I relax enough to allow my cheeks to ripple from the g-forces created by his acceleration.

Twenty minutes and thirty miles later I pass over two crisp fifties with my still trembling hand.  He gives me back twenty in small change.

I remonstrate.  Something I always find easier when we don’t share a language.

“Sixty.  The hotel said sixty.  You said sixty.”

He points to a notice within the cab.  He stabs at it with his finger.

He has all the cards.  And the money.  I curse loudly but given the language barrier offend only my family.

I can sense a pattern emerging. 

Comments

[Mrs RW]

When in a foreign country it's always best to assume you will return home with less money than you came with; or in your case, a negative balance. Maybe from now on, T should handle the transactions...