Language Lessons on the Road

Taxi drivers are often the best language teachers around. They love to talk and don't seem to mind if you don't understand what they're saying, they have plenty of time on their hands, and they're willing to share their opinions on everything. Eventually you do begin to understand, whether it's because you have practically the same conversation with each taxi driver or because they're sort of like bartenders--mobile shrinks who don't offer booze or meds, instead, their services come with a healthy load of exhaust and fear.

I'm used to crazy driving. After all, I lived in Cairo for three years. When friends visit me in Buenos Aires from the States, I watch them search for the seatbelt, pull it across their chests, and spend the next five minutes or so trying to insert it. All the while the driver is yacking away, speeding in and out of lanes, on the rear of the guy in front of him, smoking, and laughing.

Some friends were visiting a while back. I'd taken a cab out to the airport to pick them up. A nice 40-minute Spanish lesson out there. On our way back into town I was having a hard time carrying on two conversations: one with my friends whom I hadn't seen in about a year and the other with the taxi driver. I didn't want to be rude, but my friends and I had a lot of catching up to do.

"Fucking cops!" yelled the driver as we raced down the highway. We looked around; in front all seemed normal; there was nothing happening behind us. "Donde?" I asked. He was giggling so hard his shoulders were shaking.

"No, it's just that's the only thing I know how to say in English. You know, I learned it from the movies and TV," he laughed. And we joined him. "Fucking cops!"