Taxi story No. 394
Exiting Istanbul airport is always a period of trepidation for me. Something will happen and it will either cost me a lot of money or it will make me wish I hadn't eaten on the plane.
Today's trepidation was no different, but the results were.
Waiting at the front of the cab rank was a taxi diver wearing a blazer and tie, he bade me Hoşgeldeniz, and took my bag and placed it into his incredibly clean boot. The door was then opened for me to sit in his old, but immaculate car.
The driver understood my directions first time, and when I ran out of Turkish he spoke to me in perfectly good English.
He drove at a reasonable speed, he didn't feel the need to use his horn, or curse, I felt perfectly safe through out the whole journey. So much so, at the end I asked where he lived and it turned out he was 15 minutes from my house. I asked for his name and phone number so I could use him wherever I came to Istanbul, sadly this is last two weeks driving and he retires at the end of month.
That's my story. I am sure his is different - that he met some foreigner that murdered his beloved language and he didn't want to risk ever hearing him do it again so he passed on a potentially long term lucrative contract.