Bus Report #1029

Bus people.

We are legion, we're clustered on every city block, sometimes in a bus shelter, sometimes under an awning while rain drips down and soaks our coats.

We are the four year olds from the daycare on Dolores, colorful rain boots and tiny umbrellas, eating cheesy chips from little packets before dinner.

We are Olga, with our cane and our stylish winter coat, sitting by the pizza place for twenty minutes to wait for a bus to take us one block.

We're the neighbor who always thinks we're being followed home down the block late at night, despite living a few doors apart from each other for years.

We're teenagers, so, so many teenagers. On our way to and from sports practices and games, carrying our school books in enormous backpacks, being loud and yelling across the bus to our friends, but being sweet at the same time; flirting with babies and giving up our seats to old folks. Listening to music on our phones. Hunching over notebooks to finish homework before school.

We're Mauricio. Bright yellow sweatshirt, huge early morning grin, "Good morning, Raquel," chatting about our love of beer and the beach, our wonderful daughters, our clever grandson.

We're the Frenchman, so in awe of the vastness of California, so not in love with our San Francisco weather. "I did not think it would be so cold here, there are palm trees."

We are the adult chaperones from the youth center, trying to corral twenty sixth graders into a crowded 38R bus, holding the doors open while counting the kids who have streamed into every open spot on the bus.

We're the mom with the two sons, running for the 33 in the rain, and then wrestling a stroller through the open door and into the bus while our driver tells us there's no need to run, she'll always wait for us.

We're the man who coaxes a stranger to share his umbrella in last night's rain.
We're the stranger who says thank you and angles our heads and shoulders under that umbrella.

We're the woman reading Michelle Obama's book on the 38 yesterday, the man reading a bio of Elon Musk sitting next to her, the woman reading the fat romance novel across the aisle from them both.

We are your friend who checks three different transit apps while you're getting your Lyft.

We are your friend who can recall all the Muni lines where we've met men we've gone out with, but we can't remember the men's names.

We are a community of riders who worry when regulars disappear and rejoice when they return.

We have our favorite drivers, our favorite buses, our favorite routes, our favorite seats.

We are bus people.