Parkfairfax

Sometimes I am surprised by what it is I miss about our time living in DC. I wasn't surprised to miss my friends or even some of our favorite restaurants, but I wasn't expecting to miss my old neighborhood. When we "lived in DC," we weren't actually in DC--we were in the Northern Virginia suburbs. I went out a month before we moved to find a place for us to live, with visions of a cute basement apartment in Georgetown or a row house in Adams-Morgan, or maybe some sort of apartment in Dupont Circle. But the reality of all those things wasn't exactly what I'd pictured--the Georgetown basements I looked at were dim and cramped, Adams-Morgan was out of our price range, and the one Dupont high rise I checked out was...a high rise. I was soon calling about listings in Arlington and Alexandria, and on the morning of the second day of my househunt, I took a bus from the metro to a development in Alexandria which had cute, colonial brick condos, plenty of trees, and even parking. I called Brian afterwards to tell him I thought I'd found us our place, excitedly telling him that it was large, full of light, and not a bad commute for either of us, although it wasn't on the metro. I'd lived my whole life in the suburbs, and, in spite of romantic ideas of city life, apparently that wasn't going to change any time soon.

We lived in that neighborhood, Parkfairfax, for all of our five years. After three years, when we wanted to move to a place with an extra room and a washer/dryer (and when our landlord wanted to sell the unit we were living in), we moved just down the street from the place I originally picked out. Parkfairfax was built during the 1940s, just a little south of the Pentagon. There were some things about the apartments that let you know that the place had been built that long ago--weird wiring for the light switches, and original wood countertops in some kitchens. There was a condo association that kept everything looking rather Camazotz, I suppose--they had an azalea sale every May and a bulb sale every fall, so that most people's gardens were similar, and there were rules about what you could have out on your patio--but it did seem sweet and even sort of quaint. As a Californian, I was amazed that the large lawns weren't watered--they just stayed green most of the year--and by the brick buildings, which I was pretty sure meant we were all doomed in the event of an earthquake.

Mostly I miss Parkfairfax in the evenings when I close the blinds in my bedroom so that the people in the next building five yards away can't peer directly into our windows. I miss my Parkfairfax bedroooms. In our first apartment there, our windows were at ground level, but they were partially hidden by large azaleas. I could lie in bed and peer through the bushes at our little patio. Our second place in Parkfairfax lacked a patio, but the bedroom window was perfect: nearly right up against it was a dogwood tree, and an oak towered over the open space below us. In the winter the trees were bare, and we could sort of see across to other apartments, but they were far enough away that we couldn't see much. In the spring the dogwood bloomed, and then it and the oak leafed out, keeping our room relatively cool and shaded--in fact, I hadn't realized how much darker our room was in the summer until I stood there just before we moved and remembered how bright our room had been as I'd laid in bed in labor with Adriana back in January.

But what started me thinking about this was something that completely took me by surprise. When I went to vote on Tuesday, I missed voting in Parkfairfax. I loved getting ready for work a little earlier than usual and then walking over to the nearby synagogue to stand in line with my neighbors while we waited our turn. Even if I didn't know many of them by name, we recognized each other from our bus rides (I think half the neighborhood rode the bus to the Pentagon Metro every day) and walks, and we would all nod and smile politely. The last time we voted, when I was quite pregnant, we waited with a man who lived across the street from us and rode the bus at the same time most mornings, and as he stood with his two-year-old in his arms, he joked with Brian about doing curls to get ready for our baby. When I was sent to wait in another line because when we'd moved the previous year I hadn't changed my address but the registrar somehow knew about it, I wasn't the only one in that line who had to change my registration right there because I had moved within the precinct. Maybe I'll feel differently when we've lived here a bit longer, and perhaps the fact that not working means I was able to vote after lunch, when there wasn't any line, rather than before heading in to the office. But I definitely missed my old community this week.

Baby's first rally

Today Adriana and I are headed for Capitol Hill, for a nurse-in to support the re-introduction of Congresswoman Maloney's Breastfeeding Promotion Act. You can read about the rally and the legislation here. And if you're in DC, you should join us.

Blossoming

Two years ago I walked around Tidal Basin, admiring the cherry blossoms and thinking that in another year I'd be one of the new parents taking pictures of a baby underneath the flowering trees.

Last year I walked around Tidal Basin, admiring the cherry blossoms and thinking that I was supposed to be preparing for the birth of my baby in April, while trying not to stare too much at the couples pushing babies in strollers.

I don't think the cherry blossoms are as spectacular this year as they have been the past couple. Maybe I got there too much beyond their peak. Or maybe I am just happily distracted.

Damn Yankees

As I was picking out cheese at Whole Foods on the other day, an African-American man in his late thirties turned to me.

"Do you know the difference between the New York cheddar and the Wisconsin cheddar?" he asked me.

"I think the New York one tastes better. And the Wisconsin one melts kind of funny. It gets rubbery," I told him, putting a block of the New York cheddar in my cart.

