Trixi Drivers (Figuras # 5)

Published in BCNWEEK
Issue # 11
July 28 - August 3, 2006

You’ve seen them in la Plaza de la Catedral,or maybe down by Colon. They’ve almost run you over — though at a slow clip — while you were walking down Sant Pere Mes Alt. They are the taxistas reales. They don’t spend the day sitting on their asses, absorbing air-conditioned air. You callthat a job? These guys pedal for a living, that is when they aren’t lounging in the shade, shootin’ the shit, and sippin’on a Moritz, as I happened to find them last Tuesday afternoon. ‘They’ are trixi drivers.
The name trixi is a combination of tricycle and taxi, and these finely tuned, finely tanned drivers will usher you around in their two-seater, motorassisted trixi for a price. “Can you take me to the airport?” Impossible. That’s a real disappointment. It turns out that these trixistas can’t bike down highways. Why? Top speed not fast. They can’t take you to Park Guell either. “Getting there is like this,” he says as he extends his forearm to show a steep slope.
“So what’s your name?” “Diesel.” It’s not everyday you get to interview a guy named Diesel. He grabs his walkie-talkie off his belt and plays with the dials a bit. “Within the company, everyone calls me that.” His real name’s Dani. That’s cool, Diesel. I dig it. There are 10 trixis in Barcelona, and ten guys. I met Diesel, Manolito, and Jose.
They all wear the Trixi uniform, which is a cutre black-and-white, grafitti-esque and therefore Desigualesque t-shirt and grey shorts. Diesel, in character, has cut off his sleeves to reveal that nice tan. Sandals on the feet. Walkie-talkies at the hip. They wait for tourists to approach, and on this particular day, sip some cans of Moritz. Jose, with the dreadlocks, eats a bocadillo de tortilla de spinach.
Some girls stroll up, then a mother and daughter and a lone guy wanting to ask a question. The trixistas jump into action. “To Sagrada Familia? That’s 15.” Whatever money they make during the day is theirs to keep. On a good day they make around 60 or 70 euros. But it hasn’t seemed to make them too formal on the job. Jose takes another bite out of his bocadillo and continues explaining why a trip to La Sagrada Familia will cost a little more.
One by one, they start to say goodbye. The first takes off with the pair of girls as Manolito pulls up, ending a tour. It’s important question time now. “So,what’s the best part of the job?” “The freedom. It’s an eight hour day, but you can spend parts of it with friends, hanging out, talking, being outside. And you can make a lot of money if you want to work hard.” Sounds like the definition of a good Barcelona work day for this guiri.
And do you fight over who takes the pretty girls? Without a moment’s hesitation they respond,“yes, always.” Jose cracks another Moritz and puts it behind the seat of his trixi.“With the chicas, Manolito is peligro numero uno.”