Rushing the BART train like a banshee loose from hell

I don't understand why people do this, and this happens almost on a daily basis.

Most of the time I'm one of the first people in line at the Montgomery Station by the time my train comes. I stand, patiently waiting, reading my book and listening to my music and keeping an eye out for lurkers off to my side (Lurkers = people who don't understand the concept of a line and how to use it, for example, tourists, people who don't speak English, large families and people going to the airport). If you're a true BART rider, one that's been doing it for years and years, you should know the ropes and can act without thinking. If you're first in line, then your job is that much more important because you herd all the people behind you into doing what you're doing. You must take this job seriously. I do, believe me.

So what you do is this: If the train coming isn't your train, you move to the side so that the people who need to get onto the train can move forward without trouble. When, and only when, the doors close, do you move back in line. This makes the people behind you follow the same lead unless you've got rebels in line (I'm a rebel on occasion – continue reading). I want to strangle people who are first in line but stand way off to the side instead of near where the doors will open. Those people are the most frustrating people. I try to begin line-straightening revolts by moving inward so that if everyone followed my lead, we'd be lined up with the doors. This usually ends in confusion, where people think I'm trying to create a third line, but I don't care. I don't like being off to the side where the lurkers lurk. I know where I'm supposed to be, and I'm supposed to be in the line, right here!

So when I'm first in line, I can play by my own rules, and I move to the side and allow others to get on without trouble. Actually, what it really comes down to is that I don't want to be smacked into or pushed into the BART train or just mad in general because idiot late people are rushing to the doors, trying to get on. I don't like strangers touching me, and especially those that don't even recognize that they have bashed into my bag and whirled me around. So I move. You should too.

Tonight, I was first in line and a lady came running out of nowhere down the center of the two lines. The train had been there for a while already, so I figured she had a 50/50 chance of making it. Right when she was three steps from the door, it began to close. Two steps later, the door was closed. This is the part I don't get – instead of chalking it up to the luck of the door draw (or bad luck, in her case); she stood there and stared at the door. See, if it were I, I would have been heading for the back of the line at this point. No need to drag on what just happened and how silly I looked running like a banshee out of hell to get on the BART train. But no. Not her. She was special. Oh, I didn't mention that, did I? Those that have the doors closed on them are special. In their own special way that no one else understands except them. The door is not supposed to close on them. The door should never close on them. They are in the same category as a Lurker, as far as I'm concerned. Pay attention, dummy! You're not special!

So she slowly turned her head and stared at the BART operator (dramatic). And stared. And kept on staring until the train pulled away. And if I'm first in line...well, I really don't care that you just had a door shut on you. I personally refuse to run like a loon to catch a BART train. Hey, there will be another one in 15 minutes. I can wait. So what I did was this: I moved back in line. Right next to her. And since she was only thinking about herself because she was special, she turned around and knocked right into me. Yes, that's right lady, not only does the BART operator not care about you, I don't care either. Box you in!

And you know, people do this all the time. They really do think a hard stare in the direction of the BART operator will get that door open. What they fail to understand, even though they should if they take BART long enough, is that these operators have a thing called a "schedule" to adhere to. They can't play games with people, opening and closing doors for them. Really, if the operator had opened the door for her, then 10 other people would have tried to sneak through. There has to be a stopping point. There just has to be.

I love it when these people get mad and try to find condolence with the people first in line. If it's me they talk to, then they just get a blank stare. Did I just hear something? Oh, that's right, you're special. There you are!

Walking down the street

When nothing much exciting happens on BART, I'm going to start telling my other stories because boy, howdy, do I have them.

So today I blinked my way up the escalator to Market Street. This businessman had to get in front of me because that is what businessmen do even though they don't move faster than I, so I stared at his tan suit all the way up.

I was thinking to myself, "Do I like that suit? Is that a good businessman color? Man, he's skinny...," as I rode up.

He was doing his businessman thing, reading the newspaper while paying no mind to other people, even as he stepped onto the street. Since his legs were longer than mine, he was a few steps ahead of me by the time I hit the street.

Then I saw his arm move behind him.

That only means one thing: Underwear adjustment.

You see an amazing amount of things when you're out and about. I'm not too shocked anymore because people just don't get that their habits aren't necessarily most people's and that doing them in public is a bit offsetting. I've seen a lot. The most common is nose picking. Just dig right in and see what you find!

