What a beautiful sound the leaves just made as they rustled by. A remarkably sunny December day, for all its breeziness. The sun is shining in a fall way and not a winter way. Or maybe it is in a winter way. No, not just yet. Twenty days, in fact, are left in fall.
Yesterday, on my way to work, I saw two people on the train reading Calvino. One was reading The Path to the Spiders' Nests; my translation calls it The Path to the Nest of Spiders. Singular Nest, I believe. My edition looks cooler; green and black. Hers had that stark white attempted minimalism look to it. I couldn't tell which one the other woman was reading, though I strained to see across the train.
I haven't commuted to work on BART in quite some time. I actually, surprisingly, arrived at work two minutes early, a feat I almost never achieve. And all because of coincidental, accidental, good timing.
On the way home, I took a Richmond train. Departing West Oakland, it was not crowded, though it was standing room only. At 12th Street, however, people poured onto the train. I could hear, but not quite see, a seated old black woman say loudly but without shouting, "Why don't the gentlemen give the ladies a seat? Not everyone's women's lib. Why don't they give the ladies a seat?" The man next to her begrudgingly got up, and gave his seat to a standing woman.
I was pressed against the door by a bicycle.
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