SFist: Muni Disability Disruption Delay
I, for one, would’ve deboarded. Not trying to pull the holier-than-thou here, folks. I just like to keep things moving.
Tag: muni-etiquette
SFist: None Shall Pass
A funny write-up of an all-too-common phenomenon on San Francisco buses.
Life Lessons Learned Early
I heard something on the F yesterday (yes, I still take it when I’m too encumbered or lazy to walk downtown) that was moderately appalling. Though, truth be told, it was the end of the day and I was starving for dinner.
A woman and her son (dad and Other Sibling were elsewhere in the streetcar) got pretty awesome pole-standing spots right in front of the back doors, by the stairwell. As long as you hold your bag in front of you, it’s really not a bad place if you’re stuck standing. The stairwell space gives you room to breathe, and you get a pretty awesome blast of fresh air when the door opens. If you stand aside, it’s just mildly annoying to make way for people on their way out. Mom clearly realized this was a good place to be, encouraging her son to “stay in this spot, because it’s the best one.”
Had this been a full car with a smattering of standers, then, by all means, stand at the choice back-door spot until you’re blue in the face. But remember the Golden Rule of Public Transportation: if people are still boarding a standing-room-only bus…
keep moving to the back of the bus.
The 47, my new best friend
I had another harrowing experience waiting for my F car this morning on Market at Van Ness. Two alleged trolley-bus Fs (their signs said they were, in fact F buses, and included “Market/Wharves” and everything) came by after a long while…and both drivers said they were stopping at Eighth Street. If you didn’t know, Eighth Street is about 3-4 blocks from where I was standing. And the F train is a charming little streetcar that is mostly for tourists, and therefore hideously unreliable. It is, unfortunately, among the fastest ways to get from the Embarcadero BART station to the northeast end of town, second only to walking, if you have time. It might (might) tie the 10-Townsend or the 9x, though both are crazy crowded in the mornings.
I hadn’t seen an F train for 15 minutes at least, and Jeff, my partner in life and Muni Diaries, said NextMuni was estimating it wouldn’t be there for another 20 minutes. I thought I had to take a cab to work for the third time in a month – a ride that costs at least $10 more than the $0 it normally does. My golden solution was a 47-Van Ness, which hit its scheduled stop on Van Ness at Market right after I got there. The driver was helpful when people asked questions, and it put me a block from my office. Thank you, 47. I always liked you better than that dirty sister of yours, the 49.
Meanwhile, people gathered at the F stop across the way in greater numbers, looking expectantly up Market for a car that probably still hasn’t gotten there.
I wasn’t that late (got in around 9:25 instead of 9:10), and I don’t mind the ride. It’s just unfair (and highly lame) when you have to play guessing games with your commute. If this keeps up, I might just break up with the F train altogether – this time, I mean it.
‘This isn’t a taxi’
We were riding the 49-Van Ness toward the 1000 Van Ness theater tonight. As we joined the clusterfuck around City Hall post-Pride, with its closed-off, trash-strewn, dyed-hair-filled streets. Halfway between Grove and McAllister, a horde of teenagers from (I’m guessing) Fairfield came screaming up to the bus outside. We inched forward, but they made it to the front door and proceeded to bang the glass, indignantly saying, “C’mon! Let us on!”
The driver, who was out of sight for us, said to them plainly, “This is not a taxi.” – Jeff
The Occasional Random Niceness of … People
(Reposted, with permission, from Tony Long’s North Beach Examiner)
Legendary Chronicle columnist Herb Caen used to run what he called “Sight ’ems” — interesting little oddities he (or one of his legmen) spotted wandering around the old town. Back in Caen’s day this wouldn’t have rated a mention, it being a more civilized burg, but in 2008 I found the scene jarring:
Three tourists, all women, riding a northbound 9x-Bayshore Express, and clearly lost. They didn’t speak any English (I think that was Portuguese I was hearing, but maybe it was … well, who cares?) and the bus driver spoke nothing but English. As they chattered away at the driver, laughing and waving a map under her nose while she crossed Market and headed up Kearny, I expected to hear some very colorful English indeed.