"I want to put it on my grits."

I looked at him blankly. "Grits? I don't think I've ever had grits."*

He gave me a good-humored look of disbelief and asked a passing Whole Foods employee, who, like me, was a white woman in her twenties, about the difference. She told him that the New York cheddar was sharper, and didn't have a good answer for him when he asked about his grits. She was midsentence when another employee passed us.

"Excuse me," he said to this second employee, a young, African-American woman. "Which cheddar should I put on my grits?"

"The New York one," she said immediately without even stopping completely to look at what he was talking about.


*Brian pointed out to me later that I have had grits. But I top it with parmesan and call it polenta.

I heart DC (most of the time)

We've made up our minds to leave the DC area...and we mean it this time. After a few years of talking about it, we've decided that now is really the time to get back to California. We always knew this move was temporary for us, figuring that we'd stay only four years--two for me to go to graduate school, and two for me to work in my field in Washington. Now it's been five, and it's time to go. We're eager to get back to the West Coast, but there are certain things I'll certainly miss.

Even though it was supposed to rain yesterday, I desperately wanted to get out of the house. I wasn't sure about going down to Tidal Basin to see the cherry blossoms, as that would be a bit of a walk from the Metro and I didn't want to get caught in the rain with the baby for too long. We decided that we'd head down to the Mall anyhow, and check out Natural History or Air & Space. On our way toward Natural History from L'Enfant Plaza via the Sculpture Garden, though, a poster outside the Hirshhorn Gallery caught my eye. An exhibit in which light is the main feature in all the works appealed to me, so we headed inside.

The exhibit was fun--definitely worth checking out if you're in the neighborhood, and maybe even worth a trip down to the Hirshhorn, especially if you've never been before (I hadn't)--and afterward we checked out some of the sculpture on the same floor. Two pieces by German sculptor Ernst Barlach were my favorites:

I love that we can wander into a museum to see a single exhibit without worrying that we should spend a whole day in order to get our money's worth; it's hard to feel cheated out of your money when you haven't spent any. And I'll miss having so many free museums so nearby to choose from.

I think proximity to family and the beach will make up for that, though.

Lions and tigers and bears

I have a confession to make: as cute as Tai Shan is, I prefer the tigers to the pandas at the National Zoo. I worried that admitting something less than absolute devotion to Butterstick would mean that I could no longer be a Washingtonian, but then I remembered that I live in Virginia anyhow.

I've made it my goal to get out of the house every day. If I sit at home, I just worry too much about when the baby's going to come. So we made it outdoors for walks on both Saturday and Sunday, but I fell down on meeting the goal on Monday and Tuesday. Yesterday I overcompensated by spending three hours walking around the zoo. I must say that a weekday in early January (especially one that is 60 degrees and mostly sunny) is a much better day to be at the zoo than Memorial Day, which was the last time I went. That day it was completely crowded and miserably hot. Yesterday it was fairly empty, so I had lots of chats with the docents, and it was so nice that I could have even walked around with no coat. I kept the coat on, because it is longer than my maternity sweaters, which I am apparently outgrowing, as they keep riding up and exposing my belly.

The tigers were my favorite part of the trip. Yes, Tai Shan is adorable, but he just sits in the tree or lies around eating bamboo. Cute, but not quite the same as the tiger cubs. The cubs were too new to be on exhibit back in May, so this was the first time I got to see them. They are no longer the cute, squishy, kissable little kitty cats that I saw pictures of over the summer. Now they mostly look like smaller versions of their parents. Still, they are fun to watch play, especially when they are pouncing on their mom.









Oh, and there are also gorillas and sloth bears and lions. And a lot of other critters that I didn't get photos of, because three hours on my feet got to be a bit much. I needed to concentrate on keeping myself moving, not taking pictures.

Five years

Traffic was slow this morning in the HOV lanes on 395. As we inched toward the exit for the Pentagon, everyone on the bus was quiet, lost in their thoughts or reading the paper.

I watched a plane on its ascent from National climbing across the grey sky over the Pentagon, and suddenly my mind stopped drifting and I remembered the date. I saw other people on the bus turn to watch the plane, and I imagined that we were all thinking the same thing.

Pizza, love, and happiness

I remember my mother telling me that I would outgrow my love of pizza, but I’m 27 now and it still hasn’t happened. On a day I had spent too much time walking around in the heat and wasn’t feeling well, a friend proposed going out for dinner. I didn’t know if the reason nothing she suggested sounded good was that I was feeling ill or if the things she suggested didn’t appeal to me. “What about pizza?” she asked. I shook my head and wrinkled my nose. “Okay, then something’s wrong with you. You always want pizza,” she told me. (I got very, very sick that night. Lesson learned: When it’s over 90 degrees even before you account for humidity, a walk from Dupont Circle to Georgetown to the Lincoln Memorial and back to Georgetown is a BAD idea, no matter how much water you drink.)

