A Boston Globe reporter spent eight nights as a licensed cabbie in Boston to get a "driver's side view of Boston's taxi industry," which mostly consists of immigrants struggling to get by.
When the cab driver dropped me off at my new home, he warned me about the neighborhood. "Oh, no, love, you don’t want to live here," he said. "It’s not safe."
Tyler Street, Boston, Mass. $450 This place always smelled like chicken fingers, and we had an ex-con with gangrene in his ankle who slept on our couch. My entire stay—from the day my terrified mom dropped off my record collection to the unceremonious and not-entirely-explained eviction notice—was a depraved vacation between novelty shop jobs during that whole post-9/11-malaise phase we all went through.