Cab, Part 3

If it seems like I have a wacky cab story a day, it is only because I do.

They hate me, all foreigners.

I have this on pretty good authority because Thursday, after a dinner in lovely Ritan Park, we tried to catch a cab back to the media village. For 45 minutes.

Four. Five.

Cab after cab, including plenty with available lights on blew right past us. We finally got one to stopped but he denied us entrance when he discovered where we were going. I can not exactly blame the cabbies since getting near the green zone is impossibly frustrating.

Plus, they really have no incentive. They can not take tips. Or bribes. And I am pretty sure communism means they get the same money no matter how hard they work.

Anyway, we finally got a cab to stop AND let us in. And after calling a McClatchy godsend, Helena Hau, who also happens to speak Mandarin, the phone was passed to the somewhat reluctant cabbie. Whatever she said worked. We were driving.

This is where it gets funny. About four blocks later, we see McClatchy computer genius Bob McFarlin (who has become honorary Star-Teleguy) who is still waiting on the street. So we yell stop, confusing our cabbie who probably was regretting taking us. Bob jumps in.

Trying to convince Bob he owes me dinner,

jengel