I never thought I’d feel this way, but after nearly nine Bart-free months due to the pandemic, I find myself missing my old commute into San Francisco. Among the mystery smells, strange spilled liquids, and overheard awkward conversations, there were also the occasional day-brightening exchanges with perfect and far-from-perfect strangers.

For a bit of nostalgia, I combed through my Facebook page to collect some diary-like entries from the days I was able to roam the Bay Area more freely on public transit.

February 2018

The guy next to me on this morning’s train was trying really hard to, um, dislodge a booger. I’m not sure how else to put it. He tried a regular nose blow to no effect, then did some light excavations. He then pinched his other nostril in order to achieve greater air pressure. The sound of one nostril pinching shut was a bit hard to take.

Still not doing the trick, he was progressing to more aggressive tactics when I quietly moved away, not wanting to be within striking range when the offending missile burst forth.

September 2016

I got dropped off at the station with plenty of time to catch my train to SFO. When I went to check Facebook, my fingers did a mad scramble through the dark cavernous recesses of my bag. Nothing. Where is my phone? I left it on the kitchen counter. Damn. Must have my husband bring it to me.

A woman walked by.

“Excuse me, can I borrow your phone?”

She gave a dirty look and kept walking. Note to self: Revise approach. I see a second woman. “Excuse me, I left my phone at home, would you mind texting my husband to bring it here?”

This approach works. Hey, wouldn’t it be funny if my husband and this random woman meet-cute this way and get together?

No, actually, that’s not funny. I need to focus.

Train arrives. Random woman departs. How do I know if hubby got that text? I’m not even sure I gave her the right number. What’s his number again?

I look around for a plan B. Pay phone! Bingo! I scrounge up a bunch of dimes from the bottom of my purse. Ew, this phone is gross. Must remember antibacterial stuff.

He answers! He’s on his way! He says, “But I texted back.” Uh, not to me, you didn’t. To her. We will discuss that later!

October 2018

I had the start of possibly the worst ride ever this morning. The train to San Francisco was delayed due to “police activity” and was extremely packed. It was so tight that I couldn’t read the hardback book I brought without stabbing the unfortunate guy next to me with the book corner. The elderly Asian man I kept stabbing on every train stop and start is no fan of Robert Galbraith, it appears.

A huge group of kids boards. They seem to swarm in and fit in all the cracks, the way ice cream does after a huge meal when you can’t possibly fit any more in. Each time the train sways, they let out a roller-coaster style “wheeeeeeee!” The suffering faces of the commuters break into small smiles. Soon we’re all letting out small exclamations of “wheeee!” And the worst commute becomes bearable after all. Thanks, kids.

September 2018

“I HAVE A BROODING SOUL?!!” some guy shouts into his phone. “I don’t even know what that means.”

Sadly, his connection got cut off as we entered the Transbay Tube leaving San Francisco, so now none of us shall ever know.

April 2017

SF-bound train leaving Lafayette station. All seats are taken, so I find a spot leaning against the rail in the bike area. A young woman stands next to me.

The woman seated across from us leans over and says, “Excuse me?” The young woman looks uncomfortable with the random stranger outreach. “Excuse me!” She says again. “There’s a big spider right over your head.”

Shrieks and then laughs ensue, followed by profuse thanks.

June 2017

Well, this is going to be a fun journey. It started at Montgomery station, where the escalator stopped halfway through my ride down. It stopped, my body didn’t. Got a bit better acquainted with the guy in front of me than is polite in public. I walked the rest of the way down to the platform — why is it that I’ve never felt more drunk than when I’m walking sober down a stopped escalator? — only to encounter this clusterfuck.

There was no hope, so I doubled back to Civic Center. I waited in line for a train there, only to pick the one line in front of a door that didn’t open. We all stared straight ahead before realizing the other train doors were open, then the stampede began. I shoved an old lady out of the way and made it on. Oh wait — I’m the old lady now. Crap.

We lurch back into Montgomery station. The good news: Platform is much clearer. The bad news: That’s because there’s a police hold on the train. So far it’s been a 30-minute commute and I’ve gone minus five feet.

