The Long Way To Work
May 24, 2003
How a 27 mile commute turned into 105.


A couple Thursdays ago, the drive to work took me two and a half hours
and about a hundred and twenty miles.  Now normally, it's only a
thiry-five minute commute.  But I was waiting in the left turn lane of a
major intersection right after getting off the freeway and less than a
mile from the office when a curious sight caught my attention.  Making
her way along the sidewalk at the opposite corner was this tiny Asian
woman with two huge suitcases.  She'd walk six feet dragging one
suitcase, then leave that one and go back for the other one and walk that
one until it was six feet in front of the first one, and repeat.  It was
almost painful to watch.  And yet impressive, in her uncomplaining
resolve, not looking at all upset, just calmly undertaking this herculean
task one tiny step at a time.  She apparently wasn't of the same world as
you or I, we enlightened Americans who have a god-given right to
gasoline, air conditioning, and hired movers.

The light turned green, and in my typical slow fashion, I was half a mile
down the road before I managed to come to the conclusion that the right
thing to do would have been to pull over and offer a ride.  So four right
turns around the block later, I pulled into the corner gas station, where
she'd made all of about twenty-five feet of progress, to see her talking
to a taxi that had pulled up.  Ah, cool, (and darn), someone else can
save the day this time, I'm thinking.  But no, she turns down the cabbie,
probably because she's more cheap than sensible, and hey, I can
understand that.  So my turn comes, and when I ask, she hesitates only
slightly before accepting.  As I'd suspected, she was trying to get to
the BART station half a mile down the street.

Now you all know I love my little Civic hatchback and am often smugly
proud of its hauling capabilities.  Well, these two suitcases that looked
huge from far away were absolutely enormous up close and personal.
Gargantuan.  Behemoths.  Never mind fitting a small child inside, between
the two of them, you could fit the kid, her four sisters, and maybe even
grandma, too.  No kidding.  They might not be very comfortable, but
they'd fit.  Heavy, too, as the woman had to help me lift them into the
back, and even then, with the seats folded down, it took a whole lot of
shoving and straining and grunting to get both of them in there, wedged
firmly against the roof.  Holy crap, they were big. 

It's not a big surprise when she says she's headed for SFO, and at the
same time it is.  Just the first part would have been bad enough,
dragging these suitcases from the curb to the station entrance, past the
turnstiles, and up the escalator to the train platform.  But then to have
to transfer BART trains in downtown Oakland, possibly having to negotiate
another escalator to get to a different platform [I did figure out later
that the Pleasanton train would have gone straight to Colma without a
transfer], and then to have to transfer to a SamTrans bus to get to the
airport...  My mind boggled at the enormity of it all.  I've taken public
transportation from SFO to Alameda just once before, and even with just a
duffel bag and a backpack, the SamTrans-BART-AC Transit dance was a long,
arduous pain in the butt.  To attempt that with the equivalent of two
small cows--small, dead cows--my god.  And she didn't even seem that
concerned.  A little concerned, sure.  But no panic, just calm.  The
brashness, the folly...it took Columbus less balls to set out west for
the Far East.

So I'm sitting there waiting for the left arrow to turn into the BART
station parking lot.  And when it turns green, I can't do it, and I say
so.  I swing a U instead.  She turns to me and protests that it'll cost a
hundred bucks to take a cab to the airport.  Eeeep, wrong, guess again,
honey.

Forty miles later, I dropped her off at the international terminal at
SFO.  It was a pleasant drive, mostly quiet, some traffic.  We talked a
little, and the rest of the time, I just sat there amused with myself for
being nutty enough to ditch work for this and amazed with life for
throwing me this little gem in place of an ordinary Thursday morning. We
even made the San Mateo Bridge just minutes before the 10am deadline for
carpools to pass free of toll.  I'd pegged her for being in her late
thirties or early forties when I first saw her pushing those suitcases
from across the intersection, but I was way off.  She was actually
younger than I was, having just graduated with a masters degree in
finance.  Where from?  U. of Illinois, Urbana-Champaign, where
coincidentally, I'd been just the Friday before, visiting my cousin, also
an international student there, while in the Chicago area for a wedding.
You know, I never even caught her name.  But she did tell me she was in
Pleasanton to take some exam before leaving this country and returning
home to Taiwan, which she hadn't seen since she came here two years ago.

So instead of getting to work at 9:15, which would have been early for
me, I rolled in just before 11a.  Which didn't deter me from leaving a
little after 6p in order to go to my weekly ice skating.  And I didn't
even feel guilty about it (much), because I knew what I'd done that
morning had been more useful than an extra couple hours at work.

But don't tell my boss that.

--y  :)



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