A Strangely Jolly Commute this Morning

I did the casual carpool this morning. For those outside the SF Bay Area, the casual carpool is a way to reduce congestion during rush hour. I think it’s primarily in the East Bay (across San Francisco Bay from the City), rather than down the peninsula or in Marin county, but they may have it elsewhere, too.

 At certain randomly designated (even spontaneously discovered) corners, often near a bus stop, commuters or cars can wait for each other to share the ride across the Bay Bridge, taking advantage of carpool lanes so that they don’t have to queue and pay the toll. You pass the long queues in the toll lanes and zip right on through to the bridge.

 This means that perfect strangers can walk up to a waiting car, nod hello and get in, then the passengers read or listen to their own music, while the driver (hopefully) minds the road. Oftentimes no one says another word until we arrive at Fremont and Howard streets (a hodge podge of vehicles disgorging riders) and say our thanks and good byes.

 Other times are not so quiet. 

This morning two women sat in front, while a quiet fellow and I got in the back. The women worked together and were laughing and telling stories the whole way in, and some of it was fairly amusing. They were completely dishing their coworkers, including who should be fired and who is clueless and how to handle various people, even sharing technology solutions they had discovered for recurring problems. It sounded like a madhouse, including people throwing things and pushing each other, particularly a guy who had been there for over 20 years, whom numerous people had tried to get fired for his inability to get anything done. At one point the passenger exclaimed, through her laughter, “Everyone in our group should go to anger management!”

 “Yes,” the driver replied, “only not together.”

 And then they were really laughing. “Everyone has to go separately!”

 They also talked about their car accidents (this concerned me somewhat, and I began paying some attention to the traffic) and how much more dangerous it is in the Bay Area, compared to Los Angeles, where the driver grew up. The passenger (a younger woman) said she had begun casually surveying all of her women friends, asking who had taught them to drive. “It’s bad to say I know, but I think women don’t really learn how to drive unless they are taught by a man. I hate to be sexist, but the women I know who are good drivers were taught by men, and the women I know who aren’t were taught by women.” And they laughed some more, perhaps at the scandalousness of this.

 As we got to the City and dropped off the other guy, I spoke up and mentioned where I work—occasionally it happens the driver is going the same way, and that happened this morning, so I continued riding with them. “Just don’t ask who we work for!” they exclaimed.

 The driver said she had never been in an accident while growing up and driving in LA, and the first day she drove in the Bay Area she was in an accident, and ever since every car she had owned had been in at least a fender-bender. Explaining the first few, she complained in mildly outraged amusement about the Bay Area drivers who had caused them, but admitted the last one was her own fault. “And you know what I hit?” she asked me, chuckling. “A parked car. It was at the casual carpool pickup spot!  The car in front of me was full and I thought it was going to pull out, as I got my passengers, and I tried to pull into traffic and I hit its bumper!”

 “You see!?” The other one admonished. “The first thing my Dad would have asked is, ‘do you know the width of your own car?’”

 She felt that male teachers reinforce constant vigilance and awareness of the surroundings, knowing the dimensions of the car and what it could handle.  Personally, I’m certain women can be perfectly good driving instructors.  But I am curious about generalized distinctions, while realizing each individual brings unique talents to bear.

 Perhaps the passenger’s point was that the lesson can become focused on operating the vehicle rather than emphasizing the calculus of one’s own size and velocity in relation to the flying metal all around you. But the passenger, through her laughter, felt women get distracted by conversation, and connecting.

 Relevant to the driver’s story of being in an accident her first day of work in the Bay Area, I mentioned once moving to a new neighborhood, and the first time I got on the trolley car there the driver proceeded to drive the trolley car right out from under its trolley lines. (It never happened again, over eight years.) Instead of turning she went straight, and the trolley car was totally stranded–that really cracked them up.

“We both work for [a transit agency]!” they exclaimed.

 “We weren’t going to tell!” They were both laughing and hollering.

 “But we won’t ride it!” 

 As I got out I laughed, too, saying, “I had no idea how much I was taking my life in your own hands, here.”

After all that, the office seemed very tame.