The taxi driver in Boston asked me, "Do you live here?" when I told him the hotel in Burlington that I wanted to go to. If I lived here, why would I be going from the airport direct to a hotel? I bit my tongue and simply said that no, I didn't.
He then pulled out a book and tried to find the hotel, but it wasn't listed. Not his or the book's fault -- I later learned that the hotel was recently bought out by Hyatt and used to have a different name a couple months ago.
"It's near the Burlington Mall," I told him.
"Do you know how to get there?", he asked.
The last time I was in Boston was more than two years ago, and that's when the Big Dig was in its crazy phase. So, no, I didn't remember how to get there, but I did have the address. I pulled out the travel itinerary and started to read out the street address to him.
"Oh, you have the address," he said with a sigh of relief. He then pulled out a pocket GPS and proceeded to enter the address into it as he continued to drive out of the airport.
The car started to swerve quite a bit, and I was getting a bit concerned. Maybe there would be elephants soon, if the New York Times has anything to say about it.
"Do you know how to use this thing?", he asked me when the swerving got a bit too much even for his Bostonian tolerance for haphazard driving.
"I'm sure I can manage," I said, and pecked out the address on his GPS. He then followed its directions slowing down to 10 miles per hour a half-mile before every turn, even on the highway.
Something tells me Boston cabbies don't have to take tests like the London guys. He was, however, pleased as punch to inform me that there would be a foot of snow by tomorrow morning.