Bus Report #178
Back on the bus.
National Novel Writing Month is over, so I am back, to regale you with MUNI tales.
Let's see, where to start?
I took a lot of buses this week, and even the N Judah. It's been fun, gross, annoying, and rewarding all wrapped up together.
There's nothing like riding the N out to Irving Street and wandering around in an unfamiliar neighborhood. I was making a pilgrimage to Wishbone, where I bought a cute, cornflower blue Beehouse teapot.
Yesterday night my 22 Fillmore was chugging along after a too-long (five LONG minutes!)stop at the Potrero Center. The end was in sight, until....
The driver made everyone get out at McAllister! What! How can you make McAllister the last stop? Madness, I say. Especially because almost all the crime I've seen on MUNI has happened at McAllister and Fillmore. Not to mention several shootings over the past few years (let me be clear, I did not witness any of them or know any of the victims).
Anyway, so we're all waiting at McAllister and Fillmore. NextBus tells us that there is at least 10 minutes until the next 22 Fillmore.
No way was I going to wait! I crossed the street and hopped on the 5 Fulton, then transferred to the 33 Stanyan. Home in 15 minutes. Hooray for me.
This morning a really filthy, obviously drug-addicted woman came and sat next to me. She stank of stale beer and cigarettes. Her grey sweatpants were stained all over, and she was wet. I didn't want her to touch me, so I plastered myself against the window.
She spent the ride spitting into a tissue and rubbing at a non-existent spot on her hand. Spit, rub. Spit, rub. Ugh.
At one point, she nodded off and started to lean on me. I gently nudged her with my elbow. She sat up. Nodded off again. Another nudge.
She sat up, said to me, "If you're worried I'm going to fall on you, don't be, because I won't."
I just glanced at her and said, "Sure."
She nodded off again. Nudge.
I prayed (in my own, non-religious and selfish way) that she would get out at Market. Then at Valencia.
She asked me the time. I pointed to the time on the sign in the front.
Finally at Shotwell (should have guessed) she got off the bus, waving goodbye to me.
Ugh.
National Novel Writing Month is over, so I am back, to regale you with MUNI tales.
Let's see, where to start?
I took a lot of buses this week, and even the N Judah. It's been fun, gross, annoying, and rewarding all wrapped up together.
There's nothing like riding the N out to Irving Street and wandering around in an unfamiliar neighborhood. I was making a pilgrimage to Wishbone, where I bought a cute, cornflower blue Beehouse teapot.
Yesterday night my 22 Fillmore was chugging along after a too-long (five LONG minutes!)stop at the Potrero Center. The end was in sight, until....
The driver made everyone get out at McAllister! What! How can you make McAllister the last stop? Madness, I say. Especially because almost all the crime I've seen on MUNI has happened at McAllister and Fillmore. Not to mention several shootings over the past few years (let me be clear, I did not witness any of them or know any of the victims).
Anyway, so we're all waiting at McAllister and Fillmore. NextBus tells us that there is at least 10 minutes until the next 22 Fillmore.
No way was I going to wait! I crossed the street and hopped on the 5 Fulton, then transferred to the 33 Stanyan. Home in 15 minutes. Hooray for me.
This morning a really filthy, obviously drug-addicted woman came and sat next to me. She stank of stale beer and cigarettes. Her grey sweatpants were stained all over, and she was wet. I didn't want her to touch me, so I plastered myself against the window.
She spent the ride spitting into a tissue and rubbing at a non-existent spot on her hand. Spit, rub. Spit, rub. Ugh.
At one point, she nodded off and started to lean on me. I gently nudged her with my elbow. She sat up. Nodded off again. Another nudge.
She sat up, said to me, "If you're worried I'm going to fall on you, don't be, because I won't."
I just glanced at her and said, "Sure."
She nodded off again. Nudge.
I prayed (in my own, non-religious and selfish way) that she would get out at Market. Then at Valencia.
She asked me the time. I pointed to the time on the sign in the front.
Finally at Shotwell (should have guessed) she got off the bus, waving goodbye to me.
Ugh.
posted by Rachel at 8:24 AM
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