But he didn't go for the panty line. No. His finger moved right in the center. He dug right in and kept on digging until he was satisfied. And he did this right in front of everyone on the street, like it was a common practice amongst us all (well, maybe for some of us it is common – this is SF). He didn't even sheepishly look around to see if anyone was watching him.

I was passing him up when he removed said finger. I always think of saying something to people who do these types of things, but I never do.

I got to the first alleyway that causes pedestrian problems – the one by Chipotle. There was some weird traffic backup going on, where a work truck was trying to enter from New Montgomery and a sedan was trying to exit onto New Montgomery. Because of a van being parked right at the entranceway, there was no room for both. All of us pedestrians quickly scuttled behind the work truck – hoping, as always, for the best.

The next alleyway that causes minimal problems was having a problem as well. This is the one by the Academy of Art College.

Now, you must understand the mental stability of an SF pedestrian. We don't care if you're trying to turn – we go first. We will risk foot, leg or even life to make this point. We're trying to get to work, darn it, and to work we shall get. I personally stop for red lights and will not cross until I'm told to by the sign, but when it comes to these alleyways, well, I leave my brain behind and I just don't care. Most pedestrians follow this philosophy as well. I've seen some amazing things. The only people who don't follow this philosophy are visitors. They usually just group-up in the middle of the sidewalk while trying to figure out where Union Square is.

So I was getting closer to the alleyway by the school and I saw it. A big gigantic big rig trying to turn a corner most small cars have trouble with. There were a few pedestrians waiting for the driver to do his thing, but then he decided to backup a little. Like that was going to make a difference, but still. So what do the waiting pedestrians do? They walk in front of the big rig. I kept thinking they were going to get squished because the driver was not watching them – he was backing up, darn it, and that was all he seemed to care about.

The next group of pedestrians (including yours truly) got to the corner and stood there. I surveyed the situation, knew there was no way I was going to try to dart in front of the big rig, so I stood. And waited. There was a pickup truck parked on New Montgomery, pretty close to the alleyway, and I was thinking that the big rig was going to hit it. Then I'd have to be a witness. I've been a witness in a car accident before and it was not fun. I would get random calls from insurance agents (not knowing if it was the victims agent or not), and I would have to reiterate the same story over and over, over a 6-month time period. Things begin to get fuzzy after a point, and one time I really thought I was talking to the victim's agent and it turned out to be the wild driver's agent and I felt very duped.

Anyway, so I was watching the big rig's angle, and I thought, "Uh, oh. He's not going to fit. It's going to tilt on its side and squish us like ants!"

So I casually moved backwards. Come on, I didn't want to look like being squished by a big rig freaked me out. No way. I was just going casually hang out by the wall of the Pac Bell building No one else moved. One man looked at me all perplexed, like I was breaking off from the group. How dare I. Herding instincts are a plenty on the streets of SF.

I leaned against the building and watched the big rig slowly move forward (not hitting the pickup truck, but I had pretty much decided I wasn't going to see anything anyway), hit the curb with its first set of wheels, and then jerk itself forward to go over the curb, causing the big rig to tilt to the right – where my fellow pedestrians stood.

Oh boy! Did they scatter! One lady ran over to where I was and said, "Oh! I think I should move!" Well, duh. That or risk being a pancake.

There were a few titters and nervous guffaws, and I kept thinking, what a bunch of idiots.

But then, I've already been through this situation when walking to the BART station with D a few years back. Pretty much the same thing happened, but we were too stupid or dumbfounded to move. We grabbed each other and squealed "oh!" while the truck was tipping on its side towards us.

See, live and learn. Live and learn.

My current unhappiness towards Translink continues...

As I mentioned in a previous post, a power outage caused me to send in my Translink card to get "fixed." That was Thursday? Friday? A long time ago? Over a week ago, that's for sure.

Regardless, now my Translink card with its $115.00 on it is MIA. Usually the process takes tops a week – I mail it in, they do whatever it is they do to it, and they mail it back to me. It's now Tuesday, and I have no Translink card.

I'm the type of person who procrastinates when a phone call is in order, but I'm now miffed. I've bought about five 20 dollar BART tickets during this time (for those of you who can't add – that's $100 bucks), in hopes that my lovely scratched up and tattered Translink card will show up in my mail box. Yesterday was the last straw – still no card.

