Golden Horn
Two months from now I’ll be having dinner on the Golden Horn. The lower level of the Galata Bridge has a line of restaurants, and it is so pleasant to sit there, watching the ferryboats shuttle to and fro as the light darkens on the hills of Asia over the Bosphorus. I’ll try to have a taxi adventure or two as well.
Chet Baker in Paris
But for now, it’s Chet Baker
“He blows a golden trumpet,” I tell the passengers, and out of all jazz musicians, I think I love him most of all. He also sings, and some of his love songs are classics, full of emotion and wordplay. My kind of music.
And my passengers’. I’ll pick the music depending on the person approaching my cab, and if they are of a certain age, I’ll put the mellow jazz on. St. Germain
I picked up a public servant from a government department in the Parliamentary Triangle last night. She got into the back seat and named another department, this one in Belconnen. Nice long fare, and I slid onto the Tuggeranong Parkway with the meter clicking over happily. She didn’t say a word, just sat back as Chet blew his trumpet for us. I could hear her turning the pages of the L A Burdick catalogue I keep in the back.
I love driving a beautiful cab around Canberra with jazz playing. “And a beautiful woman beside me,” I sometimes say. “What more could any man want?”
The best job I’ve ever had. And it’s true. There are worse ways of earning money, and being chained to a computer, churning out code, is one of them.
We got to the destination and she paid with a government credit card. And a five dollar note for me.
“That was the best taxi ride I’ve ever had,” she said. “Great music, that chocolate catalogue to read, and you didn’t drive like a maniac.”
My smile in return was golden. If I’d been a cat, I would have purred.
The tip will help with the trip. I’ll think of Chet with Turkish delight as I raise a golden glass of Efes Pilsen.
–Skyring