My commute: Getting to know you, San Francisco

After a little more than a month, I think that maybe—just maybe—I know it well enough to begin to describe: my commute.

This sudden impulse, probably because this week, for the first time, I shared it with somebody. We walked along, me pointing out the spots, moments, observations I’ve begun to see as mine, as you do when you get to know someone new—be it a person, or a place. And it struck me that it was time to share. My commute, my getting closer to this city I don’t quite like—part of my life, just like that.

The territorial cats who still regard me with suspicion. But I know where to expect them now—the happy hounds and them

The red strawberry I admire. And I wonder if the owner will mind when, one day—I eat it, straight from the branch, in the breaking light

The severity of silence for 30 precious minutes, serene in the true sense, and inexplicably important. Because every morning I entrust my safety to a complete stranger, for a dollar. When the stranger drops me off on the other side of the bridge, we’re a little less strange—and somewhat restored

At 3^rd and Mission, a homeless man eats his Styrofoam breakfast

The two wide inbetween streets that are so out of place in this densely and constantly densifying place. The first—home to colors: a green, indiscernible corner on top of the roof, a rose wall and gray asphalt. The second—home to a man: bright blankets, always asleep, always contorted, always anew

Downtown construction that never ends, fueled by technology, both micro and macro, swept even into our non-profit shared working space. Until profits are made

The line outside the methadone clinic by the office, and the woman who looks, glazed over, tattoos across her face, and she’s gone

The security guard, deemed necessary, positioned outside the office—sunglasses and leather jacket

The impossibly young faces of the bourgeoning, posh ad firm, sprawling on three floors below ours in a building, formerly a garment factory—the long florescent lights still blind

 

My path there so starkly different from my return.

 

The smell on Howard Street that reminds me of a boy I once saw at age 8 at Niederrad train station in Frankfurt, Germany. A smell of ripe fruit that has just begun to rot—sweet, animal-like

The strange feeling when one of the homeless is not in his regular spot. Could he have?

Oh, but I know the patched sidewalk. Let me show you where.

Lines and streams of bodies move. Stop, and you’ll make them part

The lengthening line of bus passengers, one after another, actually—incredibly!—abiding

6.30pm lights flickers on passengers’ balding heads. They don’t notice me noticing

Albany’s glowing shimmer of gold, welcoming me back. I look and look. Until my eyes hurt. The angle shifts. And it’s just another apartment building

I nod a quick hello at my familiar giant harbor friends

They know

I’ll be back tomorrow