I have taken a total of five taxis in my life until this year. I preferred the comfort of driving myself and indulging in short conversations with my parents. That number did not stand out much because taxis were just like Ubers or buses. They were just another mode of transportation.
In Zaragoza, Spain, I take a taxi almost every week. It used to be the same routine each time: I would call one on the street, get into the backseat to avoid a long conversation, sit in silence until my destination and then get out with a few words of gratitude. However, this routine changed at 6 a.m on a Saturday in December. I was headed to the train station for an independent travel trip, and was hoping I could use the ride to dissociate in silence or rest my eyes. However, unlike most mornings, I was met with arguably the only person in our sleeping city who had more energy than three Red Bulls combined. The second he found out I was an American, I officially said goodbye to my hopes of silence. He spoke so fast and passionately about his life that I had to ask him to slow down multiple times, because I could not understand. He talked about how much he wanted to visit California, and how he dreamed of taking an RV up the coast and ride with all the windows down just like in the movies. I watched his smile continue to grow in the rearview mirror and I could feel my own turning upwards as well. He had already taught me six new Spanish words in our ten-minute conversation. That was the only time I ever wished the drive to the train station was longer. I expected to return to my regular routine of goodbyes, but instead, he reached his hand into the backseat and handed me a piece of paper with his number scribbled on it. I was already running late so I grabbed it and said a big “gracias”as I closed the door. I put it into my back pocket quickly as I shifted my focus toward getting all of my chaotic friends successfully on the train. When I could finally sit down, I read the messy handwriting on the back of the paper: “Estoy aquí si necesitas algo, solo tienes que llamarme :).” I’m here if you need anything, you only need to call me. He quickly became one of the few people I could rely on in this city, even before I translated the note. Weirdly enough I knew that if I needed anything, he would be there to help. It was a foreign sensation — I’m usually hesitant to trust strangers, especially when travelling alone.
The next opportunity I had to take a taxi was another early morning two weeks later. I was now looking forward not only to my trip, but also the ride there, because I had texted him the night before asking if he could take me to the airport. I got sent three GIFs and a “por supuesto” in response. Standing out on my cold, dark street, I don’t know what I was expecting, but it was not for him to come speeding around the corner, honking his horn and waving at me. The street had seemed a bit lighter after that. Our 30-minute drive consisted of him asking me every possible question about California. Our conversation ranged from political views to me explaining the genius of a California burrito. It was never uncomfortable or foreign, it was just new and intriguing. We both finally got the opportunity to ask everything we wanted to know about each other’s country without fear of controversial topics. At the end of the ride, I gave him my number with a note that said, “En caso de que te encuentres en California,” which means “If you find yourself in California.” As a sign of gratitude, he honked again on the way out of the airport parking lot.
Tuesday night when I arrived back in Zaragoza, I had planned to take the bus home, but I forgot that the Ci2 bus that I normally take doesn’t run past 11 p.m. Besides my host family, who I didn’t want to bother, I only knew one number in my phone that could help.
He was there in fifteen minutes. At some point I’d become accustomed to the sound of his honk — it now felt like a welcome home. This time, I was the one to ask him questions.
I found out he has a 15-year-old daughter and he showed me photos of how beautiful she is. He is from Colombia and misses the food most of all. He loves old Western movies because he always wanted to be a cowboy. He likes American music but mostly older rock songs like the Beatles and Queen. He likes to be in nature more than in the city. His grandfather used to own a lot of land, and he misses being out in the fields. His first stop in California will be Disneyland, because he’s always secretly wanted to go.
I never liked taxis before. But they are quickly becoming the best part of my life in Spain. I look forward to seeing him drive up the California coast instead of through the streets of Zaragoza. If so, I hope he gives me a call.
