Which is what I did. I was lucky to snag a taxi at that time of morning, and with a nice driver, too. I told him where I was going, and he sent the car into motion, deftly moving it through rush hour traffic.
Soon we were in Nob Hill. The roads cleared there, as though they were waiting for us. The asphalt was glowing with morning sunlight, and all the buildings, too. It wasn't foggy, but hazy. Sunshine fighting hard for dominance lit everything on fire.
The steely mass of the Bay Bridge popped into view, all splendor and strength, and we were flying. The taxi moved like a rollercoaster over the crests of the hills. Steep inclines and dramatic plummets sent my bladder into my gut and my gut into my throat. The speed and gravity and up and down so fast sent edorphins running all over my brain, and I fought the urge to squeal.
This is my city. This taxi ride is my commute. This thrill, this joy, this rollercoaster ride to work with postcard views spilling out from all sides is why I live here.
San Francisco remains a fairy tale city for me. A fairy tale city full of danger and crime and homelessness and human shit.
But any place where a ride to work feels like a ride at an amusement park is okay by me.