Tuesday's Adventure

Tuesday morning dawned as I was gliding across the Bay on a replacement ferry that would make a luxurious personal yacht, though it is somewhat cramped for the commuter service into which it has been pressed while the regular vehicle undergoes drydock maintenance. I digress... A light breeze rose as the rising sun burnt off the early morning fog, giving rise to gentle swells that broke upon the ferry's bold wake. Pelicans, so gawky on the ground, dipped and swirled gracefully over the water, diving now and again in search of a pure protein breakfast. All too soon we were docking and disembarking.

The birds had been inspiring, and I set forth in search of breakfast. The financial district was already in full swing, pedestrians and drivers challenging each other for the right of way across intersections of humans and machines. Lines of groggy workers queued up on every corner in search of the nearest thing to an intravenous caffeine fix. Over the bustle and din rose the first morning smells of pans, grills, and griddles heating up for the day. Following my nose, I found a (relatively) quiet stall where I was able to get a fried egg sandwich (with mayo) and a tall cup of island-brewed coffee. Stall food is for carting around, however, so I slipped the sandwich into my backpack and trundled onward.

Up a gleaming tower I rose in an elevator the likes of which I had not previously experienced. (Clearly I lead a sheltered life...) There above the buttons was a video panel across which was streaming not just stock reports and digitized weather readings, but full-fledged CNN footage; it seemed to be a fully functioning monitor, though the feed was clearly in-house. I was so fascinated that I almost forgot to exit the elevator. That was embarrassing, though I do not blush easily.

I did not know that workplaces outside of television and movie sets actually come equipped with pool tables, dart boards, and what looked like a full bar, though I am familiar with the ubiquitous kitchens and copier rooms. Again, I was feeling very rustic, especially as I was oh, so politely ushered out of the offices, back into the elevator, and out of the building.

On I trundled. At the corner of Market and Main, (what intersection could possibly be more appropriate for an adventure into the heart of a city?), I boosted myself up onto the edge of a raised planter box and pulled out my now properly mushed sandwich. My coffee was just about that familiar tepid temperature that indicated I had waited just a bit too long. It was clearly time for breakfast.

It's been too long since I've had the pleasure of people-watching. When I was younger, I did it as an affectation, not actually clear on what I should be seeing. This day, however, I could not stop watching. There were people everywhere, moving in every direction. The first thing that struck me, however, was that there were no seriously obese people in sight anywhere. The largest person I saw was a delivery truck driver, and he was merely appropriately burly. I noticed, too, that regardless of ethnicity or age, virtually everyone seemed to be dressed in some uniform shade of black. There seems to be some unspoken but understood financial district dress code in effect. It was oddly entertaining, especially as I remembered my high school days and the vigor with which we strove against the dress code that demanded we wear uniforms.

Nine o'clock chimed, and the traffic changed. The seemingly endless line of mass transit vehicles that had been turning the corner nearly every five seconds dwindled. And then I saw them: the first tourists of the day, regulation American epidemic obese in size. They wore shorts and heavy jackets, smiles and colored clothes, and they moved at a leisurely pace. My breakfast was ended.

I popped down from my perch and looked for the nearest subway entrance. Trying to get downstairs, however, proved to be my next challenge. I was a salmon running the wrong way. Though the automobile traffic had thinned, the foot traffic still ran strong. Worse, these were people who were clearly late, not at their desks in time for the starting bell and not happy about it. I was in no rush, so I waited, and I watched. Have you ever made eye contact with a stranger, only to let your eyes slide quickly away? I confess to a perverse pleasure in watching a stream of people looking eagerly upward as they rose from the bowels of the train station, only to turn away at the sight of me watching them. What is it about the sensation of being watched that triggers a sense of guilt in so many people?

Finally, however, there was a break in the flow of people. Those who really didn't care because it was too late anyway move at a kinder, gentler pace, and it was one of them who allowed me to cross over to the stairs that would let me down. Into the darkness I descended.

I have not had much occasion to ride mass transit since junior high, so today was proving to be very exciting for me. I had been warned not to catch a BART train, as I was heading deeper into the City. What I needed was the MUNI, a train that provided municipal transit. Specifically, I needed the "N" line. I remember thinking that I was nuts to be trying this, and glad to be doing so without witnesses who could identify me. So far, however, things were going beautifully. I caught the proper train after missing only one like car, then only overshot my destination by one stop. It was a perfect day for walking outdoors, and I must say the olfactory senses were getting an even better treat than they had in the heart of money country.

Soon enough I reached my destination, remembering just in time that I didn't have to open the garage door because, well, because I wasn't driving a car that needed parking.DUH! Clearly I hadn't had enough coffee... Kicking myself, I chided myself up three flights of stairs, then fumbled with the keys and locks as the furry felines inside went wild with impatience.

Macha and Zoe are two lushly furry females, not quite three years old. They belong to a friend whom I promised I would visit, though strictly for socializing, as the girls were entrusted to others for care and feeding. Now, this sort of arrangement may work for humans, but let's face it: cats do not understand. If you're visiting, then you're feeding them. Why else do you exist? I admit, that's a tough one.

