Greece Taxi Story

Ce n’est pas le Taxi correct, eh?

That’s a French joke I told one time, in Greece of all places, during a taxi ride from the Port of Athens (Piraeus) to our hotel. My first ever French joke. It went over surprisingly well with the French couple sharing the taxi — and we hadn’t even run over the kitten yet.

So it all started when we disembarked the ferry after our six-plus-hour return trip from the (gorgeous) island of Santorini, disoriented as always by the horn honking, whistle blowing chaos of the port, and I was still quite groggy from the seasickness medicine, which didn’t help matters either. People raced toward the swath of yellow cars and, by the time we got there, most of the taxis had been filled to capacity. Then I spotted a sort of Joe Pesci-meets-Johnny Knoxville-looking Greek guy, in front of his late-model Mercedes smoking a cigarette. Lucky us, we thought, even though he didn’t seem to recognize the name of our hotel.

“Acropolis Select Hotel,” I said, after plopping down beside my wife on the springy back seat.
“Acropolis Hotel?” Nick said (we’re calling him Nick).
“Ohi. (No) Acropolis Select Hotel.”
“Acropolis (blah blah blah)?”
“Ohi.” I handed him the booking receipt from our travel agent.

Nick removed his aviators and put on a pair of reading glasses. After a cursory read, he handed the paper back with an inscrutable look on his face and then threw the car into gear. The snarled traffic was beginning to loosen, but we only drove about 10 feet before stopping again for no apparent reason. Nick rolled down his window and exchanged words with a man standing next to an adjacent cab, then he grumbled something and turned to us, rubbing his fingers together in a money gesture.

Was there some sort of bribe afoot? Needless to say, it was all Greek to us.

Nick grumbled again before getting out of the cab, and I didn’t follow along too closely but there was an awful lot of commotion outside, bickering and whatnot between various parties. Then I noticed a few port police officers circling around the adjacent cab, and before I knew it one of these guys was tapping on my window with his badge. My first thought was that he wanted to search our luggage for narcotics, as the Greeks apparently have very tough drug laws—or else we had been caught up in some sort of elaborate sting operation, in which we were being used as pawns. Either way, I thought it best to roll down the window and see what I could do to remain fully in compliance.

“Excuse me,” the man said with the politeness of a bellman, his Greek accent much more subtle than we had grown accustomed to. “Would you mind accommodating two more passengers in your taxicab? We would like to arrest their driver.”

These may not have been his exact words, but he made it sound as if we had every right to refuse his offer, leaving him hamstrung, unable to perform his duties. I said sure, and a few minutes later the French couple piled in, the man in the back with us and his wife riding shotgun. After taking a good look at Nick, she didn’t seem altogether pleased with the arrangement.

Unlike ours, Nick recognized the French people’s hotel right away — which was fortunate because they didn’t speak any Greek or English (surprise, surprise) — and before we knew it the taxi was careening through the busy streets of Athens. I’m like an idiot savant when it comes to seatbelts (def-def-definitely need to be buckled in), so I struggled for a good five minutes to dislodge the buckle from the seat cushion before giving up. In the meantime, there were a few awkward exchanges between Nick and the French woman, he speaking very poor English and she understanding none at all.

I asked Nick what happened with the police and he didn’t understand me. So I changed my phrasing a little and that did the trick, although his response made no sense whatsoever. If English was orange juice — mine being fresh squeezed of course — Nick’s was like Sunny Delight, maybe 10% juice. But I said, “Ah!” as if I understood perfectly, because I didn’t want to talk to Nick anymore. I just wanted to be at the Acropolis Select Hotel, on my balcony, drinking ice-cold beer.

About 10 minutes later we pulled up in front of the French people’s hotel, which didn’t look too bad – yet I hoped “The Select” would be nicer. There was one key problem, however, that the sidewalk was under construction. Both a jersey barrier and a chain link fence blocked the way, so Nick said he’d drive around to the other side. The French people did the right thing and said they wanted out anyway, but Nick wouldn’t have it. He waved them off and the tank of a car lurched forward again, before the poor French bastard could shut his door again.

