Bus Report #929
Tonight, a quiet ride home from the Mission on the 33.
Nextbus was cycling through improbable predictions: 20 minutes and 44 minutes, 32 minutes and 65 minutes, and then back to 3 minutes and 23 minutes.
There were three of us waiting for the bus and we all had different ideas on when the bus was arriving. Apparently, three is the number of people you need to get together to accurately predict arrival times. The bus showed up four minutes later.
Not too many passengers, a friendly driver.
At 18th and Church we picked up an elderly lady who had been about to hop in a cab when the bus showed up. She thanked the driver.
In the Castro we idled at the light and a kid in a nearby frozen yogurt shop ran out of the shop, jumped over a bench, and began waving to someone in the back of the bus.
"Drew, man, I'll text you," he yelled to his friend.
And then he jumped over the bench again, went back inside.
Up the hill the fog was rolling over the city in thick ribbons. All the lights below us looked fuzzy. One house up on the hill was brightly lit with blinding fluorescents. The entire place was being redecorated and was a mass of white furniture, white cabinets, white walls, white lamps.
We stopped at Carmel to let someone out and the elderly woman asked the driver if he could let her out a few houses down from the next stop. "Of course," said the driver. "You just let me know where is good."
He stopped the bus right in front of her building and she slowly exited the bus, called good nights and thank yous back at the driver. "You're welcome, ma'am, you take care now."
In the Haight, near the park, there were still a lot of people out and about. None of them looked as cold as I felt.
When we got to my stop I thanked the driver and crossed Geary, hoping to catch a 38 home the rest of the way. There were none in sight, so I walked, hands shoved in pockets, the wind lifting my hair, the fog and mist settling on my cheeks.
It was an uneventful walk home, but beautiful, serenaded by the fog horns. They will lull me to sleep, quite shortly.
Tuesday night, on the 1 California, headed home:
A girl sitting across from me had a tattoo, in Hebrew, behind her ear and I spent the better part of the ride trying to decipher it.
If anyone knows what gimel-yud-lamed-hay spells (or hay-lamed-yud-gimel, I suppose), let me know in the comments. My guess is it was someone's name, spelled phonetically, and incorrectly. But what do I know - I was always in remedial Hebrew class back in my Hebrew school days.
Nextbus was cycling through improbable predictions: 20 minutes and 44 minutes, 32 minutes and 65 minutes, and then back to 3 minutes and 23 minutes.
There were three of us waiting for the bus and we all had different ideas on when the bus was arriving. Apparently, three is the number of people you need to get together to accurately predict arrival times. The bus showed up four minutes later.
Not too many passengers, a friendly driver.
At 18th and Church we picked up an elderly lady who had been about to hop in a cab when the bus showed up. She thanked the driver.
In the Castro we idled at the light and a kid in a nearby frozen yogurt shop ran out of the shop, jumped over a bench, and began waving to someone in the back of the bus.
"Drew, man, I'll text you," he yelled to his friend.
And then he jumped over the bench again, went back inside.
Up the hill the fog was rolling over the city in thick ribbons. All the lights below us looked fuzzy. One house up on the hill was brightly lit with blinding fluorescents. The entire place was being redecorated and was a mass of white furniture, white cabinets, white walls, white lamps.
We stopped at Carmel to let someone out and the elderly woman asked the driver if he could let her out a few houses down from the next stop. "Of course," said the driver. "You just let me know where is good."
He stopped the bus right in front of her building and she slowly exited the bus, called good nights and thank yous back at the driver. "You're welcome, ma'am, you take care now."
In the Haight, near the park, there were still a lot of people out and about. None of them looked as cold as I felt.
When we got to my stop I thanked the driver and crossed Geary, hoping to catch a 38 home the rest of the way. There were none in sight, so I walked, hands shoved in pockets, the wind lifting my hair, the fog and mist settling on my cheeks.
It was an uneventful walk home, but beautiful, serenaded by the fog horns. They will lull me to sleep, quite shortly.
Tuesday night, on the 1 California, headed home:
A girl sitting across from me had a tattoo, in Hebrew, behind her ear and I spent the better part of the ride trying to decipher it.
If anyone knows what gimel-yud-lamed-hay spells (or hay-lamed-yud-gimel, I suppose), let me know in the comments. My guess is it was someone's name, spelled phonetically, and incorrectly. But what do I know - I was always in remedial Hebrew class back in my Hebrew school days.
posted by Rachel at 10:34 PM
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