Ride public transit from SF to LA. Seriously.
The N-Owl pulls up at Haight and Fillmore at 4:11 a.m. Somewhat surprisingly, it already has 16 passengers. Not surprisingly at all, the bus is already thick with the official Muni odor — BO ineffectively masked by Old Spice with hints of pee. Sunflower seeds are scattered beneath the seats and the floors are already movie theater-sticky. A man wearing a Philadelphia Eagles knit cap repeatedly smacks himself on the forehead; his pensive expression indicates some elusive knowledge is on the tip of his tongue. The driver’s eyes meet mine. He exhales deeply. “It’s Monday,” he sighs.
Knit cap man stumbles off the bus at Fourth and King streets along with all the other riders. It’s a shade after 4:30, and the Caltrain station glows like a beacon. Every last soul on the 4:55 train to San Jose is blearily staring at something: a computer screen, a newspaper, or simply straight ahead in an early morning stupor. No train car has more than three riders seated in it; it’s a tight-knit club, and the passengers and ticket-checkers are on a first-name basis.
But once you venture past familiar cities, Joe says, you go beyond “the point where passengers are riding transit because it’s convenient or environmentally responsible. This is the trip of last resort.”
Read about the rest of his trip on SFWeekly’s cover story.