Instead of outgrowing my love of pizza, my taste in it just got more expensive. Back when we first started dating, The Husband and I would always go to Pizza My Heart on Pacific Avenue, where I would get a slice of the (thin crust) pepperoni pizza and a root beer. Now I make him take me out for a brick oven pie and wine. I think he wonders what happened to the cheap date he married.

Last weekend, after wandering around the Mall for the Kite Festival, we walked up to Kramerbooks so I could pick up a book I’ve been wanting. As we headed down the escalator into the Metro, I suddenly pointed out to The Husband that we were in the proximity of excellent pizza, and it was early enough yet that the wait for a table wouldn’t be horrible. At the bottom of the escalator we turned around and headed back up.

As I opened the door I realized that at 6 pm there was already something of a wait—40 minutes, unless we were willing to sit at the counter, the waiter said. The seats at the counter were completely empty. We weren’t going to argue with that.

We ordered the pizza and wine from the specials menu.We watched the folks behind the counter put together the pizzas—spreading tomatoes, sprinkling cheese, drizzling olive oil—while we sipped our wine. The cooks moved efficiently around the small work area, putting pizzas together, sliding them into the oven, pulling them out when they were ready, and quickly slicing them. We watched the fire burning in the oven and saw our pizza being pulled out. As we bit into our piping hot pie, I wondered why I didn’t eat an early pizza dinner at the counter every weekend. The pizza bianca, topped with mozzarella, fontina, sun-dried tomatoes, garlic, and rosemary was heavenly.

******

We (well, I) have carefully ranked our favorite pizza places in the Washington area, based on the quality of the pizza. I’m not going to be saying anything here that people who live in the area don’t already know, but I thought I’d put this out there:

The number one pizza place is 2 Amys. The pizza is absolutely fantastic—very much like the pizza we ate in Italy last spring. The crusts are perfect and the toppings are high quality and absolutely delicious. Once I chose a pizza from the specials menu, but for the most part I stick with the basic pizza margherita. I can’t argue with fresh tomato, buffalo mozzarella, and basil. The only problem with 2 Amys is that it’s everyone else’s favorite pizza place, too, or so it seems. The first time we showed up, at 8 o’clock on a Friday night, we waited an hour and a half for a table. Now we only go for lunch or when we’ve put off doing anything about dinner until 10 pm on a weekend (which means we only wait twenty minutes to half an hour to be seated).

Second on our list is Pizzeria Paradiso, where we ended up on Saturday. I fell in love with this pizza before we moved to Washington, when we were here to attend graduate school open houses. It was one of the first times I’d had brick oven pizza, and I was absolutely starving, so I thought I had found the world’s most perfect food (well, after ice cream). The wait here is long, too, and after we discovered 2 Amys, I wondered why I was willing to wait so long. But I’ve been seated very quickly at lunchtime, at both the Dupont Circle and Georgetown locations. And, as it turns out, if you go early and sit at the counter, there’s no wait at all. Plus, I like the t-shirts worn by the staff: “Eat your pizza,” they say across the back.

We go to our third favorite pizza place more often than the other two. Faccia Luna has a couple of local branches, and we frequent the one in Old Town Alexandria. The pizza is consistently good, although I don’t think it’s quite as good as either 2 Amys or Paradiso. But we rarely have to wait for a table, especially not on weeknights. The big booths with high backs are a nice change from the little tables at our other pizza places, and they recently eliminated smoking in the bar area, which is awesome. An added bonus is that Faccia Luna has a lot of great pastas as well, so even if we don’t want pizza, we often end up here. Oh, and they have great root beer, if you’re not in the mood for wine.

March miscellany

A few unconnected items:

It did not actually snow yesterday. I treated myself to a peppermint hot chocolate anyhow. And although it was cold, I was not horribly uncomfortable waiting for a bus after work last night, in spite of the fact that I forgot to wear a hat, a scarf, or gloves. (Look, I got out of the house with a coat, my lunch, my house keys, and my Metro card. I think that's pretty good.) It didn’t even begin to rain until I was curled up in bed with my book.


The Husband and I decided to try Indique after getting recommendations from several friends. Now I only regret that we waited so long to try it. Our curries were wonderfully spicy—the chickpeas in the aloo chole cooked to creamy perfection, the eggplant in the baingan bhartha rich and smoky. And the restaurant’s variation on samosas was almost too good to be true. Also? Spell check thinks I’m doing a crappy job on this paragraph.


Ohio State Senator Robert Hagan rocks my socks.


I finally finished Parting the Waters. It was a wonderful book, but after reading exciting chapters on the Freedom Rides, the movements in Albany and Birmingham, and the March on Washington, the last few pages of tying up loose ends was sort of a let down. I suppose it’s the nature of that sort of book, though. I’m taking a break to read some fiction, and then I’ll move on to Pillar of Fire. I figure that by the time I’m done with that At Canaan’s Edge will be out in soft cover.


