Wednesday, June 29, 2016

Bus Report #927

Another wonderfully foggy morning.
I could smell the dampness, see the fog wrap itself around the buildings and lampposts as I walked down the street to meet the bus.

The pigeon family who has taken up residence above one of our many "closed for kitchen remodel" restaurants was out on the sidewalk, the parents watching the chicks poke and peck at the cement.

Down the block, three crows fought over strips of shredded paper.

The homeless woman I constantly worry about was already awake, walking back and forth near her luggage with a quilt wrapped around her shoulders. If I thought she would accept it, I'd bring her hot tea and an egg sandwich to warm her up. But I've seen her yell at people who try to help her. She gets frightened by the close contact. I don't want to make her feel uncomfortable.

Near Third Ave., a woman walked her rambunctious French Bulldog puppy - I did not mind his enthusiastic jumping as I walked by. They are my Kryptonite, those French Bulldogs.

The bus was early and I made a dash to catch it as it pulled in to our stop.
The overly-cologned, (former Axe body spray user) man got on and said good morning, and then he and his terrible cologne drifted towards the back of the bus.

Everyone was quieter today, more subdued. Was it down to the fog, the cool air?

I didn't know, but I also didn't mind.

We arrived at Bryant Street much earlier than usual. I got out and walked, the morning still cool and quiet, and still foggy even in Potrero.

This is why I love it here.

Summer, San Francisco style.

Friday, June 17, 2016

Bus Report #926

This morning, on the 33 Ashbury (that's what we're calling it these days, right?).

The ride was uneventful for most of the commute, just me and some other regulars - the Russian woman who Skypes with her son, the bearded bald man - and a man I'd never seen before. The newcomer reeked of smoke (he'd just finished a cigarette and stashed the butt in a pocket before getting on the bus) and he sat in front of me. I fanned away the smoky smell. He wore a skull necklace that looked as though it was carved from bone or shells - cool.
I looked at his backpack, which was wrecked and looked like it was about to come apart at the seams. Thought about how I'd repair the straps, if it belonged to me.

We rode down into the Castro.
The memorial to the victims of the Orlando massacre just keeps getting bigger and sadder every day. Someone had chalked the names of all the victims on the sidewalk and it still looked pristine in the morning, as though people had been walking around it to show their respect.

The whole thing just rips my heart open wider and wider every morning.

We pulled in to the stop at 18th and Castro and several people got out. As we left the stop, the man sitting in front of me got up and went to the front of the bus, stopping to scoop up a forgotten phone left on one of the seats. He gave it to the driver.
The driver asked, "did you see who left it?"
The man nodded. "Yeah, but he already took off."
"Let's wait a minute," the driver said. "Maybe they'll come back."
She waited a couple minutes and then slowly started rolling down 18th.
She stopped the bus just a few feet away - someone was running back towards our bus.
"That's him," said the man in front of me.
A young guy in headphones jogged up the stairs and the driver handed him his phone. "Don't thank me," the driver said, "thank him," and she pointed to the man who had found the phone.
The kid grinned and thanked the man sitting in front of me.

A good start to a Friday. Have a good weekend, all.

Friday, June 03, 2016

Bus Report #925

This week, in the mornings, it has been gloriously foggy.

The kind of fog where you wonder if the problem is actually your eyes, because everything appears blurry in soft focus and you can't see more than a half a block ahead of you.

The side streets off of Clement were thick with low-hanging, cottony fog, Karl in full force, rolling down the block, alive.

On the bus we climbed Ashbury and Clayton and were completely enveloped in the heavy, grey stuff.

The view from Upper Market of the rest of the city? Obscured so that it felt as though we were alone, just the dozen or so of us in our little metal box.

Just beautiful. Our summer fog is here. And I am delighted.