The Greatest Taxi Ride Ever

This morning I experienced the most hilarious taxi ride of my life. It was mid-morning in the Sodeco neighborhood of Beirut. Mahmoud just took off down the block towards his edit suite and I lingered on the sidewalk to catch a ride towards Hamra, where I planned to spend the day, as is my modus operandi in Beirut, ensconced in my “office,” which is where I’m typing now (a shaded corner of the outdoor terrace of Café Younes, where I drink iced coffees, eat absurdly delicious pastries from La Cigale, and to tend to the day’s work on my laptop – yes, I know, life is so tough – a little blob of cream from my éclair has made it’s way onto my keyboard, woe is me).

The normal sequence of events transpired to get me into a taxi – a decrepit car slows down, a grizzled old man peers through the window, I announce my desired destination with as much confidence as I can muster, grizzled old man scoffs and tosses his head back disdainfully and drives away, another decrepit car slows down, a different grizzled old man peers through the window, I announce my desired destination again, grizzled old man scoffs and tosses his head back disdainfully but with a slight tilt to the right which means “ok you can get in.” Standard procedure so far.

Then the fun began. But before my butt even hit the seat, the guy announces, “I sell fish!”

“Fish?” I ask, thinking my Arabic was failing me.

“Fish.” He switches to English. “All kinds fishes. Also shrimp, lobster, nice fish. I will take you to see fish. You can buy fish from me, good fish.”

I laughed it off, commenting “Taxis and fish are an odd business combination.” He gave me a serious look in the rearview mirror and responded, “ok you don’t have time to buy today.” I muttered non-committally.

He proceeded to take me on a guided tour of his fish selling career. We drove past the posh Beirut souqs: “before the war, we sell fish here. I was child, I sell fish, I make 500 Lebanese pounds every day!” We drove past St. George beach club: “before I was selling to this place, 11,800 pounds every week, lobster, prawns, king prawns, fish!” We drove past the university: “before, this was Swiss embassy. Swiss Ambassador very big friend to me. I sell him fish. Also here was French embassy and I sell them fish: sole and sultan ibrahim and prawns.” He pointed to a pink house on the next corner: “here was living Mr. So-and-So, he is big man, very rich, very big friend to me. I am selling to him for twenty five years, now no more.” A half dozen restaurants we passed along the way all used to buy his catalogue of marine delights. “I know everyone in Beirut,” he sang.

“You also buy fish!” he insisted. I gently explained that, as a tourist, fish are not the most practical purchase. “You stay in hotel?” “No, I stay with a friend.” “An American friend?” “No, a Lebanese friend.” His eyes light up. “A Lebanese friend! She can buy fish! Where your friend is living?” “Mansourieh,” I said, thinking that this little mountain town outside Beirut was probably outside his range of fish-selling history. “I have too many friends in Mansourieh!” he declares and commences to list the people he sells fish to in Mansourieh, a list which includes no small proportion of billionaires and army generals, all very great friends of his.

As sparklingly funny as it was to overlay this Bubba-Gump-style litany of seafood invoices onto a driving tour of Beirut history, there was also something mysterious and sad about it. All of his impressive sales were in the past tense. It was a nostalgic narration of past glory and faded success. It made me wonder how dire was his present financial state if a previous fish-peddling career now seemed so illustrious. His car was decrepit but no more so than most taxis in the city (at least this one had the inner door casing, unlike one we took yesterday which exposed the wires and levers of the manual door locking system like a biological model of a human with the veins exposed). In a more jaded moment, I wondered whether he was pulling a common Beirut taxi trick of chatting sweetly during the whole trip so as to catch the poor tourist off-guard with an outrageous demand of money at the destination. I made a point to remind him that I was paying for a “service” (a cheaper option where the taxi driver can stop to pick up additional passengers on approximately the same route). He loudly exclaimed, “I don’t care for the money! Hassan drives you because you are a gentle woman, nice American woman. I don’t care for the money. Money come and go. Friends stay.” And true to his word, when our fish purchasing tour was over, he tried to push my money away. I had to insist that he take even the meager 2 LL service charge.

He wanted me take his number so that my “gentle woman friends” can buy fish from him. So, out of an obscure sense of duty to this generous wacko, I hereby announce that, if you need to buy some fish (or order a taxi) in Beirut, you should call Hassan on 03 612 137.