Bread
Roll Out the Barrells
Frequently, I run late to work. Not outrageously so, not generally in ways that impact my coworkers or interactions with clients. Generally speaking, it's a 10 or 15 minute window of time contingent on the quickness of the train in the station, the ancient elevator in my building at work. Something I can't quite put my finger on that causes me to lose time in the mornings, so that nomatter how early I seem to get up or leave the house, I end up late to the office.
Sometimes, I allow myself to simply arrive late. Other times, I call in the help of my local car service to speed up the local leg of my commute. It takes me roughly 8 minutes to walk from my apartment to the nearest train station, 10 if the weather is bad. When I'm running really late, I'll call up the car service (in speed dial on my phone) before I put on my shoes to leave, and by the time I'm downstairs on the sidewalk said car is usually waiting for me in front of the building. They drive me the 12 blocks/four stations up to the express station, which gets me to Manhattan in 20 minutes, shaving about 20 minutes off my regularly 45 minutes commute.
Not a bad deal.
Here's the thing. For those of us living in New York, we understand clearly the differences between a taxi and a car service. For my non-city pals, here's the breakdown. Basically, taxi = metered yellow cab which can be hailed on the street, with a running fare calculator based on where you go/how long it takes, driven by a city licensed and insured driver. Car Service = foreign guy with a car and an arbitrary formula for deciding how much to charge based on how he sizes you up and how badly you seem to need a ride. Brooklyn is comprised mostly of car services, some of which are formal and have a phone number and a dispatcher, some of which are just guys sliding up to you on the curb and offering a ride. Sketchy? Why yes, but sometimes you just don't care.
My neighborhood car service and I have a love/hate relationship. For awhile, about a year ago, we were happy together, and mutually satisfied. I called them three to four times a week, they were prompt and consistent with the fare. It was a good match. At some point, however, they changed management, and I nearly broke up with them. They stopped being reliable and prompt in coming when I called, and several times attempted to jack my fare from the usual $7 to $13. Needless to say, those were some volatile times in our relationship. Happily, we've move forward and things have settled down again. The dispatch office is right around the corner from my apartment, and they are back to their timely, affordable business.
A tactic frequently used by car service drivers relates to radio play. Many drivers, in a play for a higher tip at the end, adjust the radio as patrons come into the car, choosing stations based on their perceptions of what their riders will most enjoy. I've had drivers come out and ask me directly what I like. Others just give me the once over and make their best guess. This has frequently yielded interesting results. Sometimes I get adult easy listening, which I don't so much mind (think oldies station). Other times I get classical or NPR. Again, not bad, fairly respectable if a bit stuffy. I can live with that.
Apparently, however, my image has undergone a transformation of sorts.
This morning I got into the car only to find that within seconds my driver had flipped stations to arrive at... Polka.
That's right, Polka. Russian polka, accordian player and russian lyrics and all.
Polka.
Polka?
Polka.
Do with that what you will. Julie = Polka.
Polka is the new black. ¶ 1:00 AM 3 comments
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
A fun fact for the moment:Frequently, I run late to work. Not outrageously so, not generally in ways that impact my coworkers or interactions with clients. Generally speaking, it's a 10 or 15 minute window of time contingent on the quickness of the train in the station, the ancient elevator in my building at work. Something I can't quite put my finger on that causes me to lose time in the mornings, so that nomatter how early I seem to get up or leave the house, I end up late to the office.
Sometimes, I allow myself to simply arrive late. Other times, I call in the help of my local car service to speed up the local leg of my commute. It takes me roughly 8 minutes to walk from my apartment to the nearest train station, 10 if the weather is bad. When I'm running really late, I'll call up the car service (in speed dial on my phone) before I put on my shoes to leave, and by the time I'm downstairs on the sidewalk said car is usually waiting for me in front of the building. They drive me the 12 blocks/four stations up to the express station, which gets me to Manhattan in 20 minutes, shaving about 20 minutes off my regularly 45 minutes commute.
Not a bad deal.
Here's the thing. For those of us living in New York, we understand clearly the differences between a taxi and a car service. For my non-city pals, here's the breakdown. Basically, taxi = metered yellow cab which can be hailed on the street, with a running fare calculator based on where you go/how long it takes, driven by a city licensed and insured driver. Car Service = foreign guy with a car and an arbitrary formula for deciding how much to charge based on how he sizes you up and how badly you seem to need a ride. Brooklyn is comprised mostly of car services, some of which are formal and have a phone number and a dispatcher, some of which are just guys sliding up to you on the curb and offering a ride. Sketchy? Why yes, but sometimes you just don't care.
My neighborhood car service and I have a love/hate relationship. For awhile, about a year ago, we were happy together, and mutually satisfied. I called them three to four times a week, they were prompt and consistent with the fare. It was a good match. At some point, however, they changed management, and I nearly broke up with them. They stopped being reliable and prompt in coming when I called, and several times attempted to jack my fare from the usual $7 to $13. Needless to say, those were some volatile times in our relationship. Happily, we've move forward and things have settled down again. The dispatch office is right around the corner from my apartment, and they are back to their timely, affordable business.
A tactic frequently used by car service drivers relates to radio play. Many drivers, in a play for a higher tip at the end, adjust the radio as patrons come into the car, choosing stations based on their perceptions of what their riders will most enjoy. I've had drivers come out and ask me directly what I like. Others just give me the once over and make their best guess. This has frequently yielded interesting results. Sometimes I get adult easy listening, which I don't so much mind (think oldies station). Other times I get classical or NPR. Again, not bad, fairly respectable if a bit stuffy. I can live with that.
Apparently, however, my image has undergone a transformation of sorts.
This morning I got into the car only to find that within seconds my driver had flipped stations to arrive at... Polka.
That's right, Polka. Russian polka, accordian player and russian lyrics and all.
Polka.
Polka?
Polka.
Do with that what you will. Julie = Polka.
Polka is the new black. ¶ 1:00 AM 3 comments