I am listening to Gillian Welch right now, and quite enjoying her. When Joan Baez included to Gillian Welch songs on Dark Chords on a Big Guitar I thought I should probably get an album. Then El Jefe recommended her to me. Finally I got Hell Among the Yearlings and Time (The Relevator). Both are excellent, although The Husband finds her "too twangy" for his tastes.


I love that the days are getting longer and that the sun is coming up earlier. It makes it so much easier to get up. But I still get funny looks at work for saying things like “I was surprised by how cloudy it turned out to be today. The sky was so clear and red this morning as the sun was coming up.”


I didn’t grow up watching basketball, but I have somehow been liking the college basketball tournament this year. Maybe I just like tournaments: I enjoy the NBA finals, as well. Maybe it's that, in spite of defending the pace of baseball to non-fans, I do enjoy the quicker pace of basketball. Or maybe as a vertically-challenged individual I am just amazed by the size of basketball players. Anyhow, I didn’t fill out a bracket, but I do have teams I’m cheering for. I’m not telling who they are, though. Don’t want to jinx anything.


Speaking of baseball: two weeks until opening day!


I got a call this afternoon from a man from some catering place about bagels for a meeting. He kept asking for Nadia. I kept telling him he had the wrong number. He kept asking if he had the right university. And I would say yes, but I'm not the person you need to talk to. He would ask me to connect him to Nadia. But he didn't know Nadia who or what department she was with. He just needed to talk to someone named Nadia and worked at the university. He told me that he thought she was Muslim. I didn’t find that information very helpful. I asked him what number he was calling. He read me off a number that wasn't mine. I said that wasn't my number, that he must have dialed wrong (but it was way off, so I didn't know how he got to me). Finally he told me that that number was busy, so he had tried my number instead. What the hell? I told him he needed to call back the other number. He asked me how many bagels I needed. I hung up.

Why I live here

I realized how much time I spend lately complaining about the weather and various other aspects of the Washington area. And while I could do with some decent weather (that holds, not just that teases with promises of springtime for a weekend before disappearing again) and some lunch from my favorite taqueria, I do love where I am right now.

I love being in a big city where Things Happen. When something important is going on, I can be there for it. Two months after we moved here, I participated in an anti-war rally on the National Mall with hundreds of thousands of other people. The following spring, I heard Peter, Paul, and Mary sing peace songs at the base of the Lincoln Memorial, and stood outside the Supreme Court when the Court was hearing the Michigan affirmative action case. I shook Coretta Scott King’s hand the day a marker was unveiled at the Lincoln Memorial to commemorate her husband’s famous speech there in 1963. When Rosa Parks died, I stood in line for hours to pay my respects to her in the Capitol Rotunda.

I love being in a city of free things. I can go into a museum for just a short time and not feel that I’ve wasted my money by not staying longer. I can go hear free music at the Kennedy Center every night if I feel like it—and I’ve heard Odetta, John McCutcheon, and Bobby McFerrin there, along with some classical and world music that I normally wouldn’t have the opportunity to experience, all for the cost of the Metro ride it took to get me there.

I love that nearly everyone I interact with here is very politically aware, and, for the most part, have seriously considered their political opinions. By going to graduate school in public policy, I admit I have likely selected into a social circle that tends towards political awareness, but I think it’s just something generally a part of the city’s culture.

I love the simple novelty of being in the capital—of turning the corner at night and seeing the Capitol dome lit up against the sky; of flying kites down by the Washington Monument; of braving the crowds to wander among the cherry trees at Tidal Basin; of seeing a sign in the Metro station directing me to the White House.

I love it here, but I know we won’t stay forever. Our families are in California. Better weather is in California. Great Mexican food is in California. Our favorite beaches are in California. And there are some things about Washington I won’t miss.

I won’t miss being considered the liberal one, shocking my fellow graduate students by advocating for the legalization of medical marijuana (and I am so glad I didn’t do my project on general legalization of it) or by admitting to have voluntarily subscribed to The Nation.

I won’t miss the button-down boringness of downtown Washington on a weekday, or the fact that pretty much all the women here shave their legs, making me feel freakish if I don’t.

I won’t miss the cynicism that so many people have, even for the causes they are most passionate about. I tell myself that I will get out before I turn cynical too, but maybe it’s too late.

I won’t miss the painfully hot summers or icy spring days.

But most of those complaints seem awfully trivial when I look at the positive aspects of living here. I’ll be moving back to the West Coast one of these days—family, Mexican food, and the ocean will make certain of that. But I will still be sad to leave DC.

And yet I don't just move back to California

Weather or commute…weather or commute…..I’ll go with a weather post today. Or maybe...both.

Today is the vernal equinox. A couple of weeks ago we started having some very spring-like weather. Last Monday, highs were in the 80s. Today the high was around 50 degrees. Tomorrow? Tomorrow it is supposed to snow—snow, which will turn into “wintry mix.” The first time after moving to DC that I saw wintry mix in the forecast, I asked a friend from Michigan what exactly that meant.

