Woke up this morning, grabbed my bags and began a trek to St Louis. Now I could have just gotten a cab or had a friend drop me off at SFO, but no, I wanted to prove that public transportation could get me there. There was a bit of stressing as I waited for the #5 bus right outside my studio. One passed by, loaded with people and didn't even bother to stop. Luckily the next one was virtually empty and me and my bags hopped aboard after flashing the fastpass to the seemingly uninterested bus driver.
The #5 dropped me off a few steps away from the Powell St BART station. A quick recharge of my card and I hopped on the SFO/Millbrae train. An uneventful journey waiting for snippets of cell signal so I could continue conversations while BART whisked me to the airport.
We arrived at the SFO stop and I walked to the United counter, checked in to my flight to LAX, gave them my bag with the hope that it would arrive unmolested, and went through security with my metal terrorist belt. Have they turned up the sensitivity on those things? I also had to point out that my nalgene bottle was indeed void of any water of the explosive kind, and they finally permitted me to head to my third form of non-self propelled transportation.
Aboard flight 888 to LAX I enjoyed extensive leg room, a delicious beverage compliments of Julie, and tuned out the world with my headphones.
After landing, there was some confusion as I was switching to an American Airlines flight and had to walk a mile or two to get to the right terminal, hoping the entire time my bag would find its way as well. The flight from LAX to St Louis was late, but that allowed me time to consume a delicious $5.29 chicken sandwich from the fine chefs at Burger King. Then it was a long flight from LAX to STL where I watched the sun set over the mountains and drifted in and out of sleep.
After landing, it was out into the 30 degree weather and onto a Thrifty bus, which took me to pick up my pimped out Chrysler 300 with chrome rims and satellite radio (it was actually cheaper than what I had originally booked and who could resist rims, right?) I tilted my hat to the side, slid into the all leather interior, turned up the tunes an drove to the hotel, getting side tracked by the first Waffle House I had seen since November.

Now I know Rubin will argue that BART is not a train. I'm going to have to disagree. How could one forsake the very fine mode of transportation revered by the very group this task is under? And I'm reminded that they are trains everytime I hear that mechanical voice lettting me know "5 car train for Daly City" is coming.