Bus Report #943

This morning, as I do many mornings, I passed a man who looks like a time traveler from an old Russian shtetl - even his hat seems out of place. He could be a scholar or a farmer, with his beard, and that timeless cap. But he is friendly, and has a slight bounce in his step.
We greeted each other as we always do.
"Did you vote yet?" he asked, as he scurried by.
"After work," I told him. "You?"
"After work, too," he confirmed.

In the Haight, a bald man stood on the corner of Clayton and Haight, standing perfectly still in a strapless, gold sequined gown. Performance art? Fashion statement? Drug-addled seemed-like-a-good-idea-at-the-time decision? I will never know. Pretty dress, though.

The bus climbed up the hill and when we rounded the corner of Clayton and Market, the whole city looked golden below us. Light glinted off of the tall buildings downtown and the homes that cascade down the hill were all covered in that blinding yellow-white.