Columnist Eleonore af Schaumburg-Lippe will write in her weekly column about the life as an expat in Romania. This week she remembers encounters with taxi drivers in Bucharest.

The first Romanians visitors arriving at Bucharest's A'eirport meet almost always the taxi drivers touting for business. Indeed, the feet have barely touched Romanian soil before the hovering packs of drivers descend on the weary travelers.

There should be a warning sign not to take these taxis, since the prices are so high that they make selling an organ seem like a good idea. Rumors suggest anything from RON 100 to RON 500 for a trip that should only be in the RON 30-50 range.

So find a “normal” taxi instead. But even taking a “normal” taxi can be a voyage into the unexpected.

I always take time to talk with the taxi drivers, usually they begin by asking me where I am from, and I see this as a great opportunity to practice my Romanian, and at the same time hear a lot of stories about life in Romania, I have heard sweet, sad stories, discussed politics, and even tried to cheer up a taxi driver who was suffering with a broken heart.

Once in a while my ride involves some bonus sightseeing, when drivers choose an 'alternative' route. My record is ending up in a taxi for three quarters of an hour, when it should only have taken 10 minutes, but I will never forget the trip, I saw some amazing places that I haven't seen since.

Another time I had an impromptu chocolate party. I was on my way to a birthday party, armed with the obligatory bottle of wine and box of chocolate, but I was rather peckish, so the taxi driver and I tucked into the chocolates and we ate them all with great pleasure!

I still remember the first time I had to get a taxi. After going to the cinema I wanted to take a taxi home. Usually in Denmark there would be a line of taxis waiting, and I would just take one of them. So I went to do the same only to find out that the whole line was “commandande” as they say, I had no idea what that meant but a driver explained that I had to call the number written on the side of the car to order a taxi.

At a bit of a loss, I had to ask for help, at the time I didn't know that I needed to dial 021 first, then the number. After some fruitless calls where I was given more numbers and sent on rather than sent a taxi, I finally asked someone to call and order a taxi for me. It's worth noting the number of a reliable, helpful taxi service, I put the number in my phone and still always order a taxi from the same company. Now the taxi ladies know me, they still laugh at my accent when I try to speak Romanian but now, at least, I can communicate with them.

Going with the same taxi company means that I often meet the same taxi drivers, one of whom I named Don Juan De Bucharest. Our taxi driving Don Juan has since become a legend in my circle of friends.

Here is his story. Once upon a time... I got into a taxi and the driver asked me where I was from, "Denmark," I answered. This was enough to inspire nuestro Don Juan de las Carreteras to talk a lot, especially about all the women in the world he had... well, let me put it diplomatically, “known.” I took a look at the taxi driver, he was dressed in a Hawaiian shirt that was probably very colorful a few decades ago, but had long since faded. His lank long hair was extremely greasy and he had it in a long thin ponytail. This was, to my surprise and horror, sort of 'glued' to his seat. Although somewhat incongruous with his aspect, he obviously believed that he was some kind of Don Juan De Bucharest, well that's what I secretly nick-named him to myself. I let him talk, but found it difficult to concentrate on what he was saying, because the horrifying ponytail kept distracting me.

One day soon after, when traveling with a friend, I had the chance to introduce Don Juan, whose fame had preceded him. Don Juan turned around, looked at me, and with a big smile said. “Ohh you remember me,” smiling as though to say "the ladies, they never forget Don Juan de Bucharest." I answered “Yes, though perhaps not for the reasons that you think”.

Another day I went by taxi and a younger man was driving the car, he seemed upset, I don’t know why but we ended up talking about relationships, and he told me that he was heartbroken. He liked a girl, but it was so complicated, exactly why, I can’t remember, after a while he began to talk about other girls in his life, and I asked him if his father also drove taxi for the same company, 'Yes', he replied. We worked out that he was indeed the son of the legendary Don Juan, so I dubbed him 'Son of Don Juan de Bucharest,' which we found very amusing.

Next time in a taxi, the driver turned around and said: "Do you remember me, I am mini Don Juan?" We continued the conversation from the previous journey, and I was pleased to find out that Don Juan Junior's love life had taken a good turn: he was now living with the Miss Complicated he had told me about and was very happy.

So a taxi trip can end up an adventure, sometimes a quiet relaxing trip, sometimes something unexpected that we can loo back on with a smile. Drum Bun!

 By Eleonore af Schaumburg-Lippe, eleonore@romania-insider.com