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One of the last times I was in a cab, which must have been nearly a year ago, I was on my way to the airport literally digging my nails into the backseat upholstery. I’ve never really been much of a fan flying, but in this case, I couldn’t get this normally comforting refrain out of my head: You’re much more likely to die in a car on the way to the airport than you are in some sort of freak plane crash. Watching my driver speed up and cut off drivers in passing lanes, I was sure I was going to test that theory. In hindsight, I probably should have just asked the driver to slow down, but I was paralyzed by a combination of crippling social awkwardness and sheer fear. Maybe if I hold on really tight, I thought, I could somehow save myself if and when the vehicle becomes a mess of broken tinker toys off the side of Highway 401.

To my surprise and delight, we made it to the airport in one piece, and I watched the driver speed off to collect his next fare. In hindsight, again, I should have gotten his name or cab number since I had no idea who he was, where he was going and if I would ever have the misfortune of riding in his car again. But trying to track down a cab driver was not exactly on my list of things to do right before a vacation, especially since I would have no guarantee that my complaint would actually register with the company. So I instead headed inside to check my luggage, silently vowing never to take a cab again.