Forget the Grind – I Took the Damn Bus with My Daughter

My daughter had a dentist appointment. I could’ve passed it off to my wife – she’s more organized, probably would've handled it smoother. But something in me said: nah, this one's mine.

I wasn’t about to waste another hour bowing to my “mice nuts” boss – the kind of guy who’ll deep-dive into decimal points and data crumbs but couldn’t spot the forest if it caught fire. Inbox zero? That’s his Everest. Vision? Lost somewhere in a report. Screw him. I wanted an adventure – not some sterile, time-blocked errand run. So I made the call: let's roll through the city, just me and my junior explorette.

Now, I could've driven. Or worse, tapped that Waymo/Uber button like every other convenience-addicted adult. But you know what builds character?

Public. Transit.

We hopped the bus. Not glamorous, but real.

Dodging slamming doors. Trying to stand your ground while the bus jostles like a rollercoaster on potholes. Watching people scatter when the transit authority boards like it’s a raid. Serious people watching — every type of character packed into one moving metal box.

Navigating the social chessboard of where to sit: not too close to the guy muttering about conspiracy theories, not too far from the exit in case you gotta bounce. It's urban survival with a side of father-daughter bonding.

It was cold out too — not pretend cold. That raw, bite-through-your-jeans kind of cold. My Junior Explorette was holding up like a champ, but I caught her shiver. I peeled off my jacket, wrapped it around her shoulders.
I was freezing. But Broviders don’t flinch when it’s time to shield their own.

The chaos, the characters, the cold — that’s life school. Not some sanitized playdate. Not another dopamine hit from a screen. Just real-world reps for both of us. She asked questions. We people-watched. We figured out the route. I showed her how to move through the city with her eyes up, not her head down.
That's bonding. That's training. That's love with purpose.

And when we finally rolled into the dentist’s office? Zero cavities. Clean sweep. All those nights of me reminding her to brush and floss – sometimes nagging, sometimes turning it into a goofy duet – they paid off. Her smile’s solid, and I’ll take some credit for that. Dad work in action.

On the way back, this woman across the aisle kept throwing us warm smiles. Eventually, she leans in and goes, “You two look exactly alike.” Then turns to my daughter and drops the line that lit me up:

“You’ve got a great dad.”

No gold star needed. That was the medal. No performance review can touch that.

Then this group of tourists flagged us down near North Beach. They looked a little lost, a little hopeful — and they clearly knew they were stepping to a confident local. I’d just survived Muni with a kid in tow. That’s combat cred.

One of them asked, “Do you know this place well?”

I looked up, still wrapped in bus grime and dad energy, and gave them an unshakable:

“Yes.”

They said, “We’re in search of a good pizza to take to the park and enjoy the sunshine.”

Say no more.

Golden Boy Pizza. No hesitation. No Yelp check. Just pure, lived-in knowledge.
My Junior Explorette double-confirmed it without missing a beat, then added:

“The crust is the best there.”

Like a tiny food critic with decades of taste wisdom. They lit up like they’d been handed a treasure map, thanked us, and set off in the direction of greatness.

We kept moving, sun on our backs, full of city grit and pizza pride. Just a couple of locals doing our part to raise the bar.

But before we wrapped the journey, my Junior Explorette tugged my sleeve. She wanted to stop by the bakery to grab a treat — not for herself, but something to bring back and share with her friends at school.

She’s already figured it out — food tastes better when you break it with your people. That quiet magic of giving, of sharing joy.

Moral? Skip the inbox. Choose the ride. Take the damn bus. Floss. Be there. Show up. Golden Boy isn't just a pizza spot – it's a vibe.

This wasn’t a dentist appointment. It was a memory.
One more brick in the foundation of a life I want to be proud of – and the kind of dad I want to be.