It’s about 4:30 in the afternoon. The van in the distance on the right parked two minutes ago. Never have I seen so few cars on the street. It is Day Two of PG&E’s gas line replacement project. The work crew is parking steel plates over holes they’ve excavated at the opposite cross street, and they have staged a lot of equipment on my block, including a hill of asphalt. Through all the inconvenience, I hope more good comes out of it in the form of repaving streets in the neighborhood.

This replacement project was born from the religion Pacific Gas and Electric got when one of their main natural gas transmission lines ruptured in San Bruno, California. The resulting explosion and fire took the lives of eight people, destroyed 38 houses and ruined the life of a neighborhood. It also shredded any credibility the utility had as far as assessing the condition of their gas delivery system. So when a check of their records showed a type of brittle plastic pipe, prone to cracking, was used in a mid-70′s replacement project in my neighborhood, they developed a program to replace them again. Immediately. And so the hobbyhorses went up the day after Christmas, announcing no parking on the street from 7:00 Am to 5:00 PM every day except Sunday, for 30 days. PG&E will replace the lines from the street to the meters in the homes. Upon request they will move the meter from inside the home and place it outside. I have made that request.

Yes, we'd like fries with that. And Sapporos.

There’s something for everyone in West Portal – banks, toy stores, bakeries. Three streetcar lines. A Starbucks that always – always! – has a cop stopping in for coffee. Quick access to 280, a straight shot to the beach, lots of trees, and Mediterreanean views. Hidden treasures include Stern Grove and a big Safeway on Taraval.

Pacific Gas and Electric prepares to invade my street.

The utility identified several neighborhoods in San Francisco with old, unstable PVC pipes connecting homes to their main delivery lines. These pipes are prone to cracking, raising the spectre of all sorts of unpleasant events, and must be replaced.  This work has already started in my hood, as PG&E goes block by block doing the job. It involves sidewise drilling under the sidewalk and front yard to minimize the damage to the pathway and people’s front yards. A hole is dug in the street or sidewalk  to make the connection to the main, and another excavation made for the house connection. PG&E will repair all the destroyed concrete. At some future point they will also repave the street but not until all the work in the immediate neighborhood is done.

Like many SF homes, my gas meter is in an alcove just inside the garage with a sight window in the wall  so the meter reader can read the meter. That’s unnecessary since I allowed PG&E to install a Smart reader on the gas meter earlier this year. I’d already gotten one for the electric meter just before I installed solar panels. (I don’t worry about the radiation dangers. I’m surrounded by so many radio signals from transmitting devices the FCC might require me to issue warning notices to my neighbors.)  But I am taking this opportunity to have PG&E move the meter to the outside of the house. If I do it while they are making this improvement, they will bear all the cost of the work. I will get a dangerous interface outside of my walls, and will reclaim a little space under the stairs. It also means my yard will be torn up a little more than it would be otherwise. Fortunately it is mostly dirt, and it will mean more replanting than re-paving.

A household four doors down from me has five cars. At any given time two are parked on the paved-over front yard and the rest on the street. The garage is not used for cars.  It will  be interesting logistical project when the work hits their house.

http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/object/article?f=/c/a/2011/12/11/BA0C1MB1L4.DTL&object=%2Fc%2Fpictures%2F2011%2F12%2F10%2Fba-badsanta11_0504714673.jpg

The other is eating out, and that was made possible last Saturday night by the return of MotoDad from Germany. He had already put in a request for a steak dinner, and so after a brief dalliance with Harris’ we went to Alfred’s, set in the middle of an alley just outside of Chinatown. It turned out to be a great choice; not as crowded as the Van Ness steakhouses and not as loud as the meat market that is Izzy’s. We had a big expansive table and he steaks were delivered with just the right amount of doneness. I went a little cray with a Bernaise sauce that had perfect consistency, though it could have used fresher herbs, and a polenta that was smooth with great texture.  MotoDad ordered a German beer nd I asked for the house martini, which arrived as a chilled glass and a glass shaker filled with the makings. The waiter did the necessary, poured enough of the shaker’s content into the glass to bring it a fingernail’s width from the rim, set the shaker on the table and walked away. I easily coaxed two more glasses from what was left, and the evening was perfect in every other way. Neither of us finished our steaks, bringing them home in paper bags.

