Spain Dad, a baby blog

This is the first post in a series of three about our trip back to the U.S.

I suppose it didn’t help things when I told the taxi driver it was his fault we were going to miss our train. Yes, that comment may have been unnecessary. Although I wasn’t exaggerating. I knew the taxi service in Castellón was bad, but not this bad.

I wished we had learned this lesson on any other day than the one we were leaving town, the one where we were standing on the curb with all nine of our bags and a baby waiting for an unfriendly man to bring us to the train station so we could make it official that we had missed our train.

It also didn’t help that I handed the taxi driver our biggest bag first. He grabbed it with both hands, hoisted it onto the bumper of his car, and nearly tumbled into the trunk with the bag before he got it where he wanted it.

He came out of the trunk with a red face.

He swore, looked at the rest of our bags, and told us this was not normal.

“It’s not actually your fault,” I said–an apology, sort of.

The taxi driver smirked, as if to say, Tell me something I don’t know.

“It’s just that I called for a taxi three times, and you were the first one to come,” I continued. “If we don’t get to the train station in the next ten minutes, we’ll miss our train.”

The taxi driver shook his head.

“I can’t take all these bags,” he said.

“We called for two taxis,” I said.

The taxi driver looked down the street and laughed.

“Can we fit these bags?” I asked, rolling two more suitcases over to the back of the taxi.

“One more,” he said, holding up his hand.

I lifted the bigger bag into the back of the car and the taxi driver closed the trunk. He walked around the far side of the car and got in.

April rubbed my back briefly and looked me in the eyes.

“I’ll be okay,” I said. “I’ll see you at the station.”

April climbed in the back of the taxi with Alleke asleep against her chest in the baby carrier, and the taxi sped away.

Click here for more of the story.