November 2017

Overhearing a loud, important conversation on the Pittsburgh Bay Point line: “No, haha. I’m not a cream cheese person.”

December 2018

Some drama at the Lafayette station this morning. I’m waiting in line for the SF-bound train. I have my umbrella with me and it has this curly handle. I always feel like a total klutz with an umbrella; I can’t figure out how to manage it with my laptop bag and my handbag. I’m like the dorky bag lady over here.

As I’m adjusting things, I let go of the umbrella, and it pitches forward in slow motion, handle hook pointing upward, to lodge itself deeply within the buttocks of the woman in front of me. I mean, this thing must have had a homing device within it—it went all up in there.

She lets out a yelp and whips around to glare at me. I’m standing there, horrified. The umbrella stays impaled where it is (she must have clenched in alarm).

We board the train and I sit as far away from her as I can.

November 2018

I offer my seat to this guy. As I’m walking past him I realize he’s holding a trash picker-upper and not a cane as I first thought. He declines and I sit back down, feeling terribly foolish.

Then he starts talking to me. He’s on his way to West Oakland to pick up trash at the station. I’m getting the story of his life. Oh dear God, maybe he thinks I was flirting with him. Now he’s talking about his wife, who works 12-hour shifts at the county jail. He must have brought her up to deflect my advances.

West Oakland is only one stop away, I can get through this. Operator makes an announcement. Due to a medical emergency at West Oakland, all trains are delayed 10 minutes. And here we are. I’m desperately typing this out in an attempt to appear too busy to hit on random men with trash picker upper thingies. He’s still talking.

April 2019

It’s a packed train on a rainy day. It smells inexplicably like one of those cheap cake style urinal deodorizers in run-down restaurants. But it gets worse!

The older woman seated next to the window has a baggie full of hard boiled eggs in the shell. She is whacking the baggie against the window to break the shells, then opening the bag, peeling and stuffing huge mouthfuls in.

You do you, lady. Keep on eating your sulfurous orbs of stink. Don’t mind us.

July 2019

I gave up my seat on a packed Antioch train leaving Montgomery Street in SF to a disheveled guy dressed head to toe in Giants regalia who was bellowing for a handicapped seat. He was so happy with me he offered me marijuana. I declined.

Oh dear. His offers are getting far more personal. I’m now typing this as a means of deflecting his very loud advances, which everyone on the train is doing their best to ignore.

He invited me to his hotel room. Gave the room number loudly. Said he’d have a bubble bath ready. Now he’s running through dinner choices: spaghetti and meatballs, filet mignon, Snickers bar for dessert. Back to the bath. There will be oils and a massage. He claims his ex-girlfriend says he has “penetrating hands.” I haven’t had this much action since that Aptos High dance in 1986.

I’ve declined all offers. There are only two stops left. Everyone is pretending they can’t hear. Help me out, people! Not sure I can keep declining for the remaining two stops. Anyone looking for a good time, DM me for the room number at the Twin Peaks Hotel in Oakland.

March 2020

I’ve ventured to the pharmacy to get some prescriptions filled, which seems more important than toilet paper. I’m standing in line and the guy in front of me keeps turning around and looking at me and smiling. Repeatedly.

He’s younger, and normally I’d tune it out or worry that I had something in my teeth. I’m in sweats that undoubtedly have dog drool on them, a cutoff sweatshirt; and I’m unshowered, no makeup. He can’t possibly be flirting. He could do much better than this. But times are strange and maybe people just want connection, and pickings are slim with everyone in isolation?

He turns around for the fourth time and says, “Interesting times, huh?” We have a conversation about ingredients for homemade sanitizer. How Tito’s isn’t high enough proof. Maybe we should have a drink of it instead. No doubt about it, this guy is liking me. I’ve still got it!

He goes to sign for his prescription and rips a piece of paper off his bag in order to wrap the stylus on the credit card thingie. Huh. A strict rule follower. I’m thinking: What’s the logical conclusion here to our pharmacy line romance if he can’t even hold a pen without wrapping it? Wait a second, we are in Walgreens. There are ways and products.

Disliking my train of thought, I grab my Rx and bolt.

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