Bus Report #949
At least, I hoped it was.
I dug out cash fare, something I can't remember doing in San Francisco in years and years.
When the bus arrived, I got on and said good morning to the driver (the friendly guy who reminds me of Jason), and started shoving my dollars into the fare box.
"I don't think I've ever seen you pay with cash," he said, amused.
"I can't remember the last time I did," I replied.
He handed me a transfer, one that was good until 2:30 PM.
Yesterday I took the 19 downtown after work to run some errands.
The man sitting beside me was so twitchy, it was making me feel twitchy, too.
At Market Street I transferred to a 21 Hayes and was soon at my destination.
Later, heading home on the 38, the windows were steamed up and my seat mate could not figure out where we were. He kept craning his neck to look out our window, the other window, the passengers.
I took off my headphones at one point and said, "We're at Van Ness."
"I can't see anything!" he said, shaking his head. "It's just so dark out and everything."
I pointed to the neon signage at Mel's to explain how I knew where we were.
He got out at the next stop, and a dozen or so guys got on, all of them wearing soccer jerseys from all over the world. Germany, Spain, England, maybe even one from China, I could not be sure. They spoke in a mishmash of differently accented Englishes and a little German.
This morning when my bus arrived, the driver (tall, bearded, be-baseball-capped, bespectacled) smiled and greeted me with a friendly, "Good morning... Rachel."
I'd given him a holiday gift card yesterday (from Peet's!). Apparently, he'd been able to decipher my crazy handwriting and now we were going to be on a first name basis.
"Good morning!" I replied. "What's your name, by the way?"
It was James. I liked the way he said it, drawing the 'ames' part out a little longer than expected.