This article is part of I Love San Francisco, a feature series of essays that highlight what makes San Francisco iconic and irreplaceable.
L Taraval was supposed to be my lifeline. I had just moved to my dream apartment in the Outer Sunset with the perfect setup — with a pour-over coffee in hand, dressed in my high-waist denim and loose button-up, I’d whisk out the door onto the train to my ushering job in Civic Center. That was five years ago, and a mere month after moving into a converted house nestled deep in San Francisco avenues, the Muni service went offline.
Living in Outer Sunset means getting lost in your own little world. It’s a place where the chaos of San Francisco feels distant, with the beach at your doorstep and the sound of waves along the Great Highway reminding you to slow down. On foggy mornings, I’d grab a Snowy Plover from Andytown Coffee or wander into Tunnel Records to sift through vinyl before walking along the coast. My neighborhood has this laid-back, surfer vibe that makes you forget you’re still in San Francisco.
So at first the L train closure barely registered, especially because the pandemic happened shortly after I moved in. After the initial lockdown, I spent most of my time soaking up the local spots, strolling past pastel houses and feeling the ocean breeze. The beach, the record stores, the low-key cafés — it all felt like the best kind of escape.
But then there was the noise. The jackhammers started early, and the constant rumble of construction trucks became part of the background, but it was the dust that got to me the most. Black soot coated my porch on many days, and I’d often find it creeping in through the windows. My cat wasn’t a fan either — he started showing signs of stress, and before long, he had a bladder infection. Soon my quiet beachside escape was instead a daily reminder that the city didn’t have its act together.
And it wasn’t that I hated the bus. In fact, there was a comforting rhythm — seeing familiar faces, the slow crawl through the neighborhood, the exchange of brief nods, tired smiles. But then also the crowded aisles, the sudden stops, the uneven roads that made each ride feel like you were holding on for dear life.
The L train moves differently. It glides almost effortlessly, pulling you along in a way that feels more like an invitation. That familiar whirring — a low hum that rises and falls, almost like white noise — I had no idea how much I missed that catharsis until today. It’s a kind of release; a way to let the city’s energy carry you without the constant jostling.
This week the L came back after years of renovation, and I want to hate the city more for all the time it took. Is it really OK that the L needed five years to update and return? I’ve seen so many people come and go from San Francisco in that time, so no, it’s not. But every time I hear that train bell or feel the familiar pull as it glides through the avenues, I can’t muster the anger.
There’s something magical about riding the L train out to the beach, especially as the sun dips below the horizon and casts that warm light over the water. It’s a chance to exhale after the day. After all these years without it, I didn’t expect to feel emotional when the L finally returned. But there’s something nostalgic about hearing that familiar train bell in the distance. Every time I hear it, I feel a little pang of something — maybe gratitude, maybe relief, maybe just the comfort of a routine restored.
Welcome back, L train.
T Von D. is a local museum worker and lesbian.
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