“Nothin’ good,” he told me. And then he went outside in a t-shirt to smoke a cigarette, because it may have been cold, but it wasn’t as bad as Michigan.

I have very clear memories of classes being held outside on the lawn at UC Santa Cruz in February. So I don’t cope well with icy weather in March. It just feels wrong. And I fear the wintry mix tomorrow, because last year we had wintry mix in March, and it just didn’t go well.

I woke up at a reasonable hour and got ready for work, but I missed my regular bus because I couldn’t find my umbrella or keys. When I finally got my act together and went outside to wait for the next bus, the bus that came sped by me without stopping. I chased it for a few steps, hoping that someone on the bus would see me and tell the driver to stop, but I was too afraid of slipping to be willing to chase very far. I went back into the house to wait awhile for the next bus, since standing outside in the icy rain wasn’t proving very pleasant.

The next bus stopped to let me on, and when I arrived at the Pentagon station, a blue line train was just arriving. It was fairly full, and with several people standing in the doorways, I wasn’t able to push my way on. I waited for the next train, which ended up being good: the train was empty enough that I got a seat, and for an added bonus, the conductor sounded just like Sean Connery.

As I came up the escalator at Foggy Bottom, I was pelted with more icy rain mixed with snow. Wintry mix, indeed. I opened my umbrella, but as I turned onto Washington Circle, the wind snapped two of the spokes of the umbrella, rendering it pretty useless. I told myself that with wind like that the umbrella wouldn’t have done much good anyhow, and dropped it into a trash can I passed. I took a hat out of my backpack, thinking that would keep at least my head warm and dry. Which I’m sure it would have if I hadn’t promptly dropped in into an icy puddle. I picked it up and shook it off, debating whether I ought to try to wear it anyhow. Deciding against it, I hurried toward the bus stop.

I waited and Pennsylvania and 24^th for the light to turn. As cars rushed by me in one direction, three buses stopped across the street and pulled away in the other. I thought as many swear words as I could as the light finally changed and I proceeded across the street to wait for the next bus(es).

I shivered at the bus stop. Finding camaraderie in the chilly day, my fellow bus riders and I grumbled about how the buses were supposed to be ten minutes apart, but they came thirty minutes apart in packs of threes. We waited there, with me getting wetter and chillier as the rain continued, and I began to feel less affectionate toward the other people waiting as they began to comment on my lack of umbrella and hat.

“Boy, you look cold.”

“Shouldn’t you be wearing a hat?”

“Forgot your umbrella today, eh?”

Bastards, I thought, and politely explained my predicament. A man about my age offered to share his umbrella with me. Actually, he offered me his hat, too, but that seemed weird, and I only took him up on the umbrella offer until the next pack of buses showed up.

When I arrived at the office I dropped my things at my desk and went to put my lunch in the refrigerator. There were several women in the kitchen, making their coffee and tea and talking.

“Have you been outside?” one asked. “Or did you just wash your hair?”

I explained about my wait for the bus and went back to my desk, leaving them laughing in the kitchen. A co-worker stopped by my cube asked me if I wanted to run to Starbucks with her. I declared that I was not going outside ever again, and gave her money to get me a peppermint hot chocolate.

Someone apparently mentioned it to The Boss (no, not Bruce Springsteen; my boss), because he stopped by when he got in, just as I was recounting the tale of my morning to a friend in an email with the subject “Today sucks. A lot.” I told The Boss that it was a damn miracle (or a sign of my stupidity) that I didn’t turn around and go home after I dropped my hat in the puddle, or even after I saw those three buses passing me by on Pennsylvania. I could have gone home, curled up under the nice, warm covers, and tried again the next day. Or perhaps the next month. It’s never snowed on me here in April (Am so knocking on wood, here). He agreed that I showed remarkable dedication to my job, even when faced with evil wintry mix. But he didn’t offer me a raise or a cookie.

So wish me luck tomorrow, would you? And cross your fingers that this doesn’t kill off the cherry blossoms before they even get to bloom.

I think I’m going to move this site to hereswhathappenedonmywaytoworktoday.blogspot.com, because really, that’s all I ever have stories about.

I got on the bus outside the Spanish embassy this morning. As I swiped my SmarTrip card, I realize that there was a man at the driver’s window and a little black Mercedes parked just in front of the bus with the door open.

“You cut me off. You almost hit me,” the man at the window was saying. “Do you know who I am?”

I moved back into the bus and settled myself at a window on the left side so I could watch what was happening. I could no longer see the driver, but I could keep an eye on the man. The bus driver at first apologized to the man, offering some sort of explanation about not seeing the car and needing to move over.

The man at the bus window, a white man with grey hair and glasses, wearing a dark suit, continued to berate the driver and threatened to call his supervisor. The bus driver lost his apologetic tone, and asked the man to move his car so that he could continue his route. The angry driver repeated his threat.

