This weekend marks six months since I started driving a yellow cab in New York City. I may still be a rookie, but I know one thing: I never would have survived any of my shifts without at least one instance of light.
I wasn't sure why the cop started flashing his lights at me when I turned left onto 72nd St. from Park Avenue, but I decided to let the hyperventilating bride-to-be in the passenger seat ("We're getting PULLED over?!") do the talking when he sauntered up to my window.
It may have only lasted 20 seconds, but the rendezvous with the lady taxi driver on E.16th St and Union Square West on Sunday was enough to make me feel as if I actually belonged among the ranks of New York cabbies. We were both stuck in the traffic jam caused by road construction
When I finally do taste the pastrami at Katz's, I know I won't be thinking of Harry and Sally - I'll be remembering the odd couple I took to La Guardia, who are living out their own 17 years and counting, stranger than fiction love story.