Bus Report #695
Some mornings.
I know I've said it before, but it bears repeating - whenever I start falling out of love with this city, San Francisco wraps me in its comforting fog, shows me its friendly face, then slaps me with a crisp and bracing early morning sunrise. In a good way.
I waited for the 38 at my usual stop, with the now-chatty woman who lives in the large apartment building down the block. She was dressed for summer weather even though it was still in the 50s when we met at the bus stop.
She had a long shimmery blue skirt and white sandals - optimistic and wide awake at 6:30 am.
"Are you dressed for the weather?" she asked me, laughing, because we have this conversation almost every morning.
"I am, though you can't tell," I said - my T-shirt was covered up by my sweater and my jacket.
"Today's going to be great," she said.
Then, the Sunset Scavenger truck stopped to pick up the trash. The driver, Derrick, a man I've seen most mornings for the past few years, stopped to tell me he wouldn't be working for the next week, because he'd be in Hawaii.
"Awesome," I said. "Take pictures. Have a great time."
The bus pulled up - our favorite 38 driver opened the door and smiled. "Good morning," he said.
Down on Fillmore I waited for the 22 with one of the regulars - the nicest of the construction workers. He kept walking out into the street and looking for the bus, then coming back to give me updates that consisted of shoulder shrugs and awkward nods of the head.
Our bus came, the usual early morning driver, her brown-to-blonde hair touched up and expertly set.
We cruised down Fillmore until she needed to turn on McAllister for the detour.
It was sunny and cool out, and I kept catching glimpses of things I never noticed before.
An overly deco-ed Victorian on McAllister.
The gorgeous grillwork on the front of the abandoned theater next to the Independent.
The rainbow lights above Twin Peaks on Castro at Market.
A pack of tennis players doing stretches before playing, in Dolores Park.
The fried eggs mural off of Mission.
Another mural, a block away, a large black and white painting of a man hugging his knees.
The bus turned back onto 16th and a dozen people got on - and I noticed that SFMTA had, sometime during the last day, plastered the corner with bright orange signs that marked the temporary stop for the 22.
A man got on and sat next to me. He took a pencil from his shirt pocket and spent the rest of the ride working on a Sudoku puzzle.
And I don't know - some combination of everything that morning, and the music I was listening to*, and the light, I couldn't help but smile. When I got out at my stop, I thought about dancing my way to the coffee shop, but that would have been too much.
*(The new La Vida Boheme album, Nuestra.)
I know I've said it before, but it bears repeating - whenever I start falling out of love with this city, San Francisco wraps me in its comforting fog, shows me its friendly face, then slaps me with a crisp and bracing early morning sunrise. In a good way.
I waited for the 38 at my usual stop, with the now-chatty woman who lives in the large apartment building down the block. She was dressed for summer weather even though it was still in the 50s when we met at the bus stop.
She had a long shimmery blue skirt and white sandals - optimistic and wide awake at 6:30 am.
"Are you dressed for the weather?" she asked me, laughing, because we have this conversation almost every morning.
"I am, though you can't tell," I said - my T-shirt was covered up by my sweater and my jacket.
"Today's going to be great," she said.
Then, the Sunset Scavenger truck stopped to pick up the trash. The driver, Derrick, a man I've seen most mornings for the past few years, stopped to tell me he wouldn't be working for the next week, because he'd be in Hawaii.
"Awesome," I said. "Take pictures. Have a great time."
The bus pulled up - our favorite 38 driver opened the door and smiled. "Good morning," he said.
Down on Fillmore I waited for the 22 with one of the regulars - the nicest of the construction workers. He kept walking out into the street and looking for the bus, then coming back to give me updates that consisted of shoulder shrugs and awkward nods of the head.
Our bus came, the usual early morning driver, her brown-to-blonde hair touched up and expertly set.
We cruised down Fillmore until she needed to turn on McAllister for the detour.
It was sunny and cool out, and I kept catching glimpses of things I never noticed before.
An overly deco-ed Victorian on McAllister.
The gorgeous grillwork on the front of the abandoned theater next to the Independent.
The rainbow lights above Twin Peaks on Castro at Market.
A pack of tennis players doing stretches before playing, in Dolores Park.
The fried eggs mural off of Mission.
Another mural, a block away, a large black and white painting of a man hugging his knees.
The bus turned back onto 16th and a dozen people got on - and I noticed that SFMTA had, sometime during the last day, plastered the corner with bright orange signs that marked the temporary stop for the 22.
A man got on and sat next to me. He took a pencil from his shirt pocket and spent the rest of the ride working on a Sudoku puzzle.
And I don't know - some combination of everything that morning, and the music I was listening to*, and the light, I couldn't help but smile. When I got out at my stop, I thought about dancing my way to the coffee shop, but that would have been too much.
*(The new La Vida Boheme album, Nuestra.)
posted by Rachel at 12:53 PM
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