My cab driver, my protector.

Tough day today.  First the line at Albtelecom wouldn’t end while the system was down. Then, as I got ready to head to Durres center, I couldn’t find any of my trusted taxi drivers anywhere.  After which I decided to go with someone new.

The plan was to sit at Eden, taking advantage of its dark and cozy atmosphere to finish some work.  I arrived, took the elevator up, only to be greeted by a mess of construction workers redoing the entire place, dust and paint everywhere.  No sign or warning of this outside the door or by the elevator. Nothing.
Then I walked around, heading south, hoping to find an equally cozy place but all I found were guy- cafes (hang-out cafes full of only young unemployed men.)  So I decided to head back to Plazh.  I walked to the parked cabs by the post office and was glad to have found my favorite cabbie, Gimi.

Not two seconds in and he inquired if “the asshole over there got your number,” referring to another cab driver who on two occasions pressured me to give him my phone number and ended up giving me his daughter’s  number.  Gimi was angry.  He called him all sorts of names while apologizing for using such language in my presence, continuously expressing that he’s protective of me as he would be of his deceased daughter.  I expressed how touching that was and he demanded to know why I would bother with him. I said I haven’t given him my number but he insisted I talk to his daughter so that I may have a friend here.  “Jerk!” shouted Gimi.  “I told him, I told him, no way do you have that girl’s phone number. He’s a bastard. I am telling you as a father would his daughter, whenever you need a cab, you must call me, wherever you are, even at 2, 3 am!”

I could see Gimi’s anger and care.  I thanked him for being concerned and, while pressing his hand assured him that I would never ride with that guy again.  He expressed how much he respects me over and over and I thanked him for  his kind words.

Gimi is what is termed here an “old Durrsak”, meaning native of the city.  He has never recovered from the loss of his daughter in an accident over a decade ago.  He suffered a mental breakdown, from what he has told me, following the incident and has been diagnosed with all sorts of problems due to his alcohol consumption to numb the pain.  He is frail, gray-haired, wrinkled, weary-eyed, tired, broken but with a great, big heart.  He hates injustice and can spot a questionable person right away. On many a drives home he has relayed so many anecdotes, both funny and touching leaving me wondering how he can maintain his humor through it all.

They say if you survive in NYC, you can survive anywhere; I don’t believe that anymore.  I firmly believe that if you can survive in the post-communist societies of Eastern Europe then you can survive anywhere! It may help explain why so many Eastern immigrants to the US have thrived there.