Riding with Strangers
Pretty much every weekday morning, I get into a stranger's car. We don't talk as we drive across the Bay Bridge. I focus on my iPhone, get caught up on personal emails. Or I stare out the window, watching the giant cargo ships going to and from China and who knows where. I see Alcatraz and Angel islands off to my right, and the deep red of Golden Gate bridge to the northwest. Ahead of us: our San Francisco. The sun glints off those familiar buildings which pop magically through the clouds.
I could be in a Lexus, a beemer, an American mini van, an ancient Toyota hatchback. I could be in the backseat of a coffee-infused couple driving to work. Or in the front seat with another stranger in back. Or squeezed in tight between two others in the back of a luxury hybrid SUV. (If lots of people are waiting for rides, one of us might venture to ask the driver: "Can you take three of us?" They almost always do.)
I know how weird this sounds to those who don't commute to San Francisco. It's called Casual Carpool, and it's pretty unique and amazing. There are spots all over the East Bay where one can wait to be picked up, and to pick up passengers. We all get dropped off at the same location in SF, just off the Bay bridge, which happens to be 2 blocks from my office.
The rules:
- No talking, unless the driver initiates a conversation.
- Listen to NPR. Or nothing. I think this is to avoid music choices causing major a.m. friction. Crappy house music, anyone?
- Drive cautiously and courteously.
- Passengers have the right of silent refusal. If you're a woman and a man in a two-seater or a creepy van pulls up, you can just step back and let someone else take that spot. No explanation needed.
Here's why I think it works:
- It saves time. For a driver, it means cutting 20 minutes of sitting in stop-and-go traffic as you wait to go through the toll plaza.
- It's free/cheaper. For now the carpool lane is free. As of July 1 the carpool lane will be $2.50 versus $6.00 for regular commuters during rush hour. (Ouch!!) But I don't think it will reduce the casual carpool pool by much. It's still a significant reduction in cost for those who have to drive.
- It's not personal. The general "no talking" rule means that you don't have to chit chat. I've found the majority of rides to be silent except for a "hello" and a "thank you" at the end. So amazingly, you still get your personal time in the morning.
- Community, and safety in numbers. It's not just me in a stranger's car. Usually it's me and another stranger in a stranger's car! The magic number 3 really does change the dynamic. Plus, people have been commuting this way for over a decade, and know one another, who drives what cars, etc. We're all in it together.
- It's mutually beneficial. Really, that's what it comes down to for everyone involved.
What's interesting, of course, is when people don't follow the rules exactly. I've been serenaded with classical and country music–the latter made less repulsive since it was introduced as the soundtrack from Crazy Heart. One day several of us talked about our weirdest carpool experiences. The female driver said: "When a guy had just, I mean literally just smoked a bowl in the car before he picked us up. I was like, hey, smoke it at home, man!"
I asked, "So how was his driving?"
She said, "He actually drove fine. I just really wish he'd smoked that bowl at home." It was the lack of tact that galled her.
The other passenger that morning contributed this story: he'd been out of town and parked his car under a ginko tree for a week. Apparently, ginko trees really stink. (Who'd of thunk?) So his car, he told us, smelled like puke. A woman got in the front seat, took one whiff, and said "I can't ride in here." She got out, and this well-dressed man was humiliated. "It's ginko!!" he wanted to yell after her. A man got in the car and didn't say a word about the smell. Until they were almost across the bridge, when the passenger asked:
"Hey, did you eat some blue cheese in here?"
"It's ginko!!!"
I myself break the rules when I pick up carpoolers with Ali. Having a two-year-old in the car changes everything–you simply can't be that formal. And after 15 minutes of politely listening to Michael Krasny's (insightful) blabbing on NPR, Alejandro starts demanding HIS music. I apologize and ask the passengers' permission. Not like they really have a choice. Their asses are already peppered with cracker crumbs and their feet and laptops are a half-inch deep in crumbs as well. They don't have much to lose. (They could have always stepped politely out of line, too, when they saw who'd they'd be sitting next to!) So we all sing the Pollywog in a Bog song together. Out of courtesy, I try not to repeat it more than twice.
Every morning is somethin' different. That's one of the best parts of riding with strangers.
Nighttime in Rockridge Country
It’s dark out here in Rockridge Country. I walked home from the Bart one night after we’d just moved to Oakland. It was 9:10 pm. I walked down a street–I don’t know, Lawton? I’d heard about frequent muggings of Rockridge commuters, but having just left night-buzzing San Francisco, I wasn’t thinking it was late, or that it would be that dark.
The only sound was that of my breath, and the legs of my corduroys rubbing together as I walked. Two reminders, I told myself, that it was good we now lived further away from Tartine. And I could still walk! I’d had two beers and then taken Bart and damned if I wouldn’t walk, just to prove I could. But I was unnerved by being alone on the street. The road itself was black; no headlights, no one else traveling at what seemed to me to be a perfectly fine hour to be coming home or going out. Didn’t they believe in streetlights? What kind of country was I in, in which night was actually…dark?!?
That’s Rockridge Country, ma’am. Oaktown, Cali-forn-i-a.
The Subarus and Hondas parked in crushed-eco-gravel driveways glittered in the–what was that?–ah yes: moonlight. The perfect brown bungalows were dark, dozing off. Soft lights gleamed here and there from windows carved out of the bark of the square-ish Craftman homes. In the dim light I spotted $300 tricycles and brightly-colored sport sets strewn about the front yards. I was confused. In San Francisco, we had no front yards, so it wasn’t even an option to leave a trike out all night to get thugged by a drunk hipster, bum, or neighbor. Never mind the contrast of all these riches against the reality of Oakland’s 18% poverty rate. So who lived inside those darn cute houses?
Families. I thought. Dear God, it’s really true! That’s why everyone’s going to bed or already asleep! It horrified me because I wanted to be better than the tame and lame parents I imagined inside the cozy houses I hurried past. Never mind that I myself was excited to be in bed by 10:45. I wanted to be cool enough, superhuman and rich enough, to have stayed in San Francisco. Even though SF was no longer working for me, for us, for Alejandro.
Of course, what I really wanted was to feel comfortable in this weird new land: to understand it. To be enveloped, rather than ostracized, by the neighborhood's warmth and richness. It is idyllic, it is isolating–for now–and it's also just beautiful. My own little patch of country, eight blocks from Bart. That’s about as country as I get.
But I'll keep this desk lamp burning, to remind the one weary traveler who passes by our new house that he or she is not the only one awake in Rockridge tonight.
