There was barely room for us in a certain Houston taxi van. The driver must be living in her vehicle. Other than the back seat and part of the rear luggage area, every square inch of space was packed with necessities and creature comforts. We take a lot of taxis but had never seen one even remotely like this one.
The front seat, floor, between the seats, and dash were crowded with the driver's personal items.A flat-screen tv is lashed to the back of the seat, its antenna and cable against the window.
A large case of toiletries sat atop a cooler between the front seats. A brown paper bag of groceries was on the front floor in front of the passenger seat. A flat-screen TV was strapped to the back of the front passenger seat, a coiled antenna cable attached and rabbit ears protruding. In the back seat were stashes of dry cereal, chips, and instant noodles. I saw some bowls and utensils, too. Blankets and pillows were wedged under the third seat, along with what looked like a sleeping bag.
Under the van's third seat were stashes of sleeping stuff.
We liked the driver. Still, riding in her “home” felt funny, as if we were invading her private sphere. I know we weren’t really intruding, but taking pictures and posting them probably counts as intrusive. We made an appointment for her to drive us back to the airport the next day. She arrived on time, and we tipped her nicely.
High and Dry on the Streets of Elsewhere
Chapter One, part-e, Travel Advisory —
“The Heaven-to-Hell-Express.” Bus 64, in Rome, travels between the Vatican and and the Termini bus station. It carries a dynamic mix of clergy, tourists, and pickpockets.
A somber crowd was gathered outside the police station. While Bob helped a Japanese tourist file a report inside, I interviewed the congregation of victims.
Mary from Akron was waiting with her daughter while her husband told his sad story upstairs. Her husband’s wallet had been stolen on bus 64. Mary still had her cash and credit cards, so she was rather jolly about the loss. The family was scheduled to go home the next day, anyway.
“We’d been warned about these nuisance kids,” Mary admitted, “but my husband is just too kind. He knew they were close but he wouldn’t shoo them away. Poor Wilma here, though, she never had a chance.”
Wilma from Tampa had just arrived that morning. She and her husband had flown into Rome and taken the airport express train to the city. They’d been hit at the airport train station.
“This was no kid!” Wilma spat out angrily. “It was a man, a regular Italian man.”
“Take it easy, honey,” Mary patted Wilma on the back.
“He lifted my husband’s suitcase onto the train for us, then came back down to get mine. Before I could even thank him he was gone.”
Wilma had fresh tears in her eyes. Mary rubbed and patted her arm.
“In that instant, he got the wallet from my husband’s pocket and the purse from my tote bag. He got all our money, all our credit cards, our airline tickets home, and our passports.” Wilma was crying now. “We have nothing,” she whimpered, “not even the name of our hotel.”
“Sure you do, sweetheart,” Mary soothed her. “It’s going to be all right. I gave her $100,” Mary explained to me. “They had absolutely nothing.”
These two women had only just met, here at the police station half an hour ago. Now they were sisters of misfortune.
I turned to two young men who had been silently slumped against their backpacks, listening.
“They got him on the bus, too.” the blond one said. He sounded like a Swede.