So now that I'm miffed and getting more miffed as the days go by, I decided I would call today. I was going to raise holy hell, tell them how I've spent 100 bucks already on BART tickets while I have 115 bucks in suspense on my Translink card, and what the hey – this is just not good and I am mad!

I called. I got stuck in telephone button nightmare maze (if I had my Translink card, I would have just punched in the numbers and after three times of not being recognized, I would have been shuffled off to an operator) and I finally talk to a real live honest to goodness person. I wanted to be mad, but I really wasn't. Yet. So I told the lady what was going on and that I didn't have my card to give her the number.

"Oh, that's okay. What's your first name?" she said to me.

Yeah, here we go again with my unpronounceable name that is never spelled correctly. So, instead of telling her, I spelled it out (thanks, Mom...).

"J-A-N-I-N-E," I said.

"Okay, what's your last name," she said.

And the saga continues. Here we go again with my unpronounceable last name that is never spelled correctly (thanks, hubby...).

"Z-A-R-A-T-E," I said.

"What was your first name again?" she asked.

"J-A-N-I-N-E," I repeated.

I heard a lot of clickety-clicks and "hmmmms" and "uhhhs" on her end. I immediately thought that they've shredded my card and dumped me as a customer. I'm gone, my card is gone and I've lost my 115 bucks. Now I was miffed. Miffed, I say!

After what seemed an eternity where I've already planned my nasty speech to her about how Translink has made my commute a nightmare on several occasions, how my money is constantly being held in suspense (happens 1 or 2 times a year, but who's counting?), that I could have bought a discount BART ticket and saved a few bucks instead of buying a 20 dollar one every other day, that I hate them, hate them, hate them, she tells me that it was mailed out yesterday.

"Oh," I said. "Okay." I'm so easily appeased sometimes.

"They're replacing the cards for Phase 2 in a few months, so they gave you a new card," she told me.

"A new card? I'm getting a new card???" I asked. Wow! It's just like Christmas!

"Yes, that's why it was delayed a bit. Sorry for the inconvenience," she told me.

"Oh, so they took advantage of me sending it in to give me the new card now," I said. Boy, howdy, I am smart.

"Yes, I think that's what happened. Again, sorry for the delay," she said to me.

"Oh, that's okay. That's fine," I told her.

Now, all of a sudden, I wanted to chat with her about my shiny new card that won't be all gross and dirty with the plastic coating sloughing off. New cards are the best!

"Okay, have a great day," and she hung up.

What? Hey! I want to keep talking about my new card!

Passing out on the BART train

I love to read. I read on the BART train going to and from work. It passes my time and puts me to sleep. Reading, generally, is very good.

I think I'm a tough cookie when it comes to things, but as I get older, I'm slowly realizing that my tolerance for two things is fading:

1. Animals who are hurt, dying or abused, and

2. Descriptive stories about medical things

After losing my baby, Oreo, and seeing her struggle with her stroke, I can't watch any animal in pain, read or hear about animal abuse, or watch those wild life shows where animals attack each other and die. I get the same feeling in my chest as I did when I found my Oreo paralyzed in our bathroom. It's a fluttery, very bad feeling that just needs to flutter away until it's gone. I hate that feeling. I can't watch too much of the animal planet channel, or I'll feel like I'm going to pass out or cry. I usually end up crying and then I quickly get yelled at by my husband for watching the channel. I just never learn.

The medical thing used to happen mainly when women would write about pregnancy or childbirth. Both situations gross me out, although I am getting better. Anything that has to do with bodily functions that secrete juices grosses me out. I don't know why. During my wonderful and very informative sex ed class in jr. college, we had to watch these weird Scandinavian sex ed films that pretty much showed everything and could be considered on the verge of porn, but if you have some narrator spouting off about the intricacies of the human body and how wonderful it is, then I guess it's okay. Well, we had a choice. Either watch it or don't.

I watched them and almost threw up every single time.

The way I get around actually throwing up or passing out (to me, the feeling that happens to me can mean either reaction) is by taking deep breaths and looking away. So, there I was, watching two people having sex on a rotating table thing, and every so often looking away and taking deep breaths. Yes. That's me. Green to the gills and acting like a pervert. You don’t know how many times I wanted to leave, but that’s almost just as embarrassing.

