New Year’s Eve is my favorite party of the year — the lights, the drinking, the camaraderie. I’m proud to say this is my ninth New Year’s celebration in San Francisco, and each year the city has gently ushered me from party to bed to brunch safely and in a timely fashion. This year was a little different.
Let me plot out for you how it took me two hours and forty-five minutes to go four miles across the city.
12:00 am
Many of my friends weren’t up for a full blowout, so I ended up at an intimate get-together in Noe Valley. For the countdown, we enjoyed the fireworks from the top of the hill. Mistake number one was not taking the offer to stay the night and avoid the transit crush, but I had optimistic plans for the next morning and was fully convinced I could get home in an hour.
Cue mistake number two: assuming free transit would save the day. The 48 bus, my usual savior, had shut down at 11:50. So, I figured, why not enjoy the crisp night air and walk to Castro? Fifteen minutes later, I was dodging revelers and weaving through clusters of drunks to reach the subway at Market.
12:20 am
The L train outbound? Not happening. No outbound train would save me. The station attendant said, “No L, but you could take the shuttle to West Portal.” When is it coming? “Not sure. We’re still waiting.”
Confused but undeterred, I went back topside to wait for the L Owl bus, a mere eight minutes away. Eight minutes turned into twenty-two, so I ducked into Twin Peaks to wait it out.
12:45 am
By now I’d abandoned sobriety. The Castro single I ordered was more like a double — because of course it was. Fueled by vodka and diminishing patience, I checked the app again. Five minutes to the next bus! Spoiler: nope.
I give up on that idea and try to order a car. Waymo is heavily impacted, Lyft is $80, and the taxi app is just broken. I reserve and get refunded for a Waymo so many times, it blocks my transaction attempts, so I couldn’t spend that $80 if I wanted to.
With my patience wearing thin, I decided to walk half a mile uphill to Duboce for the N Owl bus instead. The cool night air was refreshing, and the vodka made me forget my aching legs.
1:10 am — 1:45 am
I made it to Duboce just in time to catch the first N Owl — except it was completely packed and rolled right past us. Fine. At least a bus had shown up.
The next bus arrived equally packed, but after a few people got off, ten more of us squeezed in. Finally, I was off the street. The vibe on the overcrowded bus wasn’t bad — everyone was in good spirits, chatting and helping others off when their stops came. Eventually, I even found a seat.
The thing about San Francisco transit is that it’s both a lifeline and a gamble. On most days, Muni feels like an eccentric but reliable friend — quirky, occasionally late, but always there when you need them. But on nights like New Year’s Eve, when the city’s energy is high and everyone’s in motion, that reliability starts to fray. Packed buses, delayed trains, and a transit app that’s optimistic at best all become part of the adventure. You learn to adapt, to expect the unexpected, and to take comfort in the strange camaraderie of late-night riders.
2:10 am
The N Owl dropped me off at the end of the line, right at the beach. It was colder now, but I had a big wool coat, gloves, and my vodka warmth to keep me going. My last hope was an e-bike, but I quickly realized none of the rentable bikes would work — they all needed to be returned to dock stations, and none were near my house.
Walking 1.5 miles home seemed like my only option. I tried Waymo one last time and, hallelujah, it worked. Fifteen minutes later, I crawled into bed at 2:45, abandoning any hopes of breakfast the next morning.
Normally, this kind of transit nonsense would leave me frustrated and stressed. But I couldn’t muster the energy to get mad. I figured I’d get home one way or another. At no point did I feel unsafe or lost, and even a little tipsy, I knew where I was going. Sometimes, a nighttime misadventure is just part of living in San Francisco. So, Muni, I’ll forgive you — but just this once.
Next time, though? I’m staying in for the night — and maybe skipping the vodka.
T. Von D. is a local museum worker and lesbian.
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