I missed the number four bus by moments, so I turned around and head up Van Ness to catch the number two on Sunset Boulevard instead.
It's just as well; I suspect the Santa Monica bus will already be on detour.
A couple of blocks up, a car full of black drag queens are taking their sweet time merrily bidding adieu to each other as a couple of them exit the car.
I pass an elderly Asian woman out for her morning constitutional. At the traffic light, a questionable couple comprised of a less than handsome older white man with a lovely, younger black woman laugh as they drive west.
The bus boy nods to me as he enters the restaurant next to the bus stop to begin his morning shift. A minute later, a carload of his co-workers eases around the corner.
Car after car is a mix-mash of those heading home from Saturday night along with those heading to their Sunday morning work shifts.
The sun has yet to show any sign it will shake off the morning grey gloom. The bus is filled with two blacks, two whites, two Asians and 28 latinos, mostly women, dressed in casual clothing bearing the tell-tale signs of domestic workers. The men are mostly in jeans and sweat shirts, heading to comparable outdoor work.
After Highland, the bus begins disgorging passengers faster than they board.
Unlike most mornings on the number two, none of the women's lunch bags bear the imprint of famous stores. The only recognizable label thus far is Avon, as opposed to such recently spotted logos as Escada, Prada and Louis Vuitton.
The women bid each other good day as they disembark with Spartan, stoic fanfare.
At Peet's Coffee, a little black dog with a bright red collar eagerly waits by the door for her owner. Only one table is occupied in the window by a man engrossed in his Sunday paper with his coffee.
Here and there, the first sounds of morning float down from open windows: a shower, a radio playing softly, voices around a breakfast table.
Santa Monica Boulevard is indeed already blocked off, though there are the occasional joggers or news crews getting their equipment set up.
The sidewalk is littered with last night's residue.
A cook and a waiter share a leisurely laugh in an empty cafe.
The Star Spangled Banner is just beginning as I walk down Robertson Boulevard. I am the only pedestrian who stops.
A hundred or so runners animatedly take their places in anticipation of the annual Frontrunners Pride Run.
They are mostly in their late 20s to early 40s, a few younger or older. The ratio is 4:1 men to women. In addition to the LA Frontrunners shirts, many wear souvenirs from other runs or their alma maters.