The first thing that strikes a visitor to Paris is a taxi.

He had a charm about him sometimes, a warmth that was irresistible, like sunshine. He planted Saffy triumphantly on the pavement, opened the taxi door, slung in his bag, gave a huge film-star wave, called,...

I’m a dyslexic dancer. Instead of leading the women, I follow. Quick, cab driver, follow that woman!

I had to quit my taxi cab driving job because I had no way to get to work. The problem was I kept calling myself to come pick me up.

No thanks. I think I’ll catch a cab.” Well, you did catch a cab, and then you caught syphilis.

Most people around here prefer undead drivers, so I never get a chance to make any money on steady contracts.

It is one of the benchmarks of a culture I always think – the page at which it operates. A good way to measure it is to order a taxi and see how irate local...