Blame it on the dodgy lift at Sha’ar Zahav or the torrent of Hebrew at Chabad, but on this Saturday the animating force or higher power is public transport. And today it will do. Today’s being the morning of all mornings. After protracted California rains, there is this, blueness of sky, clarity of light, and even the 35 Eureka bus. I have misgivings about catching it. With the rains, I have been driving little, and my rustiness shows. Do I dare to eat a peach? Do I dare to park in a space?

But once aboard, the 35 Eureka reveals itself to be the right course of action. For I am not just limited in driving but in mobility. Which means that over time I cannot only grow to fear the city’s roads, but also its citizenry. And with driving so much on my mind, the 35 Eureka does offer a perspective. Miguel Street where we turn left reveals itself to be what it is, dauntingly steep. No wonder heading up this slope gives me pause. And, no, the era when I casually hit the city’s roads without so much as a thought, that is over. Being in my 20s is over. Most definitely.

The bus app on my iPhone conveys a sense of control, or at least a marvelous meshing of the urban gears. There is a bus in five minutes. Then 30 minutes. And on and on. So when the 35 has bounced its way up and over the hills between my neighborhood and the Castro District, I happily note the return possibilities. Another bus in 25 minutes. And tomorrow and tomorrow.

With my wheelchair tilted as much as it is on the hills, I do have to wedge myself into a special space mid-bus. Becoming unwedged is another matter. Somehow, lacking mechanical sense and general ingenuity, getting out of the space is much more fraught than getting in. This always happens. The bus is stopping, time is of the essence, and I’m not backing into the aisle fast enough. At this point I invariably bang against something. And on this occasion that bang knocks something off the back of my wheelchair. I can hear it, rather than see it. A kindly passenger hands me the black plastic seal that covers one of the swivels. ‘You left something,’ he observes. I shove the thing in my wallet.

I am making trouble. I am standing out. I am a cripple calling attention to himself. In short, I am drowning in shame…but I am also escaping. This is 24th St. And up the hill, one street away, is Philz Coffee. There is quite a queue. But I am quite a guy. No other reason why one of the baristas breaks with tradition and wanders over to ask me what I want. I don’t quite know. Actually, what I mean is that I don’t quite know the name of one of the 25 types of coffee on display at the other (wrong) end of the queue. I make the mistake of describing it, trying to remember the copy. Something about mocha, I tell the barista. Do I want a mocha? Oy. No. Finally it comes to me, Silken Splendor. A small one, please. And an avocado toast.

The wheelchair-height table is being occupied by someone, a very attractive woman of Indian extraction. I don’t even ask to share. Simply roll into place. She offers to move her papers. I am the man. I am the man eating the avocado toast and drinking the Silken Splendor. I am also the man checking his app, because why not? Why not get on the next 35? Things have gone so smoothly and splendidly and, yes, silkenly, might as well. Breakfast complete. Life complete. I roll down the hill holding my still very hot Silken Splendor. Next time I will have a bit more cream. This time, I do have to shove the coffee cup in the nearest bin prematurely. Never mind. Here comes the 35. Damned if I don’t have the same driver. I have gotten out. Now I am getting in.