Seamless
by Susan Weber
Weeks before my Europe trip I hear from my Paris hotel. Do I want to use Wishbox to book my ride from the airport? Wishbox is a guest management system that promises a seamless user experience. I study my map of the city’s sprawling metro and consider a jet-lagged version of me making sense of it. A ride to my hotel? Sure, why not.
When the time comes, my Newark-Paris flight is a traveler’s dream. I don’t feel tired enough to have crossed the Atlantic. I’m leaving customs at Charles de Gaulle airport when I get a text. Hi Susan. Welcome to Paris. It’s Marcotaxi. Let me know when you collect bags.
We introduce ourselves in front of Starbucks. Marco is a curly headed clean shaven man in slim jeans and buttoned shirt. He takes my bag and leads the way to the parking garage. It’s just too seamless. How do I know this whole thing is legit? A woman on her own has to check things out.
“So what’s our destination?” I ask, stopping short of the elevator doors. He smiles, and shows me his phone. It’s all there. My name, my number, my hotel. Very professional, I admit.
“It’s good to make sure,” he says in the elevator, “but how could I text you without your information?” I feel a little foolish, but nothing in his manner suggests I should. When we get to the van, I sit up front.
Easing into afternoon traffic, Marco says his English is very basic. I say the same about my French. We decide we might as well practice. Congestion on the roads gives us ample time to happily mangle each other’s native tongue.
Marco came to France with his parents as a child. He visits Morocco whenever he can. I’m actually mangling his second language; Berber is his first. And by the way, his English isn’t all that basic. After university, he felt confined by his job in engineering. So he started his own business—a risky plan for a man with wife and daughter. His big break came when the Israeli founder of Wishbox took him out for coffee. Wishbox serves cities worldwide; the founder meets face to face with potential partners. They liked each other; it’s working out. Marco’s been hiring more drivers.
He asks me why I’m here. To explore Paris. How long? Three days. Then what? Experience the heat ravaged wonders of Europe. Not even close to what my garbled French comes up with. We laugh. Solo? No, only Paris solo. I don’t know how to say I want to find out if I like solo travel.
I ask him what his dreams are. Build his family a house in Morocco and move back, he says. Acquire some apartments in Paris and lease them out to travelers. Wishbox will book them too. I might want to rent one of his apartments for a longer stay, I tell him, an idea I don’t remember having before this moment. He says his dreams of owning property are way down the road. His phone rattles on the dashboard. “Excuse me.” Marco checks the screen. “It’s one of my drivers.”
While he takes the call, I watch Paris neighborhoods slide by. I can’t quite believe I’m here. What is the magic of this place that draws so many tourists, artists, thinkers to its streets? Marco is speaking with his driver too fast for me to follow. I listen awhile and decide they must be speaking Berber.
Wishbox is a good name for a company that makes it easy for people to travel. It sounds like dreams come true. No wonder I spent the fifty Euros.
“What about you,” Marco says, his call ended. “What do you hope for your future?” That’s partly why I’m here, I say. To find out. I don’t try to tell him my husband was with me the last time I saw Paris. How do I say in French what will never make sense to me in English?
Marco points out the formidable statue of a woman. “It’s Marianne, the symbol of France. She represents democracy and freedom from oppression.” The way he says it makes me crane my neck. I see the sword across her chest, the olive branch she holds up, crisp against the sky.
We drive past a grocery store. Marco says it’s good—I can walk to it from my hotel. As we glide down Rue du Temple I say I’m surprised my French can be understood. He says, in French, it’s been more than a ride through Paris. We’ve had a human connection.
At 26 Rue Des Gravilliers, he takes my bag through glass doors and sets it by reception. If I need anything, he says, I have his number. I know he’s suggesting I can ride with him again. He’s a very good businessman. I’m fond of walking so I won’t need a driver. But language does double duty all the time. His words tell me I’ve got choices. I can affect my user experience. Traveling solo may not be the same as traveling alone.
Photo Susan Weber CC BY-SA 4.0