Danny Trejo – taxi driver

Walking on the seventies patterned carpet at Orlando Airport, I made my way towards where my suitcase was flown hours earlier. It was kept behind a curtained rail along with a number of other suitcases. After flashing my passport, I was reunited with my luggage of shirts, shorts and Irn-Bru and proceeded to walk towards the information desk, turning my phone in the process.

“Good afternoon, sir, and how can I help you?” the young lady behind the desk asked me, her hair blowing to the side as a result of the electric fan. After discussing my travel options, I said that I’d probably take a taxi and sack the bus options. I grabbed one of the sickly orange coloured maps and shuffled out of the door.

I’d like to say that I whistled for a cab and it had dice in the mirror, but I didn’t. I queued in the Floridian humidity. Watching families jump into buses and the service staff in their shorts and polo shirts while I stood at the side in my cords and a striped top.