Half an hour later we were still discussing the question. I offered to play with them; they weren't interested. I tried to stroke them; did you know that declawed cats still try? Finally I sat down just talked it out with them. Eventually I got some lovings, along with a stern lecture about friends who come empty-handed. My parents brought me up to know better, so I did understand, and I was properly chastised. When we'd all finally settled down comfortably in the living room, Zoe zoned, Macha prowled, and I went back to listening to Harry Potter on my i-Pod. We sat in companionable silence until we heard people in the hallway, then we sat some more. All good things must come to an end, however, and eventually I realized that I needed to get back to my Boys, who were going to have something to say about me returning home smelling of strange girls as it was. I packed up, said goodbye, and left.

Back on the street, I debated which way to go. I had been so intent on arriving that I hadn't paid any attention to getting back. Funny how good grades don't necessarily translate to clear thinking or common sense... In lieu of any, I headed back towards my dropoff point, hoping to see or hear something or someone that would clue me in. Restaurants were starting to prepare lunch and my stomach began to answer their siren calls.

There was a stationery shop that I'd seen and wanted to inspect. I found it with relative ease. It was now open, so I went in and began to browse. Sure enough, I was quickly accosted by a smiling lady who helpfully offered assistance. Backpacks and blue jeans generally elicit more smiling help than just about any other outfit I wear, so I've noticed. I assured her I was just browsing, kept my hands in plain view, and moved very slowly, refusing to be stampeded out of this lovely neighborhood store. As I was meandering near the entrance, I saw my desired ride go by.

Okay, so it did, indeed, run along this street. That was helpful. The schedule I'd perused earlier had said this line seemed to run every twenty minutes, so I went back to browsing. Ten minutes later another one went by. Grr...

Out I went, walking the street. There was a clear plastic booth, surely a place to wait for the next train. I hiked determinedly over, then waited for another seven minutes. No sense sitting, als0 not a real good-looking idea... The good part of it all is that the ferry ticket stub with which I'd begun my travels so many hours ago was still valid for my MUNI rides, both ways. Gotta love the tourist industry.

The financial district was once again hopping with hungry crows dressed in black. Food servers were as impatient as their customers, all concerned with timely turnover and money to be made. I understood, even as I realized how far outside this world I have always been. Cognitive recognition vs. gut level intuition. Disturbing yet familiar divide, chasm-wide. Somehow I must find my way across or at least a handy bridge.

Meanwhile, a friend, a lunch, a short walk later and I was once again ferry-bound. So far my day had been a wonderful experience. I love the peninsula and everything about it.

The ferry ride back was uneventful. The water was glistening, the shipping lanes were alive with activity, and the trip was short, though this time the ferry spent as much time drifting powerless down a quiet channel as it did churning the water across the open Bay. En route we passed a sailboat wafting along. Landing was equally smooth sailing. Then came the dead calm.

I had been assured that buses regularly serviced the stop right outside the dock. The first bus even came within two minutes, but the driver told me she was heading in the opposite direction. Instead, she gave me two transfers and a big smile. Then she left.

I watched a freighter pushed and pulled by two tugboats as it made its way up the narrow strait, laden with containers that seemed to be loaded with autos, if the markings were accurate indicators. I watched a bored security guard reading a black-n-white graphic novel, comics being archaic relics. (Is that redundant?) I watched another bus zoom by outside the parking lot and wondered if I was supposed to have walked out to another bus stop.

Half an hour later another bus came by. The driver told me the same thing the first driver had told me. I said I didn't care and got on. I was determined to just ride around, knowing that I still had another connection to find before I reached my starting point. So now I know where the bus route ends and how some drivers spend their time between routes.

An hour later I decided to get off the bus, but I neglected to ask for a fresh transfer. Sure enough, by the time I finally boarded the bus I was seeking, my transfer had expired. (Of course I watched a couple of those go by in each direction before realizing it was the one I wanted...)

I love mass transit, but it's not for me when I have a timetable. Fortunately, my timetable had been to get home in time for dinner, though I'd been hoping to get home shortly after lunch. That simply was not to be.

Back at the first ferry landing where my day had begun, I realized that I was seeing the ferry pulling in that was headed back to the City to pick up my passenger whom I would be back to pick up in forty-five minutes. I needed a pick-me-up myself after that encounter with the East Bay bus system, so on impulse I boarded the ferry.

Five of us were paying passengers, so I really did get to enjoy the sense that it was a private luxury yacht instead of an overtaxed commuter ferry. My frustration slipped away in the wind, and I found myself again. The round-trip ride was just what I'd needed, along with ordering in for dinner.

What a day! What a day!

The Boys were a little worried by the time I got home. It was dark out again, and they'd been locked up in the house all day. The courtyard was a place of carousing, and then it was time for good lovings. One of these days they need an adventure, too.

First Entry

Max has been complaining that I've been taking his name in vain, that I've been slandering others and leaving the shame on him, so he's set me up with my very own page in which to scatter whatever spurious claims I may conjure. This, then, is my first entry. I hope there will be more.