The joys of driving a “taxi”
In many countries, taxis are very distinctive, such as Germany where they are all a standard off-white, or the UK where they’re black (or covered in advertising) but generally look like an Austin Marina on steroids.
In the Netherlands, there is no colour distinction, so for practical purposes, dark colours are favoured. While most taxis have an illuminated roof sign, “executive taxis” can often only be identified by their blue number plate, a subtlety that escapes many tourists and even locals.
There are several obvious reasons why C or E-Class Mercedes Benz station wagons are the “preferred model” for taxi drivers anywhere from Amsterdam to Moscow, the least of which being that you can sit in the thing all day and not look like a question mark when you get out. The same reasons of preference apply if you prefer motoring trips to flying. The space is also handy after one of my quarterly visits to Sainsbury’s in the UK for Fray Bentos pies, Bovril or Christmas mince pies (all either unobtainable or prohibitively expensive on the Continent), or after Her Highness as has a day of retail therapy at the sales on the Königsalee in Düsseldorf.
But then, there’s also, occasionally, a funny side.
Last winter, I’d dropped some friends at a restaurant on Rembrandt Square and drove off to find parking. About 30 metres down the road, I had to break hard as a camera-festooned tourist stepped into the road with his hand out.
I rolled down my window quite angrily. I hadn’t made the connection until he asked me (in a distinctly South-American dialect of Spanish) to take him to Central Station.
It’s happened since, but never twice on one day. Last week I’d promised to fetch my wife from Beverwijk station and was a little early, so I turned on the interior light and started reading Het Parool. A few moments later, the passenger door opened, a woman popped her head in and rattled-off an address the other side of town. When I pointed out her mistake, she apologised profusely and moved off towards the taxi rank.
I went back to Het Parool. About two minutes later, the rear door opened and some shopping bags were placed on the back seat. Then the front passenger door opened and a pretty blonde woman of about 30 sat down. “Wijk-aan-Zee alsjeblieft”.
“It’s a little cold for the beach and I’d have to ask my wife’s permission first,” I replied. There was a moment’s silence before peals of embarrassed laughter.
So there’s a tip for the single guys out there: if you want the babes to get into your car all by themselves, ditch the Ferrari and buy a Merc station wagon. Far more efficient in many ways. - AMB
