I didn’t rent a
car. I stayed with a friend in San
Francisco. But the next night I planned
to stay with a friend in Oakland. Between
here and there I’d be traveling with my luggage. A number of texts from
overnight. “Can we meet at the Milbrae
Bart?” Oh dear. Where is Milbrae again? I rifle through ways I might avoid this
schlepp. But by the time I’m done with
my shower I confirm.
Uber wanted a 2.7x fare hike. It was 8:45AM. Right. Rush hour.
My host graciously chauffeured me down to the BART, after dropping his
son off at day care. Magical really, to
be with a child who has yet to turn two, who has just latched on to
language. I had my younger daughter in
that same apartment to visit him ten years ago.
She looked just like that at that back then and this made me mark the
time.
Me and my luggage: a rather well stuffed backpack shouldered
and a small but bloated suitcase on wheels, were going to have a big day. I had my winter trench coat over a short
sleeve shirt to accommodate the unpredictable San Francisco weather. It is
forgiving to consider that there is no known record of how I looked and I set
out across the U.N. Plaza.
The escalator down to the BART station was out of
service. I lifted my luggage in my left
hand and grabbed the banister with my right.
The smell of last night’s urine was overwhelming, captured as it was by
the rising brick walls around me. How
many people contributed to this outrageous stench? Is this what it’s like when ten people
urinate here during a night, or fifty or three hundred and eighty?
The same lady’s voice still announces the cars heading
towards Daly City: “Nine car Daly City train, now approaching.” The same guy still announces train’s going
the other way. A friend wants to talk
using wechat, which I try to do over the din of the screeching car. I’m distracted listening to him and don’t
notice till I look up and see the Balboa Park Station where I used get off when
I was a middle school teacher.
At Milbrae there was no up escalator. I carried the bag. And, the down escalator to the parking lot
was also not available. Stoic. Steady.
‘It’s good for you.’ Back at
Powel Station, a few hours later. Lots
of urine and ammonia in the underground passageway here as well. Up, out and south for a long walk to end of 4th
St., deeper and deeper into SoMa. Two
meetings and another BART ride later, I consider another walk up from Civic
Center to Laguna St. Just me and my
luggage, rolling, mounting stpes, traipsing round the city, taking up extra
space, wherever we stop. I am ready
to be home.
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