“Call my supervisor. Here’s the number. Here’s my name.” It’s actually not the first time I’ve seen a bus driver offer this information to someone who was harassing him. The last time it happened, the bus driver then ordered the angry passenger off the bus, on a route where the buses ran only every hour. I had been glad to see the woman gone, as she had been terribly rude to the bus driver—something I think should be a crime, since I depend on these folks to get me around town.

“Don’t think I won’t,” the man said, grabbing a slip of paper away from the driver. “Do you know who you just cut off?”

“An asshole in a fancy car,” the bus driver replied. “You’ve yelled at me, you have the information, now get in your car and get out of my way.”

Without another word, the man went back to his car. I wish I could have figured out who he was, since he clearly thought he ought to be recognized. It would have been awesome to post his name on the internet.

Spring has sprung

I think I handle DC winters pretty well for a Californian. Granted, our winters don’t tend to be as terrible as they could be, and I’m from Northern California, where it did get sort of cold during the winter months. The colder weather here is still a bit novel for me, and for awhile I don’t mind it too much, especially when we get some snow. It turns out, though, that sometime toward the end of February I reach my breaking point. I just get to the point where I don't want to cope with it anymore. In a conversation with a friend in Southern California a couple of weeks ago, I made light of the weather, saying that yes, it was only going to get up to 35 that day, but by mid-week it was supposed to be back up in the 50s.

“Back up in the 50s?” He sounded appalled.

Shortly after that conversation, my patience with the weather wore off. I felt cranky all the time. I stood in front of my closet in the morning, wrinkling my nose at the sweaters I’d been wearing all winter, looking wistfully at the skirts that had been shoved down to the end of the rod.

During the winter I changed my route between work and the Metro, opting for a longer walk that lengthened my train ride by one station, because at least on that route I didn’t have to cross the Key Bridge, where I think it is a good 15 degrees colder from the wind over the Potomac. On Thursday the National Park Service announced the prediction for the cherry blossoms, and that evening, I left work and headed for the bridge.

People were out walking their dogs through Georgetown, talking with their neighbors. Most of the trees are still bare, but I noticed little buds on a forsythia in one yard (at least, I think it was a forsythia—it looked similar to what someone informed me is a forsythia in front of my old apartment, but the buds weren’t yellow. Can a forsythia have white flowers?), and some of the bulbs that have been trying to come up since our warm weather at the end of January are finally starting to look like they will bloom. I passed over the Key Bridge, wearing a cotton sweater, my pea coat tucked under my arm. The eight crew teams that I counted reminded me of the bugs that skated across the surface of the creek near my house during the summers when I was little.

Today was even better. Even this morning I was comfortable walking to work in a t-shirt and jeans. This evening, the sidewalks were packed with people. Restaurants in Georgetown had their front windows opened up to the street. A lot of women were wearing skirts, and I eyed them enviously, and wiggled my toes in my shoes, wishing I had at least worn sandals. I sat outside with bare feet, sipping a drink and waiting for The Husband to get home as it grew dark.

It’s supposed to be back down in the 50s next week, but I’m trying not to think about that.

Memory: August 22, 2003

It was a hot Friday, and the last day of my summer internship. I left the office at noon, saying goodbye to my boss, and walked from Dupont Circle up to Georgetown to do some errands on campus. I stopped in at my graduate program office to refill my water bottle and check my email. I mentioned to the guy at the computer next to me that I was planning on going to the ceremony at the Lincoln Memorial for the unveiling of the engraving that marked where Martin Luther King, Jr., had stood when he gave his I Have A Dream speech at the March on Washington, and he said he would come with me. There was to be a larger event on the Mall over the weekend, marking the 40^th anniversary of the march.

We walked across the Key Bridge to the Rosslyn metro station. There was something of a breeze as we crossed the Potomac, and I felt a little cooler than I had for most of the day. We went one stop to Foggy Bottom and then walked down 23^rd to the Mall.

There were chairs set up at the Memorial, but not very many people were around. Josh and I tried to figure if we were allowed to sit anywhere we wanted. It seemed strange that we were allowed to sit so close. We had both finished the water we had brought with us, and Josh went to buy more. I sat in my folding chair, feeling sweat trickle down the backs of my legs, while I watched a little boy and his dad as they studied the cardboard copy of the marker. The man was white, but the little boy had darker skin. He was full of energy, and seemed not to notice the heat.

I remembered a story told by a professor I had worked for at Santa Cruz. I was a teaching assistant in his course on the Civil Rights movement, and he told us about a friend of his who had been at the March on Washington. It had been horribly hot that day and his friend had left early—before King spoke. I had wondered at the time I heard the story how anyone could have left such an important event. Now, sitting in the sun on an August afternoon in Washington, I completely understood. Finally Josh came back with two bottles of water for each of us, and I held one against my forehead for a minute. I wanted to lift my hair off the back of my neck, but I was embarrassed to raise my arms and show the stains that I was sure were there.

