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The reason I drive a cab, five nights a week, twelve hours a shift, is simple. It's fun. I enjoy my work immensely, and the money I earn goes to fund my travel habit.
It's more fun to walk into a travel agency and say, "I'd like to fly around the world."
The agent's eyes light up immediately, but usually, after half an hour or so, the torch is flickering down. My idea of a world trip consists of cramming as many flights as possible into as short a time as possible, consistent with maximising airmiles but still getting a day or so to rest and see some of my destinations.
Travelling from Charleston to Los Angeles via Texas, Seattle and New York is actually an efficient routing from my point of view, but not every travel agent sees it that way.
I'm allowed twenty flights on the ticket, and a minimum of ten days, so by taking seventeen flights in sixteen days, I'm actually being quite conservative.
To me, the journey is half the fun. Modern air travel is the best theme park ride in the world. I fly with my head as far out of the window as it will go, the better to see the meandering rivers of Siberia, the scattered islands of the Pacific, the glittering cities of Western Europe, the great deserts of Australia, the jungled lands of Asia and on one wonderful Fourth of July, the fireworks over Boston harbour as we slid down to JFK on a flight from Heathrow.
"Happy Birthday!", I said to the immigration bloke, and after a moment of confusion he smiled happily and checked me through into the USA.
Airport terminals are maybe not so much fun as the air travel, but if I can find a spot by a window to sit with a cup of coffee, it's grand entertainment watching the big jets land in a puff of smoke, or thunder off for far places. Once in Sydney I watched the behemothian Airbus A380 lumber into place at the end of the runway, the captain wheeling his giant into line and then pushing forward until the thing heaved into the air, like an apartment block taking flight.
It's an exciting world, apart from the security checks, the lugging of baggage, the hassling with shuttledrivers and so on. As a cabbie, I'm frequently at Canberra airport, waiting in the cabyard for the queue to move up, and I look through the chainlink fence at the Boeings coming in and flying out. I'm happy to be a small part of the process, and happier still to hand over my duties for a week or two of being piloted around the world.
The distant places are an education in themselves. Seeing the Eiffel Tower rising far above the chimney-pots of Paris, ancient AyaSofia in Istanbul looking down on two continents, the Golden Gate spanning the misty Bay, the cherry blossoms of Osaka in the spring and the silent sands of Omaha Beach. It's history coming alive.
And then there's the people. A cabbie in Frankfurt has much in common with me, but there's that thrill of difference. And sometimes the hairs on my skin stand straight up at the wonder and the excitement of finding someone who lives a life entirely different to mine. It's humbling as well as heartening, to see this wide and wonderful world and its diverse people.
Best of all is the chance to meet my friends around the world. I've talked with them on the internet, shared their hobbies in photographs, learnt of their families in their blogs, and now and then sending or receiving small gifts in the mail.
But meeting them in the flesh is a special experience. We shake hands, we smile, we embrace, we share a meal, explore the place, and then say goodbye.
Until the next time.
I have my "happy holiday snaps" running as a slideshow in the cab. Remembering the good times past and dreaming of those to come gets me through the long hours. It's not a matter of enduring a twelve-hour shift, it's more that I have to hold the hours back, enjoying the fleeting company of a chatty passenger, swapping cabbie stories on a late-night rank, or just driving through this beautiful city as the silver moon makes a path across Lake Burley-Griffin.
I went to Qantas this time around, brought out my frequent flyer card, and had the pleasure of an excellent and efficient travel agent catering to my long-distance whims. "You want to fly from Sydney to Canberra via Perth? Fine, we can do that!"
And it is done, the bookings made, and this morning Express Post delivered a fat wodge of paper tickets, full five books thick.
A ticket to dreams. I've got three weeks to go, and every time I take someone to airport Departures, I'm thinking of my own trip, and my heart beats a little faster and my eyes twinkle as I turn off the meter, run the card through the reader, and jump out to help with the baggage. And then I take the loop around to catch the passengers at Arrivals. The plane comes in, bellowing as the thrust reversers engage, it taxis in to the jetways, and five minutes later the passengers are heading towards the cabs, luggage rolling behind.
