Our taxi driver drives like the ocean, in surges and waves that rock us to and fro in the back seat. Katie and I exchange glances as he answers his phone (on speaker, so I guess it's technically okay?) and begins rattling off rapid phrases punctuated by a hoarse, barking laugh.
Apparently green lights mean something else where he is originally from, because he slows down at each one, hesitating before gunning it through the intersection, until we're both feeling nauseated.
"I don't think he's good enough to be on the phone and driving," Katie says, as he gooses the gas, slows, and the engine flutters, then roars.