I work a 9-5 gig downtown; I leave my apartment on 22nd Street and Capp at 7:25 each morning, round the corner down two blocks South and one block East to the 24th Street Bart train station where I wait 3-4 minutes until the Fremont train arrives to whisk me away to reality, or "downtown" as it is often called.
Every single morning without fail I pass the same woman going in the opposite direction, ostensibly off to her own version of reality. We pass in a hurry, each of us artfully dodging the morning detritus that tends to litter Capp Street: piles of old clothes, filthy mattresses, couches with the cushions removed (for those in the neighborhood who have mobile sleeping arrangements), the occasional used condom (lovely way to start one's morning), discarded parking tickets, empty Popeye's or McDonalds containers, and these little seeds that fall from the trees in front of the US Bank building that get all up in the tread of your shoes. The neighborhood is equal parts marvelous and tragic.
My neighbor is of slight build, long brown curly hair, already with her headphones in. She dresses casually-sneakers, cargo pants- and wears a backpack. It is October; I landed this gig downtown early May; this translates to many mornings of passing, for whatever reason, always left shoulder to left shoulder.
May and June I could barely catch her eye; we've since moved forward and I enjoy meeting her glance along with the sweetest, most furtive upturning of the corners of her mouth...and I marvel, every morning, during those few seconds between our nodding recognition and my catching the train, at the beauty of two perfect strangers, linked together if only to start our mornings with a grin among the dirt, if only as a reminder to be mindful during a three-block walk that normally I might plow through but is transformed instead to the realm of the subtly sacred. So, girl, if you ever read this, I owe you a heartfelt
thank you.Mulling over these morning exchanges got me thinking about other things I love about living in a city. My apartment for example: from the outside it is not one of the better looking Victorians; it's a fading Pepto Bismol shade of pink, is ever-so-slightly sagging into Capp Street, and is home to the infamous El Trebol bar, out of which I've seen far too many fights spill, not to mention the piss and vomit that often greets me at my front door. Fortunately, as I pass through said door I enter a colorful, cozy oasis. For a short (very short) period this summer I tried to get off coffee in exchange for a morning brew of green tea; every day that week the whistle on my kettle screeched at the exact moment my neighbor's did. It sounds silly, but I even like hearing my neighbor's toilet flush at the same time as mine when I wake up in the middle of the night and stumble to the bathroom for some late night relief. I can't help it; there is something strangely comforting about this inextricable kinship between me and my neighbors, even if it's a secret only I'll ever truly attempt to understand. I live among sweaty artists and cramped immigrants and butch lesbians and dogs and cats and roaches and even a chicken for a while last summer. My head spins that despite our perhaps cultural and linguistic differences we are still moving to the same quotidian rhythms, our cycles are in sync regardless...and it's nice to remember how much more connected we are as humans than we as neighbors tend to show.
And as much as I tend toward indifference as far as my little morning and afternoon commute goes, it is beautiful, as I rush to catch the 5:15 home, to fall into step behind the exact same man I noticed that very morning, him, in ridiculously wrinkled high water pants and sweater vest, reading GQ, taking up the exact same stance he did 9 hours prior. It is beautiful to watch the middle-aged Filipina woman with her used City College accountancy textbook softly reading aloud to herself each morning until she scurries out the door at Civic Center. It is beautiful that Roberto, the Mexican newsboy who hands me my copy of the Examiner as I rise out of the train station, greets me with a happy grin and resounding "GOOD MORNING!," regardless of the rain or cold or the thousands of people who push past without so much as even meeting his eyes. I still find it difficult when people trim their nails on public transportation but I'm trying to love them too.
Fall makes me want to cozy up and it's all I can do to look at the people around me and not wrap my arms around them. So instead I make soups and cookies and breads and stir fry and keep the kitchen warm and feed my friends who have become family and lend an ear and crack jokes and ask questions. Let me know if you want to join me, I'll make us some kitchari and fly you in the air like Superman...
