I hardly ever have to brave rush hour. There have to be some compensations for being lightly compensated. Today, however, was an exception, and I got up in the dark and headed to the bus stop as dawn broke over the freeway.
I was teased by two out of service buses as I read the Ian McEwan article in the latest “New Yorker” and considered the sense of humor of public transit companies. When I arrived at the BART Station of Death (when will I stop thinking of Oscar Grant when I’m there?), it was flooded with my fellow commuters, among them no fewer than four cyclists. Although they take up a lot of room on the crowded train, the bikes’ owners all seem to have the same defiant air of self-righteousness, since they are demonstrably greener than thou.
Squashed in the train as people stepped on my toes, wedged their briefcases in my butt, and screamed cellphone inanities in my ear, I was thankful that this was not my daily lot. I also noticed that the announcer only tells passengers to make sure they have all their personal belongings when they exit the train at the Embarcadero Station, which is the first one on the right side of the Bay, but not at any other station. Wonder why?
After being swept out of the station on a tidal wave of humanity, I restored my spirits by buying the new Vogue with the fabulously glamorous (or glamorously fabulous) Mrs. O on the cover before heading into the office, where I triumphantly not only had my ID card, but my office keys.
Way to end the week!