So. We're on the BART, heading from SFO to MacArthur. It's Pride Day San Francisco. And then Hazel fell asleep. She missed the super-girl in fancy cape and sequined black cat mask. The tights with hot pants. The smushed-together-ness and the crush increasing until a full-on nigh-impossible critical threshold broke at Powell Street and spilled out onto the be-costumed platform.
("It's worse in Bejing -- every day," says one hip young rider to an older woman beside her—and then, small explanatory nod, "I lived there for a year.")
And then this. A guy—slim, Asian-American, dressed all in his riding kit (that's what the cyclists call it) and resting against a carbon-fiber whatnot, a rainbow'd something on a chain around his neck, a little cycling cap poking out from under a real helmet. The underside of this cap reads, "You belong here."
He's standing beside a woman (she is not small, nor slim) and she is also in biking gear, leaning against a sweet ride of some sort and wearing a seriously stiff red tutu. Short hair, plaid flannel, discernible muscles. They talk for a moment about where they're (separately) riding—they're standing in the same small office of space, connecting amidst the flux.
The one gets off before the first (the woman gets off later, 19th street, I think)—and the guy calls out, "Happy Sunday…" pause, a beat "—Happy Pride." You belong here.