So how does this relate to BART? I’ve had on several occasions read books by women that describe their childbirth experiences. What happens to me on BART is that I start feeling claustrophobic and my stomach begins to flip-flop. Right after that, I start yawning – which I’m assuming is my body’s way of trying to get oxygen. I read a sentence, start to feel ill, yawn, look out the window, and then read another sentence. Mentally, I know this is retarded. How can reading about something I’ve never gone through make me react this way? Why does childbirth particularly affect me? I really don’t know. All I know is that sometimes it can take me up to a half an hour to get through one page of descriptive writing.

So this week, I’m reading Augusten Burrough’s Magical Thinking. This is the first book I’ve read by him, and I bought his books based on a recommendation because of other authors I love. His stories are funny, interesting and I can relate to some of what he writes about (mostly those things having to do with other people – he too wishes certain people to be ran over by a wheel of a garbage truck). Pretty harmless stuff.

On Tuesday, I was reading a chapter entitled “Roof Work.” At first it was just interesting – he was describing how he felt a bubble on the roof of his mouth. Then he went on to write about popping said bubble and then the next day discovering a hole there. And there the hole remained. So off to the dentist he went, and his dentist quickly sent him to the specialist down the hall. I think I started getting ill when he realized there was a hole in the roof of his mouth. I was doing a lot of staring out the window, yawning and mentally pepping myself up to not pass-out in the car.

When he goes to the specialist, I almost lost it. And, of course, by then a man (yes – note – a MAN) sat down next to me. I was basically trapped at this point. I had thoughts of getting off the train and getting some fresh air to make myself feel better, but I didn’t want to risk sitting in an aisle seat or standing (I was in the middle of my commute by then). So I just told myself to not think about what he was writing about – over and over, and of course, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. And instead of seeming like a weirdo who was fidgeting and yawning and looking out the window, I tried to force myself to continue to read the story.

I probably got two more paragraphs in before I gave up and closed my eyes and tried to think of other things. I literally felt waves of panic and claustrophobia and nausea wash over me.

I bet you’re dying to know why I felt this way, and I feel like I shouldn’t even write about it because you may think I’m a wimp (and, admittedly, I am) or that I’ve ruined the book for you because you were about to run out and buy it to see if you’d get ill too.

Ah well, I don’t keep secrets well, so I’ll tell.

The specialist tells the author (true story as it was) that he has a congenital defect that if it was fully developed as a child, would have caused one nasty hair lip. Instead, it just waited until he hit his thirties to cause his palate to shift. The shifting caused the hole and the skin bubbled. Not a big deal, right? The specialist suggested that he clean out the hole now and get the author all fixed up so that it wouldn’t get infected. The author agreed. The specialist left and came back with one of those nasty looking dental needles and shot-up his mouth with enough Novocain to make his whole mouth and lower jaw go numb.

Then the specialist sliced the roof of his mouth open in the front, so that a flap was hanging down. He did is fancy cleaning job, placed the flap back and stitched the flap so that the stitches were wrapped around his front teeth. Black stitches nonetheless.

I write about this now, and funny enough, it doesn’t make me ill. Although it does remind me about the time I had a “chalazian” that looked a lot like a sty, but I was told it wasn’t, removed. The eye doctor shot Novocain in the inside of my lower eyelid and scrapped out my lovely chalazian. The sound of it was like balloons being chewed on. And while I didn’t feel any pain at the time, I could pretty much tell what he was doing and, well, I almost passed out then. Sometimes you just don’t know what you’re getting yourself into.

Long story short, I didn’t pass-out on the train (phew!), but I couldn’t read anymore, and I closed my eyes and hoped for the best. I kept envisioning walking out of the BART station and the cold breeze on my sick little face and that made me feel so much better.

Now you want to hear about my wrist lumpectomy?

5:15 Train

As I mentioned before, my new commute is driving me nuts. The trains are generally way over-crowded and this is something I’m not used to. I’m spoiled. I like having a bench to myself. I like being able to sit next to the window and snooze when I feel like it. I don’t like sitting next to a window seat sitter because I know at some point I’ll have to get up for them and let them out. I also don’t like standing, which luckily hasn’t happened to me yet except for the day I let my sis sit down.

Today was another 5:15pm commute train – packed and people standing and just plain annoying. I always sit in the handicap seat now because again, I don’t like having to get up for someone. Once I sit my tired and lazy butt down, I don’t want to get up again unless it’s to get off the train. So I sat down in the handicap seat that was closest to the actual row of seats (basically perpendicular to each other). There was a high turn around of riders tonight, so people were constantly sitting down and then getting off.

