I used to loathe the idea of waiting almost two hours or more for a fare, but over the past few weeks, the SFO holding lots have become a sanctuary from the madness.
In San Francisco, it’s always open season on taxicabs.
There was something in the air last week, and not just the glow of fireworks pulsating through the dense fog
‘Does that make me jaded?’ asks the guy in the back of my taxi
I’m rolling steady. One ride after another.
The Central Freeway is like a noose.
I’ve never been much of an airport player. I prefer to work The City.
While waiting for the light to change at Fourth and Mission with a fare going to Davies Symphony Hall, a horde of Democrats crosses the street in front of my cab.
Venturing into Fisherman’s Wharf while the sun’s still out is a fool’s errand.
Despite not wanting to set a bad example for my two-year-old by staring at a phone all day on the couch.
Given the opportunity for a do over, I never would have worked last Wednesday.
There for a while I seriously questioned my decision to leave National to drive for Yellow.
My first day back in a cab after a month long sabbatical transpired with more than a few bumps in the road.
I never really wanted to drive a car.
One of the major “innovations” Uber and Lyft have unleashed upon the world is a low barrier of entry in recruiting drivers.
I’ll never forget my first wasted girl.
When you live with a rambunctious two-year old in a cramped one-bedroom apartment, ignoring background noise is the only way to not go insane.
Regulars come and regulars go.
You can learn a lot about the current state of transportation in the ad hoc cabstand outside Public Works at 3 a.m.
In the small hours, Howard Street can be the loneliest stretch of…