A picture lasts longer.

I won’t get into the details of the day. It’s enough to say the day started well and ended in overtime. I had ridden my bicycle  in that morning, getting a late start from home. Because of that, I planned to cruise in so as not to arrive too sweaty. Despite those good intentions I was led astray by the traffic conditions. I really tried to be good, but all it takes is one rider who doesn’t anticipate traffic down the street and one truck that turns first and signals later, and there it goes: me pedaling faster to stay in front of the crainium-vacant and barking at the hearing-impaired-by-iPod.

My point for riding in was to participate in the Ride. It was the last Friday of the month, the weather was fine, and it would be a great way to start my week off of exploring and relaxing. Unfortunately, I didn’t leave until 6:45 and by the time I hit the street, the plaza was empty and the Riders had gone. I was not dispirited, though. I rode up Market Street, asking likely folks along the way if the group had passed this way. A couple of times I ran across people who needed directions. They didn’t ask but you can tell just by how they stand agog at streets that don’t line up across intersections, and even if thy come close, don’t have the same name on either side of Market. Usually I try to help, but I was selfish today and didn’t volunteer time.

I came upon a small cluster of people helping one person fix a flat tire on a bicycle. That was a sure sign the Ride was somewhere near by – no one ever is left to fix a bike by themselves. Someone helps work on the bike, and someone watches for traffic. One of them pointed up the street and there was the tail end of the group, climbing the hill up to Haight Street.

The Ride gets a lot of bad press, but the message gets lost in the action. Sometimes, the message is best told by a picture:

The mobile quick-fix guy

This guy is actually a Muni inspector. He rides a bicycle around at rush hour triaging broken-down Muni buses. The operator is on the sidewalk making a call.

What will be reported is this scene in the opposite direction:

The intersection of Haight and Stanyan.

They cheered a hovering helicopter that lit us up with its spotlight.

Police copter or news copter? The illumination provides anonymity.

We made our way down to Hardly Strictly Bluegrass, Warren Hellman’s annual gift of music in Golden Gate Park.

The entrance from John F. Kennedy Boulevard

The event organizers provide parking for thousands of bicycles. All the racks were full.

Racks further up the Drive.

I lingered here too long and lost the group.  I rode back up Cabrillo and through the Park to the Inner Sunset, and up 7th to Portola. I stopped at Tower Market to buy makings for salad. I rearranged my backpack and rolled down dark and twisty O’Shaughnessy back home. I still had four hours or so of work to do, but I decided later to park it all until Sunday night and get on with the weekend. And so it was.

And so it is I get an email from a friend on the other side of the world with a link that makes me realize my sore back, lack of sleep and unending stream of challenges at work are insignificant when faced with a power like this force:

http://fragg.me/video/japan-tsunami-inside-car

If you must know, the driver was able to escape after the 4:19 point in the video.

The parade is just a neighborhood affair, but the SFFD sends a hook and ladder truck and the Ingleside Police Department contributes a couple of cars with officers. The local car club sends a contingent of rods for display, and the Roxie Market contributes burgers, dogs and associated fixings including a birthday cake for the old U.S. Our association secretary bungees an ancient boom box to a hand truck, cues up a patriotic march on a cassette,  tapes some American flags to the handles and leads the parade, followed by the police, the hook and ladder, and all the kids in the neighborhood towing wagons, riding trikes or just walking.

As in years past, I worked the grill line for the affair, but I had time to take a few pics.

From left to right: Ron, who has done this before; Juan, who works at the Roxie and is a cook by trade, and Paul, who has lived in the neighborhood for ten years and is just fine with the idea that people don’t know where in San Francisco Mission Terrace is.

