The 43

I rode the bus for two hours yesterday, the 28, the 43--jumping on at 19th and Taravale, off at Lombard and Filmore, on at Lombard and Divisadero, off at Masonic and Hayes in the hopes of a mirrored plateau for an upcoming nuptual.

I see everything on the bus, or everything I want anyway: the fog sweeping across the bay, little Chinese women with tasseled loafers and grocery carts, Parisian teenagers, surfers, Berkeley intellectuals, a sweet British couple, homeless men with shaggy hair who hound you for the empty water bottle at your feet.

The 43 is The Great Equalizer--a moment of agitated entropy when vegan and meat eater, rag doll and vagrant brush each other with every twist of the Presidio.

And even if you're afraid for your safety, for your belongings, for the preservation of your personal space, the 43 is throwing you into chaos, begging you to surrender as you roll up the hill. And sometimes, that's just what you need in the afternoon--a native surprise for two dollars flat.