It was on my second day at work that I took my first taxi in Washington D.C. For all practical purposes, the trip was nothing out of the ordinary--just a quick jaunt over to the Martin Luther King public library to renew a dog-eared book on U.S. presidents.

By metro, the actual trip would have been so short--just two stops and $1.10 away--that I had assumed that's how I would get there.

But when I mentioned this assumption to my boss--that I would walk the block to Union Station and jump on the metro--she returned a look of comical disbelief.

"Out of the question," she told me in a laugh. Besides, she said, the metro doesn't give receipts. Pressing two worn five dollar bills into my hand, she told me to go catch a cab.

"Oh, and don't forget to get a receipt," she added with nonchalance as she returned to her desk.

Walking to the elevator, those two bills nestled safely in my pocket, I realized--come to think of it--I had never really "caught" a taxi on my own.

In suburban central Connecticut, where I'm from, taxicabs are reserved for special occasions like the seasonal grandmotherly trips to the airport to catch the 6 a.m. flight to West Palm. Even in Cambridge, the few cabs I've taken have been those at the head of a long line of other taxis, all waiting patiently for their next fares. Once, my friends and I were forced to telephone for a cab when the T had stopped running for the night.

But otherwise, I was a relative novice at this utterly simple thing of taking a taxi. As the elevator ground to a halt at the lobby, I pondered this revelation with curiosity and nervousness.

Taxis, to me at least, had always seemed to be the epitome of being grown-up. They were things of business people in New York City, of opera-goers and those who couldn't be bothered with the subway. For a college student, they represented the ultimate in frivolous but wonderful luxury, up there with flying first class or getting an hour-long massage--well, almost. Still, what typical undergraduate really has ten bucks to squander on a cab when the exact same trip by metro is one-fifth the cost?

Nevertheless, orders were orders. If they insisted on sending me by taxi, who was I to complain?

As these thoughts buzzed in my head, I found myself at the edge of North Capitol Street, ready to fulfill my mandate. Admittedly, I felt a bit foolish and exposed out, standing on the corner of a busy intersection, the cars whooshing by, the pedestrians pushing past to cross the street. Though I had watched ample television and been to enough cities to see it done; It didn't seem natural to me to flag down a taxi.

Not surprisingly, my first attempt was a relative failure: The arm that I lifted with so much promise would drop quickly back to my side, the victim of what appeared to be an occupied taxi coming near. As the cab whizzed by, I saw that it was indeed empty, my lack of confidence punishable with a fine of a few minutes standing unnecessarily in the smothering D.C. heat.

The next attempt, like the first, was also unsuccessful. This time, the few cabs that passed by were actually full and my outstretched arm proved to be an insufficient lure.

Across the intersection, however, I saw an oasis. Dotting the sea of metallic car roofs that shimmered in the heat at the traffic light were several white taxi signs. Once again, I stretched out my arm, looking toward the throng of cars and hoping, praying even, that one of those cabbies might catch my eye.

The first few cars drove by, but then a taxi stopped in the intersection, its turn signal flashing in my direction. Surely enough, the cab pulled up to the corner where I stood. Jumping in, I was greeted by a rush of cooled air and quickly ensconced in the familiar confines of a backseat. I had made it, thankfully.

Easing the car back into traffic, the distinguished-looking older gentleman at the wheel said indeed he did know how to get the Martin Luther King library, just leave it to him. And so I did.

Since then, the summer has been filled with a mix of taxis--mostly well worn Ford Crown Victorias, the occasional Chrysler Diplomat or Oldsmobile Delta 88 thrown into the mix. Now it all seems decidedly run-of-the-mill to me--the flagging down, giving of directions, exchange of money, offering of tip and getting a receipt.

But when I return home to Connecticut next week, it will be with one more of those real world adult skills, un-learnable at Harvard or any college, checked off the master list.

Scott A. Resnick '01, a Crimson editor, is an economics concentrator in Cabot House. This summer he is working at C-SPAN in Washington, D.C.