When I first lived in San Francisco, I didn't have a car. As amazing as it was to never have to be sober, it really didn't lead me down the right path in my educational career. Ironically, the number of parking tickets I receive now keeps me from spending that money on other things that contribute to my delinquency and help me succumb to my vices. My favorite light-rail line is the N, and my favorite bus is the 22. On those lines alone I can get almost anywhere in San Francisco, including The Mission, Haight-Ashbury, The Castro, The Fillmore, Pacific Heights, and The Marina.
The other day I was on the 22, with my runny nose and cough that sounds worryingly like bronichitis, and I realized that no one cared that I was sick. In this city, it's hard not to find yourself next to someone who (a) reeks of liquor, (b) hasn't bathed in a week, (3) thinks it's cool to hug you a lot, or (4) pees anywhere. In my work clothes, a white button down and black skirt, I guess my cough was more appealing than any of those various maladies that applied to a number of others on the bus. After catching up with a friend and grabbing sushi on the corner of 16th and Valencia, my intoxicated self (damn pitchers of beer at noon) found the nearest bus stop and only two minutes later, up pulled the 22! My favorite bus of all time!
Although I had forgotten my headphones, I still managed to disappear into my own little world - as I usually do when I'm on a form of public transportation. I stared out the window and watched the streets of The Mission pass me by, and then The Castro, Lower Haight, and finally I was on Fillmore. Although my original intention was to take the 22 to my work and feed my need for free caffeine, I decided to hop off at Hayes and walk the rest of the way. I wandered past McDonald's, which seems to always be a meeting place for neighborhood locals regardless of its location, apartment buildings and little markets, and ended up back where I always do - Marcus Books. The afrocentric book store might be filled with books by-and-for black people, but I love the atmosphere and the lady (yes, Yvonne, I said lady) who's always in there, Karen.
She's such a sweetheart and she barely speaks above a whisper, so you always have to stand less than a foot away from her to hear what she's saying. She lit incense and organized some postcards while I stood looking at poetry books and calendars, and never once asked me if I was okay or finding what I wanted. I think that's such an inane question; "see what you're looking for?" No, dumbass, because if I saw it I would be buying it right now. I settled on a poetry book with the word blues in the title (I lost it already, I'm somewhat disorganized) and she meandered to the cash register when she saw I was waiting. I said hi first, as I always do, and she calmly smiled at me and responded with an eloquent "hello." The money exchange, the awkward scramble when I drop all my change on the floor - all par for the course in my life. But, as usual, the 22 led me right where I needed to be and I bought a book that will teach me things I need to know, if I ever find it in the insanity that is my room/car/mind/life.
The other day I was on the 22, with my runny nose and cough that sounds worryingly like bronichitis, and I realized that no one cared that I was sick. In this city, it's hard not to find yourself next to someone who (a) reeks of liquor, (b) hasn't bathed in a week, (3) thinks it's cool to hug you a lot, or (4) pees anywhere. In my work clothes, a white button down and black skirt, I guess my cough was more appealing than any of those various maladies that applied to a number of others on the bus. After catching up with a friend and grabbing sushi on the corner of 16th and Valencia, my intoxicated self (damn pitchers of beer at noon) found the nearest bus stop and only two minutes later, up pulled the 22! My favorite bus of all time!
Although I had forgotten my headphones, I still managed to disappear into my own little world - as I usually do when I'm on a form of public transportation. I stared out the window and watched the streets of The Mission pass me by, and then The Castro, Lower Haight, and finally I was on Fillmore. Although my original intention was to take the 22 to my work and feed my need for free caffeine, I decided to hop off at Hayes and walk the rest of the way. I wandered past McDonald's, which seems to always be a meeting place for neighborhood locals regardless of its location, apartment buildings and little markets, and ended up back where I always do - Marcus Books. The afrocentric book store might be filled with books by-and-for black people, but I love the atmosphere and the lady (yes, Yvonne, I said lady) who's always in there, Karen.
She's such a sweetheart and she barely speaks above a whisper, so you always have to stand less than a foot away from her to hear what she's saying. She lit incense and organized some postcards while I stood looking at poetry books and calendars, and never once asked me if I was okay or finding what I wanted. I think that's such an inane question; "see what you're looking for?" No, dumbass, because if I saw it I would be buying it right now. I settled on a poetry book with the word blues in the title (I lost it already, I'm somewhat disorganized) and she meandered to the cash register when she saw I was waiting. I said hi first, as I always do, and she calmly smiled at me and responded with an eloquent "hello." The money exchange, the awkward scramble when I drop all my change on the floor - all par for the course in my life. But, as usual, the 22 led me right where I needed to be and I bought a book that will teach me things I need to know, if I ever find it in the insanity that is my room/car/mind/life.
Hey Jennifer, hope you feel better. The Marcus Bookstore or the proprietor -- the LADY !!!! -- would have made a great profile. Thanks for this! You need more blogs, please.
ReplyDelete