THE BLACK CAB

By the time I reach the luggage belt, all the suitcases have been unloaded onto the floor. I don’t know why I expected them to still be doing rounds on the conveyer. It doesn’t normally take passengers over three hours to collect their stuff and I think the bags got tired of waiting. I get a trolley and hunt my suitcases down. There are three, and each heavier than the previous one. I deadlift them and put them over one each other, until they are perfectly balanced. I know the cab I had booked has left, and I have to book a second. After trying and failing to do so multiple times, I sigh, exasperated and tired. For once, I’d like things to go my way.

I wheel my things out of the airport, towards a row of black cabs parked by the curb. I wonder if they can be hired on spot, and how much they would cost. I have heard and read about the famous London black cabs, but they never really mention the technical aspects of travelling in one. I approach a gentleman who I presume to be the driver, and ask, ‘I want to go to the Dolphin Hotel in Paddington. Could you take me?’ He nods and opens the sliding door of the cab he was standing next to. I try to ask how much it’ll cost but give up, because even if  I know the price, I am not in a position to bargain. He loads all my suitcases and bags into the car, mumbling about how many things I have. I give him a sheepish smile and tell him I am a student. He nods, and I gather he is used to ferrying lost students from the airport.

He asks me to sit back and relax, ‘It’ll take just over an hour to reach, so try to get some rest and enjoy the view.’ After the chaos and discomfort I experienced during the past couple of hours, I feel like I have earned this. I lean against the leather seats, looking outside the window as he drives down the highway. At first, I see warehouses and factories, spread out on large pieces of land. I recognize a few big stores as they come into view – Tesco, Ikea and Sainsbury. I probably should have done more research into UK's shopping centers, but I was busy planning out how I will decorate my room. My priorities are clearly skewed. As the big, albeit ugly, buildings melt away from sight, suburban villas emerge, with their tilted orange roofs, backyards and gated communities. I click a few pictures, to send to my family. We have read so many books set in the English countryside, that watching it upfront feels unreal.

The view outside starts to bore me, and I direct my attention towards a meter-looking device visible through the driver-passenger partition. I try reading what is displayed on it and do a double take. Forty? Forty what? Pence? Pounds? No, it cannot be. I must have not seen the decimal between the four and zero. Huh? There is no decimal between four and zero. I check the time and calculate in my head. No. It will not cost that much. The English are many things, but they are not thieves. Well, they are but surely they have fixed their ways. I attempt to distract myself by going through the messages I had received when I was in the air and reply to them while stopping myself from freaking out. Yes, it is sad that your shoes are ruined, but at least they do not cost more than the rent of a two-bedroom house in India.

Thankfully, the car has started to pull into what I think is Central London, giving me far too much to look at and divert my attention towards. The sight before me fits the description of an overcrowded city on a Thursday morning. Skyscrapers loom above the streets, casting shadows over the ground. Pedestrians walk past each other, trying to get to their place of work on time. They maneuver their way on the sidewalk, with a coffee in hand, amongst other office workers and ready-to-hire bikes parked. I thought people always drove to work, is fuel that expensive in the UK? Somewhere, a child screams in what I think is either happiness or frustration – you can never tell with kids. Telephone boxes or booths are scattered about on the roadside and I wonder if one of them is the entrance to the Ministry of Magic. Red buses – which I get very excited on seeing - halt at intersections, waiting for the signal to turn green. They all have different numbers written across the headboard, and I wonder who decides which bus gets which number and how they do it. The faint sound of the metro – the tube, apologies – reverberates through the ground, as trains arrive at the platform, waiting for a few  minutes before setting off to the next station. The doors will open on the left. Please mind the gap between the platform and the train, I echo, wondering if that is what they say here too. 

The cab turns into a quieter street, lined with Victorian style buildings that surround a park. On closer inspection, they appear to be old-fashioned houses, as seen in movies set in the 1900s. I wonder why we are in a residential space when our destination is a hotel, which is generally situated in a commercial area. The driver stops in front of one such building and tells me we have arrived.

I look at him, confused and then look out at the name plate hung on the front door - the words ‘Dolphin Hotel’ hastily carved on it. This is the hotel? I am a little flustered because I was expecting something better. Before I can say anything, the driver unloads my things and looks at me expectantly. He wants money. Well, obviously. ‘How much?’ I squeak out and he points to the meter. My head goes blank when I see 80 flash across the screen, with a £ next to it. Why didn’t I notice the sign before? ‘Uh, eighty pounds?’ I ask to confirm, hoping he says, ‘Nah, that’ll be 80 pence.’ He only nods. Wondering if this is karma for what I did to the boy I met at the airport, I whip out a £100 pound note and thank him for the change. 

As he drives away, leaving me alone on a random street in Paddington with all my luggage, I ask myself if things could get worse. Spoiler alert -- they do.