i have no idea where i am. i'm sortof in frankfurt, but more like a distant suburb. upon arriving my taxi driver pointed to a distant set of buildings and explained "frankfurt!" then pointed to a cluster of houses on a hill and muttered german jibberish. they say everyone here speaks english, but so far, people have only yelled weird angry sounding words at me. i think my taxi driver may be turkish or persian or something. anyway, he was the only taxi outside the airport, a nice benz, and i got in and pointed to the printed email i had. i sit back and think to myself, i wonder if we'll be riding on the autobahn? and next thing i know the driver is programming his GPS and the spedometer is racing to 180km/h faster than marty mcfly tries to get to 88 in a delorean. i can barely feel it, we are in the left lane, whizzing by everything and everyone. we come up on a VW golf gti like this is a video game, but instead of ramming him or shooting torpedos, he gently moves out of our way.
taximan yaps away pointing at things, he could be plotting to kill me for all i know. i think it would probably be better for him to drive slower - less gas, more time = higher fare.we go through a few small towns, and this is when i'm sure he's turkish because he's ripping me off with a big detour, but i'm getting a nice tour of these towns and so it evens out, little clusters of stucco houses, that despite being a sunday afternoon seem entirely void of people. back on the highway, we're flying by a bunch of BMWs when the gps starts yelling stuff and i realize we may have missed our exit. slam on the breaks, zip over 4 lanes to our right without even looking and here we are idling in the emergency lane. he's leering at his rearview mirror like he's plotting something. the exit is at least 1/2 km back. no way dude, you are not this ballsy. but he is. he slams into reverse and if you want to know what a stream of cars going 150km/hr honking at you while you're going 40 km/hr backward sounds like? well the net 190km of moving horns is like a WWII air raid or something. he pulls a parrallel park maneuver in between some barriers, waits just long enough and guns it. we find what we presume is the hotel. he gives me his number and tells me i should call him if i need a ride, and i'm all oh right, i need a taxi tomorrow (no way in hell i can just hail one in this deadzone), and so i spend 15 minutes trying to communicate this. monday. morgan? sure, i guess. 9:45 am. i'm pointing to my watch, he writes 8 am on a piece of paper. no, and so on. he shouts full german sentences and i have no clue what he is talking about. his name is mr. odzemir. maybe i should send him an sms just to be sure.
anyway, the hotel is entirely empty, has a dazzling view, a teeny tiny twin bed and a retro alarm clock built right into the wood panel walls. i'd walk around but it's pissing rain and...where the heck am i?
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