It usually happens on sultry summer nights around 11:30 pm when I arrive at LaGuardia Airport and face the prospect of waiting on a taxi line that snakes three times the length of Terminal C. No, I’m not going to wait in that line! I’m too smart. I’m a native New Yorker. I know better than that.
So I take myself, wheelie in tow, up to the front of the line, and start shouting out “Anybody want to share a cab to the Upper East Side?” “ Anybody going to 69th Street?”
Invariably I get a volunteer, be it a man or woman. Doesn’t matter to me. As soon as they agree, I slip right behind them in the line, placing myself among the very next folks to get a cab.
Even luckier, the person turns out to be someone pretty nice, typically back from an interesting trip, sometimes stocked with an interesting Christmas gift or two.
One Christmas, I jumped into the cab with a woman named Liz, who loved to Tango. In the shopping bag was a foot massager, a thoughtful gift from a brother who knew her feet took a beating from all the tango dancing she did in her spare time. Trouble was, Liz was really an accountant. She loved tango dancing so much, she stayed out late into the night dancing her favorite dance.
In the short amount of time we had before the cab dropped her off at 62nd and First, I had convinced her to buy her own club, to name it Tango Liz, and in fact, to become Tango Liz. She seemed genuinely excited about the prospect.
Have you ever shared a taxi? How did it go?