The guy in the window seat on the perpendicular bench to me got off after about 4 stops. The guy sitting next to him moved to the window seat. Then a lady sat down next to him. The benches on the other side went through the same cycle, and at some point everyone had their own bench except me. The perpendicular bench became empty around Hayward. I was ecstatic that I could finally sit next to the window and snooze. It was about time….

I put my book on the window seat to claim my spot. I got up. I noticed the lady directly opposite my handicap bench (who was the only one sitting on the bench) moving. I quickly moved to the perpendicular bench and sat down in the window seat.

The lady that was across from me also got up and sat down next to me.

My first thought was: What the hey? You had your own bench to yourself! Why would you move from a bench that you had to yourself to sit next to another person who obviously wanted to sit by themselves? If she hadn’t of moved, then me, the lady that was sitting next to me and her would have all been sitting on our own bench, doing our own thing, and having our own grand time. But this lady for some reason I’ll never understand sits next to me.

I’m assuming she wanted to sit in the window seat and was being passive aggressive, with an “I’ll show you, you darn BART rider!” attitude and wanted to ruin my good time alone.

So, not being shy, I immediately got up and moved right back to the bench I was sitting on. Turns out that the lady originally next to me got off at that stop, and so I had the bench to myself. I almost moved to the annoying lady’s bench to really show her. Take that, you stupid lady!

In the end, I’m not sure who won this little bench battle considering I lost my window seat and she got it. And I ended up sitting in the same spot I was sitting in the begin with. Hmm....

Snoring

Today my sis called me from work and asked what train I normally take now. Since my hours changed due to lack of knowledge how to do my job first thing in the morning, I am now leaving work at 5pm and I hate it. So I told her I would be on the 5:15pm train.

She was worried about lack of seats on the train, and I told her it’s usually standing room only by the time the train gets to Embarcadero. Feeling nice, I told her she could have my seat when she got on. I would stand.

She laughs and says that she’s read my blog and knows that I don’t move for people in her condition. I laughed and said I would. She said I wouldn’t. I said she’s my sis, and I would.

So, I got on the train and sat in the most accessible seat – the handicap bench. I figured it would be much easier to do a switcheroo there than anywhere else. Unfortunately, this lady decided standing right in front of me was the best spot in the world, so it took D a few seconds to even notice me let alone participate in the switcheroo.

I got up, blocked the way for anyone else to try to slip in, she sat down, and I stood holding the bar above my head. (Side note: I’m really too short for this, but hey, I guess I’ll do anything for my sis. I basically feel like my arm is going to rip out of my socket because I’m about 1 or 2 inches shorter than you need to be to hold onto this bar. And it makes your shirt ride up.)

So D and I were talking about work and other things when this person (and I’m still not sure if it was a man or a woman) let out a tremendous snore. One of them snorty snorts snores. How could this not wake them up? How could someone with terrible snoring habits even consider falling asleep on BART?

As I looked around to try to see what mammal was making this noise, I notice others were doing the same. It was either a man with headphones on (probably couldn’t hear himself – nah, he had to) or some lady who was spread out in her seat.

The snoring dissipated. We continued to talk.

Then – SNOOOOOOOORRRRTTTT. Oh man. Just terrible. I announced that I would be really embarrassed if that was me, which made the lady that was now standing in front of D give me a dirty look for some reason (come on, we were all thinking the same thing…). It continued for a few more minutes and then stopped. I’m not even sure if the person got off or not. Maybe they died in their seat! Asphyxiation on their own stinky breath.

Outage!

We pulled into the Montgomery Station after an extra long stop at the Embarcadero Station. Everything seemed normal. We piled out of the car and herded ourselves to the stairs and escalators. Now I just woke up, so at first I couldn't tell if it was just unusually dark in the platforms or if there were way more people than normal. I headed over to the escalator to take the right side up (the lazy person’s side – right side you stand, left side you walk up), but then I noticed it. The escalators weren’t moving.

Interesting.

So I was going to walk up the escalators like everyone else was, but then I had a scary thought of the power coming back on and all of us being thrown into each other and tumbling down three flights. Not on my agenda that morning, so I quickly excused myself through the streams of people going up and headed up via the stairs. Much safer.

After about 1 minute of huffing up the three flights of stairs, I got to the top and realized the power was out up top too. The BART ticket gates were open, and people were streaming through them – basically getting a free ride from BART that morning. Wow. What luck, I thought. Free ride! Woopee! Nothing beats a free ride.

