I can’t figure out why I love taking the Larkspur ferry. Something about being completely removed from the effort of getting into the city, maybe. No traffic, no Bart trains screaming under the bay, no choice. You will end up in SF, but right now, for the next thirty minutes, you’re stuck. I know it’s more than the views of the bay, the Golden Gate, both spans of the Bay, downtown SF, because even fogged in, the charm is there. Maybe it’s lingering memories, or simply being on the water. Maybe having that much space to move around while in transit really is that luxurious. Planes, cars, and muni, even without the smell of piss, are cramped and uncomfortable. Trains are a step up. Maybe the 1800s had this travel thing figured out. Now, if only we could bring back the blimp…
Regardless of why, it was the natural choice for getting back to sf after clearing out my room, packing it into my car, and schleping it up to Sebastopol for safe keeping. Carly was beside herself when I got home, but we took off pretty quick to make San Rafael in time for dinner before the ferry. Even so, we got so caught up in the meal I had to sprint to make the ferry and missed saying a proper goodbye to my parents. Now I’ll have that on my conscience if I explode somewhere over the Pacific.
The whole trip back to SF I spent on the back deck of the ferry, soaking in the cold. Anticipation of the heat and humidity has made Alaska and the northern lights all the more appealing. The cold may kill you, but hell is probably humid. I wanted to practice being a tourist, so I snapped a couple shots of the bay. Neither the girl with the trekking pack nor the guy paid to watch us dumbasses so that we don’t jump overboard seemed to notice, so mercifully I was alone in my shame.
32 hours.