完形填空
It was 7:00 am in Paris,France,and the taxi company had just called a second time to say they couldn't find my house.Once again I spelt out1even a blind person could follow.I glanced2at my watch,and waited.Only two hours remained3my flight left—and it was one and a half hours4to the airport.
Outside,heavy rains were5.My house was so far north in the city that buses6only three times a day.
The telephone rang again."Terribly sorry,"began the man at the taxi company.Then I realized that the taxi company,flooded with calls,could only7in-city runs.I had heard this happens when the8gets bad.I9into the phone that I had a10to catch and I would meet the taxi outside my house.
Standing in the wind-driven rain,I looked11the road.No taxi.A car went by,the driver and passenger staring at the12foreigner in the downpour.
13a white car appeared and14to a stop.A young man threw open the door,waving to me to get in.Shaking with cold and15,I climbed in.
In the most16French,the man said he was called Will,with whom I had spoken three times that morning.He had left his post in the office and17here in his personal car.He18again,but didn't explain why no taxi would pick me up19me straight to the airport,he refused the 2,000 franc I pressed into his hand.
A few hours later,as the storm-delayed plane20,I opened the newspaper.On the second page my eyes caught the headline of a short article: Taxi Strike Begins This Morning in Paris.
