The Bay Area declared yesterday a free transit day, as part of its
Spare the Air campaign. As with most other freebies, my family had been eagerly anticipating the chance to make the most of this event. So I wrapped up work early and joined them on an excursion downtown via public transit.
MUNI bus 9x took us through the most interesting segment of our trip, from the Popeye's at the corner of Mission and Geneva, where its Chinese workers joke fluently in Spanish with their Latino clientele,...past the iconic
Cow Palace, whose many
friends are protecting it from going the way of
Bay Meadows,... through the
Sunnydale projects (or "the Swamps" to locals), where we passed several pairs of SF's finest perched on their dirt bikes, getting to know the neighbors.
When we finally reached our destination an hour later, we had been worn down by the jack-rabbit starts and stops, rising mercury level, and sweaty cramped quarters. Strangely, we found comfort in the familiar bustle of
Chinatown, where personal space is nonexistent. We relaxed for tea time at a coffee shop that served iced
Horlicks, like we used to enjoy back home. We spent an hour meandering through tight produce markets, where hawkers yelled, "Cherries! Only 49 cents a pound! Tasty and beautiful, too!" in Cantonese sing-song chants. As we made our way to the bus stop, laden with bags of bargain fruits and vegetables, we passed a poster of Obama adorning the side of a newspaper vending box, with the Chinese tagline "Moving Forward". (A
moveon.org campaign?)
Our field trip, which took us on four buses in as many hours, opened my eyes to parts of SF that I had never seen before. While pressed against the pock-marked metal walls of the buses, a welcomed coolness for my bare skin on a balmy day, I gained a greater appreciation for the diversity of this 7x7 town, especially among the working class.
I'm reveling in the simple things,... Like the castanet chirps of a transient house gecko roaming across the ceiling, its slender pale body pressed up firmly against its padded feet. The cheerful "good morning" cries of the yellow-masked myna bird and its other colorful avian brethren who call the Southeast Asian tropics home. The rustling of the heavily-laden branches as my father reaches into them with a basketed wooden pole to pick ripened fruits from the backyard chiku tree; "must pluck them before the birds do", he remarks. The steady purring of the mobile air-conditioner, working hard to keep my melting foreign companion cool. And the food...*sigh*...every single meal we've savored from the hawker stalls, which boast a fusion of the various ethnicities that comprise Singapore culture (e.g., ikan assam pedas)
