28.05.2026
I don’t know how I always end up sprinting for the ferry every morning, but I do. My boilerplate weekday morning includes rolling out of bed at 6 o’clock, making coffee and toast, feeding all the animals, and checking in on the downfall of civilization.
Depending on my capacity for utter bullshit on any given day, when Dana gets up, I’ll switch over to the local news before getting in the shower and taking the dog for a walk. It would be easy, but ultimately unfair, to blame her for the sense of panic that always accompanies getting on the road just before 8. It is, however, an observable fact that the amount of sniffing Biscuit feels the need to accomplish is inversely related to the amount of time we have to do it.
The one thing that made moving back to the old stomping grounds feasible is the ability to take the boat from Vallejo to San Francisco instead of having to drive. My time on the road is best summed up as a mad, 80-mile-an-hour dash to the terminal. It is a nice straight shot and wouldn’t be a problem if it wasn’t for… people.
People in no particular hurry. People that don’t wait until the last minute to leave the house. People with a misplaced respect for authority and outdated speed limits (thanks for nothin’, Nixon). Basically, people who can all kiss my ass.
I suppose it is good to know that I can run if forced by circumstance to do so. I wasn’t exactly breathless when I discovered that my transit allotment had run dry and I had to buy a ticket for the ferry, but I must have appeared weathered enough to prompt the porter to look me over and ask, “senior?”
OK, it’s not that far off, five years and 59 days is sure to go by like a shot, but, come on, man.
I took the discount.
Román Leão 
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