Last summer, I switched from the Powell Street cable car lines to the California Street line, or the Cal line, as it’s colloquially known. Now, this may not seem to be such a noteworthy event, but it’s not quite as simple as changing the color of your bathroom towels. (If you’re like my ex-girlfriend, that’s not simple, either.)

The Cal line is the most demanding of the three routes, as the cars are larger and heavier than their Powell Street cousins. Some gripmen and conductors refuse to work the Cal line—they like the hustle and bustle you find on Hyde and Mason. As one gripman put it, “The Cal line is too boring for me—not enough crazy people.” (Confidentially, he’s a bit crazy himself.)

Personally, I had waited nearly four years before I decided to try my hand on California Street. At first, I didn’t care for it—the cars were too heavy, the route too boring, whereas the Powell lines have the rollercoaster curves and grades and the postcard scenery.

Then, I hear you ask, why work on California instead of Powell? (You did ask that, didn’t you?)

Each of the three lines has its own ambience. As mentioned, the Powell lines are far more exciting, with their own special brand of insanity. Sometimes it’s ‘Six Flags Over San Francisco’—hordes of camera toters clutching copies of San Francisco For Dummies, gnawing on sourdough pretzels and shivering past tables of bracelets, belts, and cats-o-nine-tails, water color paintings of Lombard Street, and caricatures of Aunt Sally perched atop the Transamerica Pyramid.

Ah, San Francisco. As much fun as it can be, though, it can get a little old after a while, and to me, the Cal line is more representative of what cable cars must have been like in their heyday, when life was a bit slower, and people weren’t in so much of a hurry. Writers like the legendary Herb Caen and the famed railroad author Lucius Beebe wrote stories of passengers who knew crewmen by name (and vice-versa), how cars would stop in the middle of the block for regulars, and the locals would treat their favorite gripmen and conductors with baked goods, and birthdays were remembered. A time when the mailman, milkman and gripman weren’t just nameless, faceless public servants, they were people you could count on, folks you would stop and chat with, say hello to, ask about their family.

They became friends. Whether it was pouring rain or blisteringly hot, the letters and packages would be delivered in a timely manner, the butter and cream would arrive fresh and cold, and the cable car would be waiting at the intersection when you walked down to the corner.

Milk is no longer delivered of course, and who uses ‘snail mail’ anymore? But over on California Street, we try to keep some of the old traditions alive. My conductor and I keep track of our regulars—there are quite a few who catch us every day at the same time, and we make it a point to be there, at the stop, on time, because we know they’re counting on us. They’ve become more than just passengers...they’ve become friends.

Quite a few of the regular passengers bring food and snacks for us (Love ya, Tuffy!). Then there’s the Bagel Man, who usually brings bags full of pastries and rolls for us.

Many a time I’ve stopped mid-block to pick up a regular, or made an extra stop to wait for one of my new friends running down the street. I’ve built up a rapport with these people, gotten to know them, their families, their likes and dislikes. I went on vacation for a few weeks and came back to, “Hey Val, where’ve you been? We missed you! Welcome back!”

They’re not just passengers anymore...they’re friends.

It seems the Cal line has managed to retain the special Victorian charm that enchanted Caen and Beebe, a throwback to a bygone era, when time wasn’t so precious, when neighbors knew each other by name. There’s a warmth and congeniality that is refreshing and rare, and reassuring as well. You become a part of it, and it becomes a part of you.

In today’s hurry-up-and-wait society, it’s nice to just amble down the street at 9.5 mph and let everyone else rush around.

I’m in no hurry. I’ve got a bagel to finish. Pass the cream cheese, would you please?