Adventures in Communal Cabbing
With the long weekend now just a distant memory, it was time to dive back into the city. So many things to do, so little time to do them.
I went to the Upper East Side to attend the opening of a special exhibition of German cartoons commenting on the U.S. Though a few of the single panes left me quizzical, most were pretty funny, and thoughtful at the least.
I wandered from wall to wall reading and considering, drinking orange juice and eating pretzels. But that was not enough.
I walked to Smörgas Chef nearby, one of the few Swedish restaurants in the city. When in a Swedish restaurant, one ought to eat as the Swedes do. So out came an order of Swedish meatballs, mashed potatoes and lingonberry sauce (very nice), a dish of snails in Jarlsberg (too dry and generally flavorless), a red beet salad and a side of aquavit.
As I prepared to head home, a friend I hadn't seen in many months called to ask me out for a drink. I said yes and stepped to the corner to hail a cab.
The taxi workers union called a strike at 5 a.m. today, but looking outside it was hard to tell. "Clinton and Stanton," I told the driver who stopped. He explained that I had to be OK with sharing a cab. I was. I got in.
He then said cabs were operating on zone fares — flat rates — and handed me a map so small I could barely see the fishlike shape of Manhattan. But one thing was clear: this was going to be a $20 ride. Ouch.
On the way to the Lower East Side, the cabbie watched hawk-eyed for people looking for rides. "Where are you going!" he yelled, pulling toward the curb. If they didn't give him an intersection on the way to my destination, he apologized and raced off. But a few people gave him magic axes.
First, there was a businessman whose trip to London had been cancelled because of the tube strike. He was now heading home.
Then came a regular joe, just looking to get to his girlfriend's place near Houston Street.
We were joined by a guitarist on his way to a rehearsal.
One by one, the men got out, and finally, it was me and the cabbie again. He had debated whether to work tonight, he said, but he had already paid $700 for the cab, plus he needed money for rent, food and to send back to his family. He seemed earnest, but a little defeated. Not a lot of fares tonight so far, he said, "but then again, I just got started."
At the corner of Clinton and Stanton is a dark little tapas bar called Tapéo29, a far quieter place this evening than the Lotus Lounge, across the street.
We caught up and moved on to Thor at the deliberately hip Hotel on Rivington.
Jimi Hendrix played on an endless loop as people clustered, parted and regrouped at tables, at the bar, and on lounge sofas. Cocktail girls in little black dresses (of course) sashayed from group to group, making sure no one went thirsty.
Having never been to this hotel, I had a look at my friend's room. It reminded me very much of a W Hotel, except the space was much tinier and there were far more windows. Even the shower wall, which formed part of the outside wall of the hotel, had strategically placed clear and translucent windowpanes — all the better to titillate the neighbors.
But by far, the best room was the corner bedroom, with its impeccable views of the city.
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