For a little back story, you can look on a map if you really want to: I lived on Joseph Street in New Orleans, about 3 houses away from Tchoupitoulas Street. Tchoupitoulas parallels Magazine Street, which is a major tourist attraction in New Orleans. It's a straight shot down Tchoupitoulas to get to my old apartment from the French Quarter, where I worked - no need to take side streets or anything which is not usually the case in New Orleans, which is riddled with one-way streets.
I got in the cab and asked the driver to take me to the corner of Joseph and Tchoupitoulas. He got to St. Joseph, which is several miles away from Joseph, and took a right and stopped. Honest mistake, so I repeated that I live on Joseph Street, not St. Joseph. He argued with me for a minute that there is no Joseph, only St. Joseph, which was funny, since I'd lived on Joseph for several months. I was baffled. "I will get out of this cab and not pay or you will continue down Tchoupitoulas until we get to my street." He could've easily and not illegally turned around and gotten back on to Tchoupitoulas, but he kept going straight on St. Joseph till he got to Magazine and turned left. I knew he was doing this to pad his meter and piss me off, so I made him let me out at Magazine and Joseph Street and I walked home.
For the next one, I was living in Los Angeles in a neighborhood whose streets had been named by a complete bonehead. I lived on West 138th Street which is exactly one block from West 138th Avenue, which is right next to West 139th Street, which is a block away from West 139th Avenue, and so on... My dad planned on going to a bar to get drunk after my wedding, so I gave him a key to my house and a piece of paper that said (my house number) West 138th STREET, and the neighborhood I lived in. Yes, "street" was very accented.
My dad, plastered as planned, was dropped off at (my house number) West 138th Avenue. He told the driver that it wasn't the right house and the driver argued with him, saying that this is the right address and that West 138th Street doesn't exist. My dad, drunk and stubborn, told the guy off and got out of the car. He told me that he wandered around for about 15 minutes till he finally turned the right way and saw my neighbor's SUPER BRIGHT YELLOW house. When he told me this the next morning I hounded him for the cab company or anything that I could use to identify the driver so I could call and ream him, but my dad had no clue.
tl;dr: Why do drivers argue with you about where you live??