I jump out, flip up the boot lid, see them into their seats, and then turn to them.
"Where are we heading?"
It's more fun to walk into a travel agency and say, "I'd like to fly around the world."
The agent's eyes light up immediately, but usually, after half an hour or so, the torch is flickering down. My idea of a world trip consists of cramming as many flights as possible into as short a time as possible, consistent with maximising airmiles but still getting a day or so to rest and see some of my destinations.
Travelling from Charleston to Los Angeles via Texas, Seattle and New York is actually an efficient routing from my point of view, but not every travel agent sees it that way.
I'm allowed twenty flights on the ticket, and a minimum of ten days, so by taking seventeen flights in sixteen days, I'm actually being quite conservative.
To me, the journey is half the fun. Modern air travel is the best theme park ride in the world. I fly with my head as far out of the window as it will go, the better to see the meandering rivers of Siberia, the scattered islands of the Pacific, the glittering cities of Western Europe, the great deserts of Australia, the jungled lands of Asia and on one wonderful Fourth of July, the fireworks over Boston harbour as we slid down to JFK on a flight from Heathrow.
"Happy Birthday!", I said to the immigration bloke, and after a moment of confusion he smiled happily and checked me through into the USA.
Airport terminals are maybe not so much fun as the air travel, but if I can find a spot by a window to sit with a cup of coffee, it's grand entertainment watching the big jets land in a puff of smoke, or thunder off for far places. Once in Sydney I watched the behemothian Airbus A380 lumber into place at the end of the runway, the captain wheeling his giant into line and then pushing forward until the thing heaved into the air, like an apartment block taking flight.
It's an exciting world, apart from the security checks, the lugging of baggage, the hassling with shuttledrivers and so on. As a cabbie, I'm frequently at Canberra airport, waiting in the cabyard for the queue to move up, and I look through the chainlink fence at the Boeings coming in and flying out. I'm happy to be a small part of the process, and happier still to hand over my duties for a week or two of being piloted around the world.
The distant places are an education in themselves. Seeing the Eiffel Tower rising far above the chimney-pots of Paris, ancient AyaSofia in Istanbul looking down on two continents, the Golden Gate spanning the misty Bay, the cherry blossoms of Osaka in the spring and the silent sands of Omaha Beach. It's history coming alive.
And then there's the people. A cabbie in Frankfurt has much in common with me, but there's that thrill of difference. And sometimes the hairs on my skin stand straight up at the wonder and the excitement of finding someone who lives a life entirely different to mine. It's humbling as well as heartening, to see this wide and wonderful world and its diverse people.
Best of all is the chance to meet my friends around the world. I've talked with them on the internet, shared their hobbies in photographs, learnt of their families in their blogs, and now and then sending or receiving small gifts in the mail.
But meeting them in the flesh is a special experience. We shake hands, we smile, we embrace, we share a meal, explore the place, and then say goodbye.
Until the next time.
I have my "happy holiday snaps" running as a slideshow in the cab. Remembering the good times past and dreaming of those to come gets me through the long hours. It's not a matter of enduring a twelve-hour shift, it's more that I have to hold the hours back, enjoying the fleeting company of a chatty passenger, swapping cabbie stories on a late-night rank, or just driving through this beautiful city as the silver moon makes a path across Lake Burley-Griffin.
I went to Qantas this time around, brought out my frequent flyer card, and had the pleasure of an excellent and efficient travel agent catering to my long-distance whims. "You want to fly from Sydney to Canberra via Perth? Fine, we can do that!"
And it is done, the bookings made, and this morning Express Post delivered a fat wodge of paper tickets, full five books thick.
A ticket to dreams. I've got three weeks to go, and every time I take someone to airport Departures, I'm thinking of my own trip, and my heart beats a little faster and my eyes twinkle as I turn off the meter, run the card through the reader, and jump out to help with the baggage. And then I take the loop around to catch the passengers at Arrivals. The plane comes in, bellowing as the thrust reversers engage, it taxis in to the jetways, and five minutes later the passengers are heading towards the cabs, luggage rolling behind.
I jump out, flip up the boot lid, see them into their seats, and then turn to them.
"Where are we heading?"
