You won’t need directions.

In my anticipation of San Francisco living, I was really hoping to be near a Muni light rail line. BART is great and all, but I got to ride it plenty when I lived in Berkeley, and wanted to try something else. Something faster than a bus. Which is why I was thrilled to discover that the J Church line is a six block walk from my new place.

This morning, my first day back to work since my move, I locked up the apartment, walked down to Mission, crossed the street and continued toward Dolores Street. Once at 30th and Dolores, a J line stop, I saw the Muni sign on a street poll. It read: J Church to Balboa Park. I’d discovered the outbound stop, but where I was to get on in order to ride the J downtown was beyond me. I couldn’t find it anywhere. I decided to punt.

So, I trotted back down 30th to Mission where I saw a bus headed my way. All I needed to do was get to the 24th St. BART station. I knew the 14 and the 49 went there, but wasn’t sure about any of the others. I squinted and made out a 67 on the front of the fast-moving bus.

Quickly I texted Ian: “67 goes to 24th St. BART, yay or nay?” I hit send just as the bus hissed to a halt.

I waited until all the rest of the riders boarded.

“Does this bus go to the BART station on 24th?,” I asked before I mistakenly fed the machine a buck-fifty. The driver nodded, so I climbed aboard. Things were looking up, but I held my breath when it made a left onto Valencia. That wasn’t the way to the BART stop. Deciding not to freak, I checked my phone. “It may turn right at Cesar Chavez,” Ian had replied. Sadly, it did not.

Once the bus made it to Valencia and 24th I hit the yellow button signaling the driver to stop. It wasn’t far too hoof it from there to the trains.

“You are going to the BART station, right?,” said a kind, balding man who looked a little like Craig Newmark. I nodded at him.

“He’ll make a right here. Your’s is the next stop,” the Craig look-alike informed me. I thanked him repeatedly, as San Franciscans don’t offer up unsolicited transit advice all that often.

Sure enough the bus stopped just in front of the BART station. I climbed off and descended the stairs, happy to be back on schedule and using a mode of transportation I’m entirely comfortable with.

The Internet tells me that I can take the J line to downtown from 30th and Dolores. Tomorrow I plan on going back there to figure out where that inbound stop has run off to.

EDITED TO ADD: I did all this shit in high heels.

I’m now living in San Francisco — with a picture-window view of Noe Valley and Twin Peaks — just like I’ve wanted for so long. More to come soon.

[Photo by telmo32]

Want to see The Oxford American editor Marc Smirnoff’s incredibly thin skin? Here ya go.

If I don’t have to be up until 8 a.m., I’ll set my alarm for 7:15 so that I can hit snooze five times. It’s twisted.

I try not to do it if I am staying over anywhere, but when there is no one around to hear the buzzer but me, I slap the button over and over like a pimp does an out-of-pocket trick. I love to hit the snooze button.

I know that it is bad for you. I know that you get better rest if you just get right up (even if your total sleep time is shorter). But it being bad, I think, is what makes it so great.

Hitting snooze is an act of defiance. Yes, I could get out of bed, but instead I’ll steal ten more minutes. The pillow rarely feels better than after pressing snooze. Just flip it for the cool side up, rest your head and melt away. It’s like a post-sleep nap. I like to have three or four.

It feels decadent. It feels naughty. I am able to wallow in a tiny amount of time that exists between awake and not, and it feels like giving a big fuck you to the hell that comes with facing full consciousness. These cold mornings lately I can fit in a good five to six fuck yous before finally submitting to the day.

Because a small, throw-away post can inspire such a great response. Because people have much better things to say than I. This comment from Joshua deserves its own post:

My mom and dad had to move away from SF, and they framed a Semifreddi’s wrapper, and it now hangs on the wall in their house. I thought they seemed like happier people in California, but they say oh no a place is a place. But I think the framed Semifreddi’s is a more accurate sign of the truth.

Semifreddi’s is a bakery based in the East Bay. I like their sweet baguettes a lot. I buy one at least once a week.

Just this week I noticed some instructions of the side of the bag. It said (paraphrasing), “People ask us what to do with leftover baguettes, so here’s some advice:  Day 1 - Slice and toast, then top with jam or butter. Day 2 - Cut in cubes, bake and use as croutons. Day 3 - Grate and use as breadcrumbs. Day 4 - Use to hammer nails.”

Obviously, this is awesome.

California doesn’t quite feel like Christmas.

I’ve been in the Bay Area for a year, and never once have I hung out in the Marina. However, the idea of a pocket of San Francisco (where polka dot hair and throat tattoos don’t raise an eyebrow) being overrun with popped-collared frat types and pin-thin, generic sorority blondes cracks me up.

Must go, and soon.