No, I’m not going to subject you to the details of all that I learned on the first day of taxi school.
There were some fun moments, though. I especially liked the tremendously corny video “I AM New York: Becoming a Professional Taxi Driver,” in which a wise man in the rear view mirror shows
Every man takes the limits of his own field of vision for the limits of the world.
- Arthur Schopenhauer (quoted on the N train to Queens)
First, the good news: the New York City Taxi & Limousine Commission (TLC) accepted my yellow cab application today and gave me a ticket to taxi school. But not
Ravagh Persian Grill in Murray Hill – one of two Persian restaurants that Eli Parviz recommended after we got lost during our quest for his favorite Colombian food – is more elegant than most of the places where I wind up on the taxi adventures.
When I walked into the dining room the day
If there’s anything I’ve learned over the course of these food quests, it’s that in the moment I climb into a taxi, I have no clue what the back story of the person in the front seat might be.
The idea that we shouldn’t judge a book by its cover isn’t new, I know. But
Warning: The following is a rant, but the profanity is only implied.
Five years ago, a teenage Gypsy caught me with my guard down and lifted my wallet – and every identifying document I owned – in the Madrid subway. Eventually, I replaced all that was missing, but my name somehow ended up misspelled on
I could feel the heat from the döner kebab the moment I opened the door to Istanbul, the second Rego Park restaurant* that taxi driver Eduard Zavlanov recommended during our ride through Midtown Manhattan. When he’s craving Turkish food, the musician from Uzbekistan told me that this is his favorite spot.
When I walked into