We always feed the first responders first. That gives them time to go and show their stuff.

This qualifies as “stuff.”

Everyone is a volunteer here, even the tweeners who are drafted by their parents. The tables and canopies are pulled out of people’s garages. I brought my own spatulas and Juan drove me back home to get a grill brush and fireplace poker.  The grill is borrowed from a church across the street from the Roxie.

A line of hungry people. The gent in the wheelchair is 94 years old, and used to work at the Roxie. Before that he worked in the laundry for the Fairmont Hotel. Before that he was in WWII. Before that…well, it doesn’t matter what anyone who’s 94 did before that.

Change is coming to Balboa Park. Some of the trees in the background are due to come down as part of a park renovation. The building to the left houses an indoor pool. The park also has a soccer field, two baseball diamonds, tennis courts, a children’s play park, a dog run and will soon feature a skateboard park – necessitating the removal of trees on the other side of the park. All of this and more will be upgraded as part of the renovation.

Anyway. I’d checked the NextMuni predictor before leaving the house, and as I expected, a F car was due in about 8 minutes. The F line would be fine because I wanted a slower ride in that morning. It runs above ground, and the place where I get off at Market and Fremont has a Starbucks. There are three Starbucks on the four blocks that face  that intersection, but only one makes muffin sandwiches.

That’s what I looked forward to as I opened the front door to discover heavy drizzle. I don’t mind walking in the rain but standing in it is another matter so I reached back inside for the umbrella before heading up Santa Rosa. And once there I did indeed wait. And wait. And wait some more, the predictor assuring me a streetcar would be along in three minutes, then 5, then three again, and then announcing one was arriving. Except  there was nothing on the tracks but heavy mist, and the occasional car tire, as myself and several other people stood waiting for anything to show up. A woman near me took out her phone and spoke to someone in Chinese. A few minutes later a van pulled up and in she jumped. Two women across the street that I see every morning called out to ask I heard anything.  I crossed to tell them what the predictor said. Suddenly a J car approached from downtown, and I dashed to the platform to learn what he knew. But he did not even stop, making a slashing motion across his throat as he he flew by. One of the women decided to walk to the BART station, a half mile away, and after a few minutes so did I. And that was the morning commute.

In the evening I left early to get a haircut. I took the F since it gets closest to the barber shop, but the wait was long and the F was too slow. It’s summertime and the line is crowded with tourists. The F is as bad as  the cable cars when it comes to attracting people looking for a fun San Francisco ride.  I should have taken the underground and walked the extra two blocks.

After the cut, I walked down to catch the J back home. It was a ten minute wait and when it arrived, it was only going as far as 30th Street. There we were all ordered out of the car, which turned around and headed back downtown. The next car was due in five minutes according to the predictor, but from 30th you can see the track for ten minutes of length and there was no J in sight.

But then the most amazing thing happened. An old Italian F car rattled up, and the irascible operator stopped, opened the doors and said “Get in.”

You have to understand, the F never stops going inbound. Once they are done hauling the hoi polloi up and down Market Street and along the Embarcadero, F operators head for home like greyhounds after a rabbit. They wouldn’t stop for a San Francisco fare if you waved fresh sourdough and a basket of steaming crab at them.  The folks standing on the 30th Street platform piled into the rickety streetcar like it was the last chopper out of Saigon. The operator engaged the drive and we were off.

Five yards later he stopped.

One of the passengers that boarded had been angrily berating a light pole while we were waiting. I’m sure the pole was just as apologetic as it could be, but the man’s anger wasn’t any less as he took a seat and continued his tirade from inside the streetcar. His vocabulary would have made the crew of the Carl Vinson sit up, and the passengers had all given him spitting distance clearance in the car. But the operator was having none of it. He set the brake, opened the rear door, strode to the back of the car, and ordered the man off. The guy looked at him and raised the invection a couple of levels, but he collected his bags and got off the car. The operator pulled a switch that closed the doors behind him, and went back to the controls.

And no one said a word the rest of the trip.

God, I love the F.