By the time the ceremony started, I had already finished one of the bottles. There were speeches, most of which I don’t remember. I know John Lewis spoke, and Eleanor Holmes Norton.

Then they played part of the speech. I sat on at the Lincoln Memorial, looking up at icons of the Civil Rights movement, listening to Martin Luther King’s words booming over the loudspeaker. I cried. I wasn’t the only one.

When the ceremony ended, everyone climbed the steps to see the plaque. I am glad I was with Josh. He was more assertive than I was. I started to hang back a bit, but he said “Come on,” and I followed.

We walked up to the plaque and I stared down at it for minute, somehow able to tune out the jostling around me.

I HAVE A DREAM

MARTIN LUTHER KING, JR.

THE MARCH ON WASHINGTON

FOR JOBS AND FREEDOM

AUGUST 28, 1963

And I looked down over the Mall, trying to imagine being there when it was as crowded as I had seen it in black-and-white film footage we’d watched in class at Santa Cruz.

Suddenly, I was shaking hands with John Lewis and listening to Josh speak to him, although I don’t remember what he said. I turned and there was Coretta Scott King. She saw me looking at her, smiled at me, and reached out to shake my hand. A moment later, a photographer—from the AP or the Post, I think, was asking people to move around a bit. He took some pictures of the VIPs, and then one of the little boy I had been watching earlier. I leaned around people, trying to take some snapshots of my own.

Negotiation

"So you want two bottles of that and a six pack?" I heard a man say, as I walked through Georgetown on my way to the metro after work. He was a tall, heavy-set African American. I couldn't guess how old he was, but I figured he was in his late forties at least. The two girls he was talking to nodded. "And what are you going to give me?"

"Um, twenty dollars?" one of the girls ventured. She was tiny, with straight, shiny brown hair skimming her shoulders and a little more eyeliner than seemed good for her.

"Twenty dollars? Each?" The girl shook her head. I couldn't tell if he was really disgruntled or just giving the girls a hard time. "Man, I'm homeless you know."

"And we're seventeen and don't have jobs, just allowances."

And then I was out of earshot.

Home, sweet home

After a week and a half at "home" in California for the holidays, I am now back in my own home. It's colder here, and we're far from our families, but I felt nothing but relief as the cab sped away from National Airport, and I saw the series of monuments across the river, glowing white against the sky: the Capitol dome, Washington, Jefferson, Lincoln, Kennedy. It's a relief to see the familiar sights, to be back in my own apartment, to see my cat (and have her poke me until I scoot forward in the desk chair, so she can curl up behind me while I type this), even to sort through my mail at my own table and do laundry in my own washer.

Of course, I also felt relief when my plane touched down in Los Angeles nine days ago, and then again on Christmas day, when we decended through the rain clouds at Oakland. We had a wonderful trip and fabulous visits with family and friends. I have things to write about and photos to post, but that will have to wait a day or two.

Christmastime in Washington

A couple of weeks ago, I decided it would fun to take a weekend trip to New York, to see the Christmas decorations. The Husband thought I was perhaps a little bit insane to want to immerse myself the crowds and to want to take such a trip just a couple of days before we’re leaving to spend Christmas in California, but was willing to go along. But his work schedule (and common sense) interfered with the plans. Instead we decided to have our own Washington Day O’ Christmasy Fun.

After a big breakfast at home of blueberry pancakes, we started the WDOCF with a visit to Washington National Cathedral. We were at the Cathedral just a few weeks ago, for a performance of Handel’s Messiah, which had been lovely. Listening to the music, the enormous space had felt cozy, and I was able to hold onto the feeling when we returned yesterday. It was the first time I’d been there on a sunny day, so the stained glass windows were much more spectacular than on my previous visits. The Husband was quite impressed as I pointed out scenes from Bible stories in the windows, until he figured out that I was reading from a handout I’d picked up at the entrance.

The main point of our trip to the Cathedral was to see the display of crèches from around the world. It was fantastic to see how different cultures use local materials to create a nativity scene that fits with the culture’s own experience: scenes from Africa included elephants and giraffes, while scenes from Alaska featured bears and moose. I loved a miniature scene from New Mexico, hand cast from sterling silver, every piece tiny and perfect, and a scene from Peru with characters carved from gourds.

As I was describing my plans for the WDOCF, someone asked me, “What does pizza have to do with Christmas?” Answer: “I like it, and we’ll be in the neighborhood, so I’m not passing up the chance to go to 2 Amys.” Obviously. 2 Amys is our favorite pizza place in Washington. The pizzas are fantastic, very much the style of what we had in Italy last spring. Unfortunately, it’s also the favorite pizza place of many other people in the area, and the wait for a table in the evenings is well over an hour. At two on a Saturday afternoon, though, we only waited for about ten minutes, before we were seated and not much longer after that, we were provided with delicious pizza-y goodness.

