Coming Home; or, that time I went out of town for way too long.

Hello loyal readers.

Thank you for baring with me through my brief hiatus.  I've been travelling the world, visiting such exotic places as Newport, Rhode Island and Davie, Florida, and though the adventures have been plentiful, the cab rides have been few and far between.

But, oh, how I've missed those shiny yellow cars.  I found myself feeling envious of a sad, stranded, drunk lady on the beaches of Fort Lauderdale after I gave her some money for a cab home (because I believe in cab karma).  Despite her intoxication and visible roots, this woman seemed to have it all in that moment: a home to go home to, and (thanks to me) the power to pay someone to take her there.  I was just a mere traveller, whose real home was on the other end of the country, and whose temporary home was a no-tell-motel with a questionable odor and poor lighting.  I was at the mercy of my hosts, relying on them to schlep me from Point A to Point B.  I was extremely grateful for the vehicular hospitality, but I hate being a burdon, and I was missing the freedom that can only be found in a New York City cab.

There aren't many things in life that I can commit to, as my career path, love life, and jean size can attest to.  I can only attribute this poor quality to a fear of failure.  I can call myself a comedienne, but what will I do if I never make anyone laugh?  I can give my heart to a man, but what will I do if he rejects it?  I can start working out, but what will I do when I remember that I hate working out?

For the record, the answer to all of these questions is eat french fries.


I can commit to a taxi, though, because a taxi has never let me down.  I don't have to look up possible service changes before hailing a cab.  I will never have to take a shuttle to a different corner because my corner is being repaired.  A cabbie has never told me that my hailing technique is weak and could use some more training, or that he'd like to pick me up some day, just maybe not right now.  A cab won't bother me if I want to walk, but will be there should I change my mind.  A cab has never complained about dropping me off at the airport, even when I'm going to Newark.

As long as I have some money and an address, a cab has always taken me as I am.  And that's something I can commit to.

After weeks of jet setting, bag hauling, and sleeping rearrangements, it was with great relief that I exited the airport, climbed in to a cab, and gave him my home address.  Sure, it had been a long time since we had seen each other, but it felt like nothing had changed for that yellow taxi and me.  If I had gained a few pounds or lost some of NYC edge, the cab never let on.  It was just happy to take me home.

They say home is where the heart is.  My heart just happens to lie in the backseat of a taxi.