Like a sleepy robot, I make my way to the one I am pointed at.
I wonder why it doesnt move to the point where passengers get on and I have to walk to it instead, but soon I will know.
The driver mumbles something in spanish, I say no habla espagniol,
he mumbles some more. There is traffic, he curses, starts driving nervously, speeding and stopping every 10 meters. I'm thinking he's angry, road rage, what would you expect, sometimes I am like that too.
All the yoga in the world and you're still an angry white male.
I hear the familiar beep beep of a phone waiting to be answered, though its through the car speakers, surround sound. Are we calling someone? Is the beep part of a song?
It takes a while to understand whats goin on, nobody seems to be picking up, beep fucking beep. Finally a sleepy female voice comes on, and I get it. He's called somebody over the car-phone system, and as I said that I dont habla espagnol, he doesnt care that I can hear.
He's talking to his wife, something about Chamartin and Airport. I guess they are talking about me? No, he's just relaying where he is, what he is doing. She replies something about casa bla bla rafael bla bla.
Yes I am here, yes you are there, yes. Uh huh. Yes. They agree that they are both there, and have nothing to say, and they somehow keep saying it, maybe just to confirm they are still alive?
She seems as bored as he. Something about seven oclock?
Surround Sound Cellular telecommunication with a 7MB camera, 700 minutes per month only 120 euro and unlimited SMS and landline calls, nothing at all to communicate.
They continue having a boring bored conversation,
and as far as I can understand they are saying nothing at all. Still.
More "I am here, you are there, we are talking on the phone, nothing is going on except boring boredom"
then the kids come on, they also relay their boredoms, something about cubidou? scoobeedo? loukilouk?
more boredom, they keep talking for a while, he sounds tender and blissfull to be saying nothing to his son.
I listen while I photograph the equally boring landscape.
We are somewhere between city and airport, neither rural, neither pretty, neither industrial, neither agricultural.
We pass a tennis club, a factory, suburbia, airportia.
The call is over and now we are focused on the driver who cut in front of us,
suddenly the ugly, bored, unpolite, probably unwashed taxi driver is angry, really angry,
he honks, and then decides to catch up with the supposedly aggresive driver in the expensive SUV.
Suddenly the bored turns to angst, we are going 180km dangerously swerving between cars, screaming
Little faggot in the back seat doesnt say a word
when the angry ugly neantherdal screams Maricón! to the SUV and to all the other cars, to everybody.
Wait I'm not a liitle faggot, I'm a big faggot, but lets just get out of this alive, gay pride can wait.
I see the Richarg Rogers designed, rainbow colored Barajas Terminal 4 from far away
and I hope to make it there in one piece.
He swears some more to every car in the horizon, I almost feel the battered peageut fly off the fucking asphalt,
why the hell didnt I take the airtrain, I didnt even check to see if it exists since the per diem pays for the potentialy lethal taxiride, we are there, he screeches to a halt, does he really expect a tip?
as I open the trunk he grabs my suitcase, but instead of putting it to the ground he points to the handle,
mumbles something that I imagine to be "pick up your own stuff".
I do, and continue my sleepy robot schlepp though security control.
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