Bus Report #845
In an attempt to sleep more and commute less I thought I'd try taking the 33 instead of my usual combo of the 38 to the 22. Don't get me wrong - I still love my 38 and 22 commutes - but I have to say the 33? Well, it's treating me right.
The walk to the bus stop takes me down a quiet, cold, shuttered Clement Street. Only a few people out and about that I can count on one hand- dog walkers, early morning/late night donut eaters and coffee drinkers, old folks reading the newspaper inside Alex Bakery.
The street lights aren't really on yet, nor are the traffic lights, and the fog makes what little light there is look softer, diffuse.
There are never more than four or five people waiting at the stop and when the bus comes it is silent and empty. After picking up a few people in the Richmond we soar through the Haight and Twin Peaks, barrel down into the Castro past a gold and blue sunrise.
It is beautiful.
People I avoided this morning:
Man on Clement and 6th, shouting and crying, clutching a sweater to his chest.
Man on 16th and Bryant, who I can only describe as rangy, greasy shoulder length hair and worn leather jacket, clutching a length of pipe and walking straight towards me until he veered off to check for cigarettes by a still-closed bar.
Man on 17th and Kansas, flinging his arms out, shaking his fists, yelling at cars, twirling.