Taxi drivers are only in it for the nookie

Okay, I realize that I’ve spent the majority of my blogs (all 3 of them) talking about very vague and uneventful experiences. In fact, aside from the flight, pigeons, and bodily fluids/functions, I haven’t mentioned a single thing about what I’ve done in Buenos Aires. For all you know, I’ve spent the past three weeks writing less than inspiring missives about less than memorable topics. I apologize. I can’t spend the next three months talking about birds and shit.  Well, I honestly could….but what I mean to say is that no one will read my blogs and I’ll see my Facebook friends dwindling.

So I will begin this day (March 21, 2012, 6:39PM) with a harrowing tale of my first solo taxi driver ride! You’re impressed already, right? Wait just a few more paragraphs and you’ll really be impressed.

It was Friday, March 9, 2012, and I was wrapping up the evening with a very charming man by the name of….well, I’ll just call him Prince Charming (I’m sure he’ll appreciate it—more on him later!). Mr. Charming hailed me a taxi as it was raining like this: 

When the taxi driver figured out I was from the United States he started chanting, “USA, USA, USA” and insisted that he buy me a beer and provide him a brief English lesson.  I initially declined. It was just past midnight and I had been up all night the night before and had to wake up at 8am…but…what could it hurt??  I mean, this is what Argentines do, right?? (Side note: Ali says “NO”) I couldn’t pass up this spur-of-the-moment English lesson with an authentic Argentino!!  At least the bar was right across the street from Ali’s apartment, so I could always make a quick escape (which I didn’t, despite all indications noted 8 words earlier). 

The taxi driver, who I’ll call Frank, bought a bottle of beer (about 33 ounces) and offered me a cigarette. Go big or go home, eh? His lighter had a massive flame (or maybe I imagined that) and nearly burned my retinas when I bent down to light up.  Ah, so the night began with searing red eyes, beer in hand, and a piss-poor pool break compliments of this blogger. As Frank coughed up chunks of lung, sweated profusely and ignored his bordering-inappropriate-plumber’s crack, every once in a while he exclaimed “you are awesome” (in English). I sat back admiring this red-faced man, admiring myself for agreeing to such a completely spontaneous adventure, and completely agreeing with him.

The night wore on and Frank continued to buy bottle after bottle of beer. He began a Shakespearian-esque monologue about being a member of the working class, his religious beliefs, how he wanted the best for his son, and how he knew deep down he would never visit the USA. I listened with increasing awe. I’m pretty sure I understood about 75% of what he was saying. What an incredible man. What an incredible story. What sorrow and honesty and...WTF???? Frank started talking about how “sensual” I was, how “Madonna-like” (the virgin one…not the “like a virgin” one), how he would like to marry me. He proposed to me on the spot.  He gave me a deep, sweaty hug, rubbing himself against me.  Uh oh. No es bueno, no es bueno at all. (Ali says, “Gross, Sinead. You have no standards.”)

Now I don’t like lying to people, but I felt it imperative at this point. I told him I couldn’t marry him because I had a boyfriend. He said it didn’t matter (of course not, what was I thinking?!). I took the proposal as my cue to leave (and the fact that it was 5AM). I begrudgingly took his number because he still wanted “English lessons” and I walked across the street, silently cursing to myself.

The next day I told Ali and Ivan about my experience. Their response: “Taxi drivers always try to have sex with tourists. Tourists and transvestites.”  Why didn’t I get the memo?? 

At the end of it all, I learned a very valuable lesson: don’t get all boozy with a taxi driver who’s in the middle of his shift.

By the way, this is how taxi drivers see me (this is my relaxed pose):

 And this is how the rest of the world sees me (goofy grin and unkempt hair):

And occasionally like this (when boys won't pass me the football (aka "soccer ball"):