Taxi Cab Confessions

Whenever I travel anywhere by train, I have to go to Cherven Bryag, which is the town about fifteen minutes away. Well, it's fifteen by way of speeding taxi; it's thirty minutes if you take the bus and go the longer way with more stops. Either way, I enjoy traveling by train, so I'm pretty familiar with the journey. Usually I take a bus there and it only costs two leva. However, if I'm traveling back to Koynare from Cherven Bryag I usually have to take a taxi. This isn't really a big deal because I've done it so often. I even have a taxi driver that I call my own.

To be honest, I don't know his name and I'm pretty positive he doesn't know mine, either. He's either never told me, or he told me during one of our first encounters and I simply don't remember. I do remember, however, the first time I ever rode in this man's taxi. I was coming from the bus station and his taxi was the first one that I saw, so I got in. Now, this man's taxi looks like a toy car. Not only is it incredibly small, but the headlights look like they are stickers, purely for decoration. Everything about the taxi looks fake. I took my chances anyway, asked him to drive me to Koynare and climbed in. He immediately picked up on my non-Bulgarian accent and asked me where I was from. I told him I was from America. Then the usual pattern starts: What part of America? What's it like there? What are you doing here? How long have you been here? Do you like Bulgaria? Where have you been in the country? Then usually they have a family member or a friend who has been to America that they like to tell you about. He also asked me if I knew Rory (my site mate) and told me they had talked a few times. It was perfectly pleasant and he even complimented me on my Bulgarian. I was very impressed when I noticed that he wasn't speeding and he even stopped at the stop sign (here they are treated merely as suggestions). I was very pleased when I arrived at my block in one piece and not feeling like I had just survived a car chase scene.

The next time I found myself in Cherven Bryag and in need to get home, I sought this man and his funny-looking taxi out, because I knew that he would be safe and that he wouldn't rip me off with the prices. Taxi drivers love to do that here, though it's mostly in the big cities like Sofia. He put a huge smile on his face when he saw me walking towards him. He opened the door for me and said "Za Koynare?" (to Koynare?). I said "Da" (yes) and we were off. This time he asked me where I was coming from and more about the volunteers. I think we may have even gotten a little bit into family matters (if I have one and how they feel about me being in Bulgaria). I did notice this time, however, he didn't bother with obeying the speed limits or the stop signs. Clearly that was just a formality to gain my trust. Still I got to my block in one piece.

I may have ridden with him a few more times before I stopped seeking him out. It wasn't anything personal, there would just be sometimes when I didn't want to speak Bulgarian just yet, so I would go with a taxi driver who didn't look like he'd be much of a talker. Then, more recently, I found myself in front of this man's taxi again. I got in and we caught each other up on the things we had missed out on over the past few months. Then he starts asking me if I have a boyfriend and what I think of Bulgarian men. Great. My favorite topic. I tell him that I don't have a boyfriend and that I'm not looking for one, so don't get any ideas. He starts laughing. I laugh too (although I'm still half serious). He tells me that Bulgarian men are bad and he's glad that I don't have one of those. He tells me that American men are better and that I should wait until I get back home to have a boyfriend. Although I'm silently agreeing with him, I ask him what makes Bulgarian men so bad. He holds his hand up and rubs his fingers together (the international sign for money) and he tells me that Bulgarian men have no money. I chuckle and respond with the classic idealistic response "Well, money's not everything." He shoots me a look in the review mirror and says "No. Money is very important. Trust me, I'm much older than you." I laugh and admit defeat. Then I sat in silence for a while and laugh to myself and the fact that I just received relationship advice from a taxi driver in Bulgaria. Who would've thought?

I've ridden with him more since then and every time he's managed to dispense some more of his knowledge on me. I like it, though. I've made another friend. Apparently, he's a fan of mine as well. Other volunteers have ridden with him and he's asked if they know me. When they reply that they do, he tells them that I'm "a sweet little thing." Bridging the gap between Americans and Bulgarians: done. At first, I wasn't so sure, but now I know that I like this man and I'm looking forward to another year of his advice. Just think of how much wiser I'll be when I come back!