I was rushed and pushed the exact change into the ticket machine. I grabbed the ticket and then shoved it into the slot to open the doors to get through. I had to wait a second because the ticket would be spit out to me a second time as my proof of payment. I wouldn't later be able to exit without this little card. Here you're presumed a thief until proven innocent.

I flew down the concrete steps and looked for an announcement for the next train to San Francisco. Friday night 8:30 pm. and there wasn't a person in sight. Great. How could no one be waiting for a train to 'The City'? Sure I knew that I'm in the boring little green city across the bay. I knew it's no New York, London or Barcelona. But still, when would the next train even be announced?

I resignedly opened my paper and took a sip of my coffee. Just then I looked up and locked gazes with a striking looking man. Lean, fine features, and crazy frizzy brown hair piled abundantly on his head in a shape I can't describe. And he was also excellently dressed, which on this side of the bay is often a rarity. Stylish shoes and a slick black jacket with OBEY decaled on the back. Cool.

I looked away. Better to not be waiting alone. I thumbed through the paper. It was the "Best of" issue. Best Asian noodle place to eat before having sex, best piercing shop, best used clothing store... desire, desire, desire. I read on and imagined doing all the fun things that were made to do in San Francisco, if I ever could get there. The minutes hung like hours and there was no train in sight. My frustration level mounted. Maybe if I hadn't just lived in Europe for six months and gotten used to trains coming every two minutes. Maybe if it wasn't a Friday night, maybe if I wasn't trying to get into "The City," one of the most populated places this side of the Mississippi.

Finally, in a moment of exasperated spontaneity, I called out to frizzyboy "Are we ever going to get to San Francisco?!" He smiled and then grinned and said, "It's going to come, you know, it's a Friday night." "A Friday night!" I exploded, "where are all the people going into The City?" He grinned again; "they're not taking the Bart." I rolled my eyes petulantly. He responded, "They'd have to leave by midnight." And both of us knew we weren't going to finish our evenings that early, he'd be sleeping at a friend he told me.

I signaled my displeasure again by throwing myself back into the rag that lay upon my lap. And lo and behold a Bart bound for San Francisco thundered into the station. We stood a few feet from each other as we waited for its doors to open. He got in first and seated himself by the window. Without a moment's hesitation I followed him, sliding into the seat next to him. We resumed talking, this time about more intimate things.

I've been living in Barcelona, I told him matter of factly. And I guess I'm used to constant trains going into the center, every two minutes! And on a Friday night, a lot of people. He asked why I've been living in Barcelona and I told him how I fell in love with it on a one week trip last May. He had spent one day there- driving in from France but got lost on the road out. Back to talking about cars and trains and the joy of staying out ALL NIGHT in Barcelona, always able to get home on a train or 'night bus.'