Bus Report #1031
Monday morning I turned the corner and there was Olga waiting in our bus stop. She waved her cane at me and pointed down Arguello. "Three three," she said, and sure enough the number 33 bus was arriving, early.
We greeted each other in our mixture of Russian, English and French and got on board.
"Dosvedanya," I said as she got out at her stop. She waved and said the same.
In the back of the bus, the Russian woman who always skypes her son leaned forward and cut her eyes at me, accusatory and rude as usual, no reason, just her personality. I doubt my accent was convincing enough for her to think I understood her marathon conversations with her son, but I'll keep her guessing.
That afternoon, I caught a different 22 Fillmore coming home. It was a driver I have occasionally. He grinned and said, "Hey, have you been cheating on me with that other bus?"
I laughed. "It's not you, it's me," I told him.
Tuesday morning, just me and the Frenchman (what are we calling him? Paul?) waiting at the stop. We ended up chatting as we always do, about his school, weekend plans, the differences between San Francisco and the other places he has lived. It's nice, talking to other people while waiting. It makes the time go faster. Which is especially important when the bus is running late.
After work on Friday I had plans to meet S. in North Beach, so I headed out to catch the 10, which was already running behind schedule. I waited, and waited, long enough to watch two 22 Fillmores roll past.
One was driven by the driver I call Keith. He opened the door and said, "Where you going tonight?"
"To North Beach, if the 10 ever shows up."
He nodded. "That's a decent bus, it should be here soon."
"I hope so," I said. Two people were running down the hill at breakneck speed. "You've got a couple people coming, hang on," I told him.
He waited, and the two runners slowed their pace as they approached the bus. They got on, Keith waved, and they were off.
Five minutes later I was on a crowded 10, headed towards North Beach and S.
We greeted each other in our mixture of Russian, English and French and got on board.
"Dosvedanya," I said as she got out at her stop. She waved and said the same.
In the back of the bus, the Russian woman who always skypes her son leaned forward and cut her eyes at me, accusatory and rude as usual, no reason, just her personality. I doubt my accent was convincing enough for her to think I understood her marathon conversations with her son, but I'll keep her guessing.
That afternoon, I caught a different 22 Fillmore coming home. It was a driver I have occasionally. He grinned and said, "Hey, have you been cheating on me with that other bus?"
I laughed. "It's not you, it's me," I told him.
Tuesday morning, just me and the Frenchman (what are we calling him? Paul?) waiting at the stop. We ended up chatting as we always do, about his school, weekend plans, the differences between San Francisco and the other places he has lived. It's nice, talking to other people while waiting. It makes the time go faster. Which is especially important when the bus is running late.
After work on Friday I had plans to meet S. in North Beach, so I headed out to catch the 10, which was already running behind schedule. I waited, and waited, long enough to watch two 22 Fillmores roll past.
One was driven by the driver I call Keith. He opened the door and said, "Where you going tonight?"
"To North Beach, if the 10 ever shows up."
He nodded. "That's a decent bus, it should be here soon."
"I hope so," I said. Two people were running down the hill at breakneck speed. "You've got a couple people coming, hang on," I told him.
He waited, and the two runners slowed their pace as they approached the bus. They got on, Keith waved, and they were off.
Five minutes later I was on a crowded 10, headed towards North Beach and S.
posted by Rachel at 9:16 AM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home