My train ride may as well have been directed by Tim Burton. The ghosts of trees slid by me on the dusty plexi windows before I got into the city. Their silhouettes strobed the setting sun into the car. It feels like I'm in the backseat of my parents car again. Coming back from a day at the amusement park, I would follow the waves of telephone wires and feeling the sun sporatically strike my face just the same. The future of my voyage looks as if the whole of the San Francisco was swallowed up by a tidal wave, now reeling in adolescent defiance of the iron horses that guard the shores of Oakland. The walls of the mouth of the tunnel arrive and I am plunged into the darkness, save the lights that infect everything with their jaundice hue. I am on my way to the airport.
The Bart, moaning like a heartbroken banshee, comes out of the tunnels that run under the streets of San Francisco into a dense fog. The eerie glow of streetlamps and station lights color everything yellow on this gray backdrop. At least the London weather won't be a shock to my system.
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