I grew up in the neighborhood of Kypseli. During my teenage years, if I wanted to go out and meet friends, I had three choices: the trolley bus (now quietly disappearing, which makes me nostalgic), the ilektrikos from Victoria station to Omonia Square (long before it blended into today’s metro), or a taxi.
Saturday night, dressed up for a “date” and heading to Kolonaki? Of course — taxi. There was no Uber back then. We all smoked, the radios played laika (λαϊκά) aka country music, and the stories I heard from taxi drivers over the years… oh, the stories.
Decades later, it was my New Yorker wife’s turn to be baptized — not in church, but in the back seat of an opinionated Athenian taxi.
Greek taxi drivers are encyclopedias of unsolicited advice. 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 have received therapy, marriage counseling, and an introduction to someone’s extended family.
A true story (well, sort of).
One of my wife’s first trips to Athens involved a doctor’s appointment on Vas. Sofias. She was late, sweating, waving her arm like she was auctioning herself off. But this is Athens — not Manhattan. After watching locals, she joined in: “Taxi! Taxi!”
Every cab that passed already had passengers. Finally one slowed, but someone sat in the back.
“Vas. Sofias!” she shouted.
The driver shrugged. “Other direction.”
And off he went, leaving her in a cloud of exhaust and existential doubt.
Just as surrender approached, salvation arrived: a brand-new Skoda taxi. She dove in like it was a lifeboat.
“Vas. Sofias, please. Fast — I’m late.”
The driver nodded, flicked his cigarette out the window, detected an accent, and the lecture began.
“So. America or Europe?”
“America.”
“America? Pfft. The dollar is finished. The Chinese own you. Biden? Don’t start me. Trump? Better, but crazy. This country? Corrupt politicians, everyone stealing. If I were Prime Minister — first fire them all, second ban Brussels, third make souvlaki free.”
Hard to argue with free souvlaki.
He took a sharp turn without signaling while explaining how ancient Greek democracy outperformed Brussels. She had been inside ninety seconds and already received more analysis than a CNN panel.
Geopolitics completed, the syllabus shifted.
“Married?”
“Yes. My husband is Greek.”
“Ah. Rule one: never argue with a Greek mother-in-law. You will lose. Rule two: when he says ‘I’m not hungry,’ bring food anyway. Rule three: if he claims he doesn’t care about football, he’s lying. Where did you meet?”
“Online. Match.com.”
He nearly braked. “People meet like that? Back in my day — village festival. You dance, eat souvlaki, marry. Done. None of this click click click.”
He winked, honked at a pedestrian, and lit another cigarette without losing eye contact.
Traffic slowed. A scooter sliced between lanes, grazing the mirror. The driver lifted his hand like a professor.
“See? Life lesson. Small guy survives. Big guy gets stuck.”
She nodded, unsure if this referred to traffic or marriage.
By now, she accepted the rules of this universe. A red light meant “optional pause.” A stop sign meant “interpret creatively.” The horn was punctuation. He demonstrated, honking at a BMW.
“Idiot! PASOK voter since the ’80s. Still ruining the country.”
Terror and admiration coexisted.
Eventually, conversation drifted into conspiracy.
“The moon landing? Hollywood.”
“COVID? Lab.”
“Vaccines? Pharmaceutical money.”
“Airplanes? Chemtrails.”
“Chemtrails?”
“Yes, yes. They spray things — keep us sick, shopping, voting.” He honked at a bus and leaned back like Socrates concluding a dialogue.
Marriage advice had been the warm-up. She was now in graduate school.
Thirty minutes later and near-death traffic maneuvers, chain-smoking, and philosophical turbulence behind her, she arrived. Seven euros exchanged hands along with gratitude for the most intense university seminar of her life.
As she stepped out, he leaned over:
“Life is like Athens traffic. Nobody follows the rules, but somehow, we all get where we’re going.”
“Yiasou koukla mou!”
And he sped away to find his next student.
She made her appointment slightly carsick and mildly suspicious of NASA, but undeniably wiser. Because in Greece, a taxi ride isn’t 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.
Have you ever taken a taxi in Greece and exited slightly wiser, mildly confused, and unexpectedly entertained?
Tell me your best taxi moment.
Because I have a feeling my wife’s seminar was not unique.
Siga, siga 💙
Nick in Kalamata
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