But wait.

I don’t have a BART ticket. I use Translink, which solely runs on the need to “swipe” my card on the card reader when entering and exiting. There are no fancy tricks with Translink; the BART station agents have no control on whether my card will work or not. The past times I’ve had problems, the card reader flashes, “see station agent,” and so, like a good little commuter who doesn’t want to mail her card in to get fixed, I obligingly side-step to the station agent booth and tell them my wonderful, highly technical and everyone’s commuter dream of a card isn’t working and I need to talk to them.

I’m lucky if I get a, “what?” in response because the BART station agents do not want and I repeat do not want to talk to me simply because I am holding a Translink card. I am told to call the Translink people. I am now friends with the Translink people and don’t bother with the BART station agents unless one stops me to chat about my commuter’s dream of a card. (Fremont going to work – That station agent is always concerned why I’m not using my Translink card during those few occasions when I use a BART card. Montgomery going home – That station agent likes to give me updates on the Translink progress. The last thing he told me was that the Translink add value machines were being ripped out. I told him good cause they never worked.)

For those unfamiliar with Translink (and I know you’re out there…), it is like a credit card. Money is uploaded onto your card automatically or by uploading using an add value machine. I have my card uploaded directly from my paycheck each month. I am part of the pilot program for Translink to see if it really works. If the program is adopted by the bay area transit authority, Translink will be available to anyone and can be used on most forms of public transportation (BART, buses, Muni, ferries). I like this system. It’s convenient, and you never have to worry about your card getting wet and soggy and not reading – like a BART card. However, as I stated above, it only works by “tagging” the card to an electronic card reader. So, when the electricity goes out, so does my card. If I don’t tag it while leaving, something bizarre happens when I try to use it later on and my card doesn’t work. I’ve never understood this, and I’ve just come to accept it as the mysteries of Translink. (You would think that if you tagged your card later on, it would think you’re leaving the station (9 hours later…) and then tag it again, it would think you’re entering the station (30 seconds later), but it just doesn’t work that way.)

So I looked at the BART ticket gates, and I looked at the swing gate, and I have to quickly decide or get ran over if I want to just walk through the BART ticket gates or go through the swing gate and just try and hope and pray that my Translink card reads. Ah, but I knew better, and so I walked through the BART ticket gates like the rest of the commuters.

When I got to work, I called the Translink people, and before speaking to a real person, I had to fight with the automated system to try to get it to recognize my card. No doing. So finally, after three attempts of trying to figure out what the “pound” sign really was (the number sign? the asterisk? – what was I doing wrong???), I was shuffled off into space to talk to a real person who asked how they could help me.

“First, your system isn’t recognizing my card…,” I said.

“Oh, that’s just our phone system, sorry for the inconvenience,” says friendly Translink person.

Stupid system! And I doubted my telephone number punching abilities! The number sign is the pound sign. Or was it the asterisk? The mind games!

“Oh, well. I just wanted to make sure. Second, the power was out at the Montgomery Station and...,” was all I got in.

“Oh! Yes! Our systems indicated a power outage. That was Montgomery? I wonder what happened. I’m surprised we haven’t gotten other calls!” she said enthusiastically.

“Um, I don’t know…anyway, I need the address so I can mail my card in to get it fixed because all the other times this happened my card didn’t work when I went home, so I’m not even going to try today. I’m just mailing it in.”

“Oh! Okay, but you can go to the Lake Merritt Station and have it fixed there, but if mailing is more convenient…,” she said.

“Yes,” I interrupt, “it is. Can I just get the address?”

She gives me the address and our call ends.

Now what does this mean? I have 115 dollars on my Translink card. On average, it takes about 4-5 days to get my card “fixed” and mailed back to me (and for some strange reason, my card is mailed back with their full brochure set-up for a new customer – not only a waste of paper but of postage). So, while I’m waiting for my Translink card to show up at my house, I’m spending 20 bucks every two days on a BART ticket.

If you can’t figure out why that’s annoying, then you need to fork out almost 200 bucks a month on BART fare to figure it out.

The difference between 6am & 7am and 4pm & 5pm

This biggest difference is the amount of people.

The parking stinks -- no more good parking spaces.

The competition for seats is at a higher level.

People’s butts and elbows and bags get bashed into you if you’re sitting in an aisle seat.

It’s just plain annoying and I hate it.