A Taxi Ride
Late at night, as we walked out of the Italian Restaurant “La Mafia” close to the port of Malaga, we were debating whether we take the train or the bus back to Benalmadena. In the midst of weighing the options, I suggested that we take a taxi. It would cost around 40€ and since it was four of us, it would be quite affordable.
As I was suggesting this, a taxi appeared at the end of the avenue, we waved at it, it stopped and the 4 of us hopped in. I let my sister and wife go in first and I sat by the window on the right side, while my nephew took the front seat next to the driver.
It was a hot evening, I asked the driver for some air conditioning, he didn’t answer. Either he didn’t have one or he wanted to save on fuel. Annoyed, I started to curse my luck for choosing that taxi among the plethora of taxis in Malaga. The heat was unbearable, so I had no choice but to roll down the window as the driver engaged into the highway. A strong wind slapped my face. I closed my eyes, bent my head over the open window and I put my arm outside, my palm open, facing the strong wind and pointing towards the sky. Like a touch of magic, in a split of a second I travelled back in time, back to these tender moments when I was sitting in the back of the big American car with my three sisters next to me. A touch of magic brought me back to my 7 years old, driving back from the beach (The Four Seasons) after a beautiful Sunday with my father and mother. In the same position, on the right back window, with a tissue in my hand flying in the wind, on the highway along the cost, the smell of the sea invading my head, the oily air caressing my hair and the noise of the wind isolating me from all my surrounding, I was the happiest kid. With this feeling of utter happiness for being together with my family, the feeling of security in the company of my invincible father driving his white Chevrolet Impala with black leather top back home, with the shredded tissue held strongly in my hand, my head and my arm would remain outside until, half an hour later, the car slowed down, the noise faded away and the turning signal started clicking indicating that we would be soon turning left to engage on the mountain road that leads to our village.
On the highway from Malaga to Benalmadena in Andalusia, the same feeling engulfed my soul once again, 40 years later. I thought back about this air condition and I felt foolish cursing my luck for having chosen the wrong taxi that didn’t have one. Had I known what feeling of sweet nostalgia and tender memories my bad luck would bring me, I would have thanked it, many times over, for being next to me on that magical evening. Without it, I would have missed 20 minutes of magic where my strong father, my teenage sisters and my beautiful mother rode with me from Malaga to Benalmadena…