Greek taxi drivers are encyclopedias of unsolicited advice. Are you single? He has a cousin you should marry—lovely girl, cooks like his mother. Married? He’ll tell you how to keep the passion alive (“If she asks if she looks good, the answer is yes—before she finishes the question.”). Divorced? Don’t worry, he predicted it the moment you got in. By the time you reach your destination, you will receive a therapy session, a marriage consultation, and an introduction to someone’s extended family.
A true story (well sort of)
One of the first times I have been with my wife in Athens, she was late for a doctor’s appointment and was trying to get a taxi. She was sweating, waving her arm like she is auctioning yourself off. But this is Athens it’s not Manhattan. She got the cue from another passenger and started shouting: “Taxi, Taxi!”.
Taxis pass. Every single one had passengers already inside. Finally, a yellow cab slows down, but there’s someone else in the back. She shouts: “Vas. Sofias!” The driver shrugs: “Nope, we’re going the other way.” And off he goes, leaving her in a cloud of exhaust and despair.
Just as she is about to give up, salvation arrives: a brand-new Skoda taxi pulls up. She dives in like it’s a lifeboat.“Vas. Sofias, please. Fast—I’m late.” The driver nods, flicks his cigarette out the window, and the fun begins. He detected an accent in her voice.
and here we go…
She hasn’t even buckled up before the interrogation starts.“So. America or Europe?”“Uh… America.”“America? Pfft. The dollar is finished. Finished! The Chinese own you. Biden? Don’t get me started. Trump? Better, but crazy. This country? Gone! Corrupt politicians, everyone stealing. You know what I would do if I were Prime Minister? First, fire them all. Second, ban Brussels. Third, make souvlaki free. (You nod. It’s hard to argue with free souvlaki.)”
He takes a sharp turn without signaling, while simultaneously explaining how ancient Greek democracy was superior to anything Brussels could invent. She realizes she has been in the cab for 90 seconds and already received more analysis than a CNN panel.
Once geopolitics is covered, the syllabus shifts to personal matters.“Married?”“Yes. My husband is Greek.”“Ah. I see. And you look like a nice girl. Rule number one: never argue with a Greek mother-in-law. You will lose. Rule number two: when he says, ‘I’m not hungry,’ bring him a plate anyway. Rule number three: if he ever tells you he doesn’t care about football, he’s lying. Where did you two meet?”“On the Internet. On Match.com.”He nearly slams the brakes. “Huh? People meet like that? And it works? Back in my day, you met at the village festival. You danced, you ate souvlaki, you got married. Done! None of this… click, click, click.”
He winks, honks at a pedestrian, and lights another cigarette—without taking his eyes off you.
Traffic slows. A scooter cuts between lanes, nearly taking the side mirror with it. The driver raises his hand like a philosopher addressing a classroom. “See? Life lesson. Small guy survives. Big guy gets stuck. Remember that.” She nods, though she is not sure if he’s talking about traffic or your marriage.
By now, you’ve accepted the rules of this alternate universe. A red light means “pause briefly if you must.” A stop sign means “slow down, look around, and do whatever you want.” The horn is not for emergencies. It is for punctuation. He demonstrates by honking three times at a BMW: “Idiot! This guy voted for PASOK in the ’80s. Still ruining the country.” She is both terrified and impressed.
At some point, the conversation spirals into conspiracy. “The moon landing? Fake. They filmed it in a Hollywood studio”. “COVID? Created in a lab. Vaccines? Eh… just another way for the pharmaceutical companies to get rich.” “Airplanes? Full of chemtrails.”
She blinks. “Chemtrails?”, you mean like “chemicals”?
“Yes, yes, of course. They spray things. To keep us sick, to keep us shopping, to keep us voting. Everyone knows this.” He honks twice at a bus, then leans back like Socrates delivering a final truth.
At this point she realizes the rules of marriage were just the warm-up. She is now entering the graduate seminar on Greek conspiracy theories, where the moon landing was faked, Brussels runs on German bribes, and the taxi meter is always broken “for your benefit.”
Finally, after thirty minutes of near-death, chain-smoking, and existential wisdom, she arrives. She hands him seven euros and her gratitude for the most intense university seminar of her life. As you step out, he leans over and says: “Remember, life is like Athens traffic. Nobody follows the rules, but somehow, we all get where we’re going.”
“Yiasou koukla mou!!” and with that, he speeds away to find his next student. She made it for her doctor appointment, slightly carsick, and pretty sure the moon landing never happened—but she is now richer in philosophy. Because in Greece, a taxi ride isn’t just transport. It’s a TED Talk on wheels, delivered at 80 kilometers per hour, with a side of Marlboro smoke.
Welcome to Greece my New Yorker wife!
