The taxi driver on the way to the airport drove fast and recklessly, simultaneously cutting around cars, punching information into his onboard taxi-computer, and talking non-stop in an indecipherable (to me) language. Whoever he was talking to must have been an incredible and patient listener, by the way, as I couldn’t detect a breath, pause, or tonal-upswing-as-if-responding-to-answer-or-comment, for nearly a full ten minutes.

At any rate, his Andretti-driving elicited a few honks from fellow road travelers, as well as causing me to double check the tension on my seat-belt more than once. Which leads me to my main point: he wasn’t wearing one.

Based largely on my experience when he arrived, I’m fairly sure this wasn’t designed to leave him unencumbered enough to leap from the car heroically when encountering a passenger; so, I think his only reasoning could be that he didn’t feel like it.

I’m not sure how I feel about this.

On the one hand I was overwhelmingly relieved, assuming that the driver was so experienced and so confident in his own abilities in piloting rocketing steel, that a seat-belt was a laughingly unnecessary safety device in the hands of such skilled surgeon-like hands; reckless driving or not. In fact, the very notion that his mastery of automobiles would be mistaken as recklessness just serves to demonstrate how juvenile my own skills must be in comparison.

Or, he had a death-wish. You know, either one, really.

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