About the Author: Jill Kozak is a MatadorU student and freelance writer living in Philadelphia. Weird, wild and fun is her travel philosophy. She is currently planning a solo expedition through Australia in early 2012. Follow her work and adventures on her blog at bravenewworldtraveler.wordpress.com
It was my first five minutes in New York City as an East Coaster and I had already made a huge mistake.
“Fifty-fourth between 8th and 9th!” I shouted at the driver of the unmarked, Navy Blue cab I was in.
“That’s $20. You pay cash now!” The cabbie demanded.
I grew up in Chicago: Not in the mean streets, but I knew that the protocol for taxi fare is paying what the meter reads AFTER the ride. Intimidated by New York’s fast past and feeling nervous because I was alone, I forked over a 20 and we were off.
We sped off through Midtown Manhattan passing one fascinating site after the next. My heart skipped a beat when I saw the New York Times office building, but my awe was short lived, soon replaced by panic as we weaved maniacally through traffic. More than once I thought we were going to run over a pedestrian, or at the very least, sideswipe another car. Visions of a crazy De Niro danced through my head.
The city was alive with that Big Apple charm: places to go, people to see. I had just arrived via bus to visit my friend Rachel for Halloween. We had been corresponding through text my entire ride up. I was scared to navigate the city solo, so she had given me step-by-step text instructions on how to get to Juan’s apartment in Hell’s Kitchen.
“Hail a cab. I’ll reimburse your fare. See ya soon!” Rachel’s text read.
I stepped out of the cab, nearly kissing the ground after such a reckless ride, and waited for Rachel to gather me in front of Juan’s complex.
After our brief reunion inside, I admitted to everyone what I had paid for fare.
“Twenty bucks?!” seemed to be the popular response. “You got in gypsy cab! Jill rode in a gypsy cab,” everyone teased in a sing song voice.
I was a little embarrassed, but how was I supposed to turn down a ride with a split second’s time for judgment? Back then, I didn’t know what “Fifty-fourth in between 8th and 9th” even meant. Now a little bit wiser to Manhattan’s grid system layout, I admittedly got ripped off. For the distance I traveled, the fare should have only been about $6.
“Honey, you ALWAYS take a yellow cab in New York City. Trust me,” Juan said.
Didn’t cabs come in all shapes and sizes? I’ve been in red cabs, yellow cabs, black cabs, mini vans, jalopy Oldsmobiles, you name it. Reminiscing about other public transportation problems and warning signs, a navy blue cab seemed pretty harmless.
Luckily the rest of my time in New York for Halloween was nothing short of a dream. Rachel kindly reimbursed me for the fare and I donned the biggest wig the Upper West Side has ever seen. I dressed as Peg Bundy from Married with Children, with a horrible accent and a leopard-print blouse to complete the character.
After a weekend full of binge drinking, bad decisions, drag brunches and other general debauchery, it was time for me to leave New York and catch my bus to Philadelphia.
This time I asked for directions to the subway.
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