3.
Somehow I did find a way to get to sleep, but only barely, and of course, that night I dreamed about her. It wasn’t a romantic dream in the sense of a Hollywood kiss in some famous location, but rather a simple fantasy. We were simply walking across the Golden Gate Bridge, (which I knew we wouldn’t do) and holding hands, and nothing more. The dream bounced around as a dream will do, and soon Mirjam was replaced, but soon thereafter my eyes lightened, and I knew it was a dream.
Regardless, today was the day! Der Tag as the title continuously screams. And I was alone in my house. My parents and siblings had driven off to play softball in Davis, California. (or something like that) So I breakfasted on my cereal alone.
I had a few objectives before I could go meet the Swiss; I wanted to buy them a gift, and I had a few ideas. The first was rather simple. All I had to do was locate a state quarter from every state they had passed through on their journey around the Southwest. I narrowed this down to only six states: Arizona, California, Nevada, New Mexico, Utah and Colorado. Then there was the problem of finding those particular quarters. I went to my desk and pulled out the drawer where I keep my coins, and pulled out the quarter rolls, as well as my piggy bank from its shelf. Far from decoration, it carried all of the leftover coins that did not fit in the bank-style rolls.
All was well and good for the first view minutes, as I located Utah and New Mexico. Utah’s coin has an image of the transcontinental railroad completion, and New Mexico has a rather boring silhouette of that state. My primary goal was to find my home state; California, with its beautiful image of John Muir, and a California condor flying against a backdrop of Yosemite. The problem was my bank did not have one. My rolls did not have one either. I wandered throughout the house, looking in the kitchen and in our change jar in the back bedroom, before finally locating a specimen. The remaining quarter hunt was completed quickly, with a bonus; the National Park special quarters of Yosemite and the Grand Canyon.
Now the waiting began. My BART train into the city left at 12:30, and I had nothing to do. So I watched “I Love Lucy” reruns and when the time came I retrieved the keys to my truck, (I had gotten my license only weeks before) and started it up. After the big diesel roared to life I calmly edged it out of the driveway, before slowly idling back onto the street, at which point I realized that I had not driven the truck for three months and was no longer used to it in the slightest. So instead of going straight to the BART station I drove it around the block a few times to get a feel for the monster.
Just cruising through the neighborhood made me glad I was on foot in the city proper; the Ford F-350 is not exactly the most maneuverable pony in the stable, but it will get you where you need to go, provided you have a lot of time to get there. Fortunately, I did have a lot of time to go the mile and a half to the station parking lot, and when I got there, I parked and proceeded to check the status of my train. After ascertaining I was a good twenty minutes ahead of schedule, I walked across the street into a grocery store to buy my second gift.
For just under two dollars and five minutes later I emerged successfully with a box of Swiss Miss hot chocolate, the perfect gift for my Swiss miss. I actually didn’t know what she would think of it, so I had one other emergency present stowed on me as well. Old Glory, the American flag, properly folded into its triangles was in my jacket pocket, and with this trio of gifts I was finally ready to go to the City. I placed twelve dollars into the ticket machine and promptly walked through the turnstile and into the station proper.
It is often remarkable to realize how often a man is in conflict with something in his life, and this moment was no exception. As soon as I strolled through the turnstile, I discovered I had to use the toilet. No matter, restrooms were conveniently provided, the only trouble being that the men’s room was occupied. I waited and waited outside that door, and soon another man came up and waited alongside, before losing patience and using the women’s room instead. The thought had certainly crossed my mind as well, when as soon as he came out, a security guard appeared from his little kiosk and began to come talk to the man. The old black man did not notice the security guard, and proceeded up onto the platform via an escalator. The guard followed and this path took him around the corner, out of a direct line of sight for me. I went into the lady’s room, did what I had come for and exited, before cruising quite non-challantly up the other escalator towards a different platform. As I ascended the guard descended opposite me, and I never saw him again.
Once on the platform, I learned that my train was ten minutes away, and I surveyed my surroundings. Between my little Fremont and the great big San Francisco there is a baseball stadium and a on that particular Tag there was a baseball game. (As opposed to?) Thus the platform was crowded with baseball fans; and a group of them recognized me and called me over.
I would tell you their names, but I didn’t recognize them at all. Unfortunately, they recognized me, and we talked about baseball until the train came. There was a man who was walking around up and down the platform past the bench I was sitting on, who had and excellent voice for broadcasting. I only made this decision because he was, in fact, talking to himself as if he were on a sports talk show. He was very good at whatever he was saying, but he was also crazy, and no one paid him any attention.
I struck up conversation about the Oakland Athletics, a team which for the first time in six long years was on the verge of making the playoffs. The folks I was talking to had an extra ticket to the game, but I did not even think about blowing off Mirjam that day. I apologized and explained what I was doing before declining the offer.
Soon thereafter, the train arrived, and I climbed aboard a different car than my conversational partners. In this car I knew know one, and that was to be expected. I sat in my seat and drifted into thought once again.
My thoughts were admittedly rather boring, but eventually came to settle on the Bay Area Rapid Transit (or BART) system; an important topic, seeing as it was my transportation to my friend.
The system, due to celebrate its fortieth year of service that fall, was built in the 1960’s-70’s and was seen as a revolution in rail travel. In my day, the system connected San Francisco to East Bay in Richmond, Fremont, Pleasanton, and Antioch. The Lines also continued past downtown into the industrial areas of Daily City and South San Francisco, eventually reaching the Airport at San Bruno.
The line is very convenient for those who live near it and whose destinations are on it, although each station stop was more or less timed with local buses and trolleys. My trip would be a model of public transit; though I would be driving to Union City BART instead of taking a bus, once boarding that train I would be on public transit until I came home. The most important line of travel for me would be the F-line in San Francisco, as it would get me to my meeting place at the pier.
A typical BART trip requires buying a ticket from a kiosk, and then walking through a turstyle-sque machine to get into the paid area of the station, from which one either descends or climbs to the platform. After a few minutes the train arrives, and glides into the station, stopping with the doors always lined up exactly with the marks on the platform. How they managed to do that always amazed me, but do it they could.
The inside of the cars themselves have grey floors and off-white walls, with relatively comfortable blue seats. The floors are either carpeted or laminated depending on the age of the car, as is the advance of yellowing on the cars plastic walls. The cars have a central aisle, and near the doors there are fold-down jump-seats for wheelchairs and bicycle storage. The trains can move at upwards of seventy miles per hour and is powered by an electrified third rail beside it. The ride is comfortable, but as the fleet is aging, it can be a little noisy.
Unfortunately, on a Sunday the system does not serve San Francisco directly from Fremont so I would have to transfer at a station called “Bayfair” from an “orange” train to a “blue” train. This would not be difficult however, as the station had been designed with that concept in mind. The platform was between the two opposite tracks, so it was only necessary to cross the platform. Once in the BART system, it is not necessary to exit it, you must only have enough money at your destination to pay from your original departure point. Thus the system can theoretically be ridden indefinitely.
Needless to say I departed at Bayfair and transferred without a hitch. My new train zipped my along up the east bay and eventually dove into a marvel of engineering, the Transbay Tube.
The tube is a tunnel under the bay, and is approximately three miles long. It was created by building prefabricated segments, which were then sunk to the bottom of the bay and joined together to make a tunnel. The tube begins near the Oakland landing of the bay bridge and ends in a subway segment underneath Market Street in San Francisco. The first station on the San Francisco side of the tube is Embarcadero, which corresponds to the street above it. My destination.