Despite having never driven in Greece, I easily recognized the sign for ONE WAY pointing to the right and braced for impact as Nick swung a left. This was a very narrow street, and with cars parked on either side there was just barely a wide enough berth for the Mercedes to pass. We reached the next block without incident, but this street was much, much narrower — again, due to the cars lining either side. I thought, surely he’ll do the safe thing and just back up, especially since we’d actually be going the right way, but Nick was already trying to execute the impossible left turn.

As I had a front-row seat on the left side of the car, I rolled the window down and watched the parked Fiat on the corner get closer and closer. Closer. Closer. It was definitely going to be close, but for a minute there I thought the Nick-ster might actually pull it off. Of course, I was wrong. Metal scraped metal, yet Nick continued to inch forward, perhaps hoping it would just be a minor brush and we’d be free. Then, realizing he’d fucked up, but still not looking too concerned, he jammed her into reverse. We inched back a little, but the noise grew even more sickening than before so he tried forward again. No good.

By this time a man had appeared from the corner shop, but I don’t think it was his car because he didn’t seem all that pissed off. He just seemed to say, “Wait, stop making things worse. I’ll go find the keys to this car.” As he disappeared inside, another taxi pulled up behind us and started laying on the horn. Nick just grumbled something to himself. Shortly thereafter, the man emerged with the keys and almost immediately started bickering with the other taxi driver, who had gotten out of his car. Nick got out, too, but to our surprise no one seemed angry with him at all, even though it was clearly his jackassery that caused the whole mess in the first place.

That’s when I cracked my big joke. “Ce n’est pas le taxi correct, eh?” And as I said before, this met with some chuckles from the Francophones, and the woman pointed to the meter and said (in French), “And the meter’s still running!” Ha ha. Funny funny. All the while we had to wonder if a) the situation would result in fisticuffs, b) the police would make yet another appearance, or c) something worse would happen that we couldn’t even imagine.

Instead, the guy from the shop pulled the car up and, miraculously, there was hardly any damage. In fact, all he did was tell Nick to get the hell out of his face. So, in that regard, you’ve got to love Europe.

So we completed the turn and dropped the French people off. “Au revoir!” we said, and then watched as the man argued with Nick over the fare. Nick came back grumbling and made some snide remark about the French people before turning back onto a main thoroughfare. For the next 10-15 minutes he drove aimlessly around the Acropolis neighborhoods, which are very residential and contain many dark, narrow streets. He obviously had no idea where he was going and even asked for directions a few times. Either they didn’t recognize the Acropolis Select Hotel (“You mean blah blah blah Hotel?” ) or else they gave some half-hearted directions that didn’t pan out.

My aggravation turned to despair when Nick stopped to consult a tourist street map. By this time, our supposed 15-minute cab ride had ballooned to almost 45 minutes, with no end in sight. As I was ultimately accountable for the reservations, terrible thoughts went through my head. Was I duped? Does the Acropolis Select Hotel not exist? Or maybe they changed their name. Or maybe it’s such a shithole that only bums and whores know about it. That sort of thing.

Still grumbling, Nick got back in the car and we took off again, winding through the maze-like neighborhoods. It was shortly thereafter that we came upon the mother cat and her litter of kittens eating garbage in the street. Nick slowed down and honked once and we heard a little squeal as we went by. Twisting around in sheer horror, we saw the little bitty kitten still moving — definitely not smashed — so we must have run over its tail or something. Thank God. We breathed a sigh of relief and then another some time later as we finally pulled up to the Acropolis Select Hotel.

The place was far from a hole in the wall, with a bright marquee that spanned half the block and red carpet leading up marble steps. At this point the meter clocked in at six euros, but I knew there would be various baggage surcharges and whatnot. Nick asked for 10, and even though it was highway robbery I paid it without argument. I just wanted him out of my fucking sight forever, and I was so relieved by the appearance of The Acropolis Select Hotel that I resigned myself to that trusty old maxim ...

C’est la vie.