psychics in uggboots
I had a flying work trip to NZ a couple of weeks ago.
flew in, arriving in Wellington airport at midnight.
got in a cab, told keith the taxi driver that we were heading for the grand mercure. first name basis, these NZ cabbies. no need for surnames on their ID cards.
said he didn't know of it. so gave him the address. said he still didn't know it. knew the street well, having been a taxi driver in wellington for 20 years.
anyways, so we head to the street, slowly crawl our way down this street in the middle of town, looking for anything vaguely resembling a grand mercure hotel, with no luck.
we're two thirds of the way down this street, when we pull over to check the street directory trying to work out where number 70 might be.
so we're sitting there, and this guy pulls out of the shadows, walks up to the cab, knocks on the window after taking a drawl on his cigarette and says?
WTF, a smoking psychic in uggboots and tracksuit pants? How the hell do you know my name?
Turns out there will be a grand mercure in a few months. At the moment, there is a set of serviced apartments, with a completely different name. Turns out the building is about 5 metres wide, somewhat belying the whole 'grand' mercure thing. Their service desk closes at 11pm, so the manager has taken the booking knowing they will be closed (business is a touch slow what with the whole GFC), and he just stood out on the street having a ciggie in his tracksuit pants and uggboots, waiting for some lost cabbie to pull down the street at 12:30am.
All for a one hour meeting the next day, and then fly back.
Just a little but surreal.
Anyway, this is on the way home, saying bye bye to the coastline.