Filled with more pizza than was probably healthy, we began to wander down Wisconsin Avenue, with the eventual goal of ending up in the Sculpture Garden for some ice skating—not exactly the same as skating under the tree at Rockefeller Center, but we figured it would do. But as we meandered slowly along, wandering into a couple of stores in search of a present for the final person on our list (didn’t find it, but did come up with an Idea), the afternoon began to slip away. We decided to skip the skating and head directly for the final two items on the list for the WDOCF: the White House and Capitol Christmas trees.

A couple of weeks ago, the Washington Post ran an article about the competition among public Christmas trees. The one at Rockefeller Center was lit a day before the White House tree. In the past, there has been competition between the White House and the Capitol for which tree would have its ceremonial first lighting of the year, but that’s apparently been less of a problem in current years with the same party controlling both the White House and the Congress. I thought the article was a little bit ridiculous (especially because it was run on the front page, rather than in the Metro or Style sections), but I must say that if there is to be a competition between Washington’s two trees, the one at the Capitol wins it quite handily.

The National Christmas Tree on the Ellipse was mobbed with people. We joined the shuffle around the outside of the tree, admiring the big tree in the center, the electric trains set up around it, and the smaller trees for each state and territory that ringed the outside of the walkway. The main tree was decorated with white lights running up and down the tree, and big blue and white lights instead of ornaments. The smaller trees had been decorated by people from their states—mostly senior centers and elementary schools—and it was hard to see the ornaments as they were protected from the elements inside little plastic globes. We did like the California tree, which each little globe labeled with something from a different part of the state—“Pacific Grove Butterflies,” “Sea World,” “Napa Valley.” We warmed our hands by the bonfire—excuse me, yule log—listened to the children’s bell choir for a few songs, and then headed on our way.

It had been a nice day (you know the Californians have been in Washington too long when they consider a December day with a high in the mid-40s “nice”), but once it got dark it got cold rather quickly. We began to look for a Starbucks, so we could rest our feet and get warm. The first one we found, though, only had a few tables, and we really needed to sit down. The second one we found closed. We ended up in the Gordon Biersch brewery, having beer and garlic fries. (Note: the garlic fries at Pac Bell or SBC or whatever the ballpark is going to be called now are MUCH better and more garlicky.)

We headed for the Capitol, feeling refreshed. Once we headed out of Penn Quarter, the streets were nearly empty, and it was amusing to see the totally empty lawns before the Capitol: the last time I was there was among a group of thousands who had come to pay respects to Rosa Parks.

I love the Capitol dome and it was lovely to see it with the Christmas tree in front from across the reflecting pool. The pool itself was mostly frozen, but the ducks were still spending time there. They waddled around on the ice, and when I went to take their picture they came up to beg for food. We got to see a couple of them land on the ice, and it was amusing to see them try to do their water landing and be thwarted by the solid surface of the pool.

The Christmas tree itself was approximately eleventy jillion times better than the National tree, and the crowd was significantly smaller. It had been sent from New Mexico, and stood 60 feet tall with a trunk 26 inches in diameter. It was decorated in colored lights and ornaments made by New Mexicans. The Husband and I delighted in the number of schoolchild hours that must have gone into preparing the dream catchers, God’s Eyes, and aliens that decked the tree—all hours that were not devoted to preparing for standardized tests. The ornaments weren’t secured in little plastic globes, and the tree seemed much more personal that the tree at the White House.

We admired the tree, and then dragged our cold bodies and tired feet back home.

Rosa Parks

Some mornings when I sit down with the paper, there is news that makes me cry a little bit. That’s what happened last week when I read that Rosa Parks had died. I read the articles, thinking about all I had learned about her as a child, and then as a teaching assistant in an undergraduate course on the civil rights movement. I thought about writing something about her and what she means to me—something about the power of individuals to make a difference, about the importance of standing up (or sitting down) for one’s beliefs, about what finally drives people to act against injustice.

But the main memory that kept coming back to me was sparked by the mention of E.D. Nixon, a leader of the NAACP in Alabama, who Rosa Parks had called after her arrest, and who helped organize the bus boycotts in Montgomery. His name had been on the list of people and events that students in the class I was a TA for had to identify on the final exam. While I didn’t do any statistical analysis, I think that was the one that my students got wrong the most. But they didn’t decide to leave that one blank, but took a guess. Most wrote that he was the president who resigned after the Watergate scandal. Did they not know what President Nixon’s first name was? Did they not know how to spell Richard? I suppose they were just taking a guess, hoping for the best. There was one answer that really stood out to me, though, something to the effect of:

“E.D. Nixon was the governor of California when the Black Panthers stormed the state Capitol with automatic weapons. He later became President of the United States, but was forced to resign because of Watergate.”

Fabulous: mix up a couple of people irrelevant to the question, bring in and exaggerate an event that had nothing to do with the man you are identifying, cross your fingers, and hope for the best. I called up the other TA and read her the answer. (That’s right, when you said silly things in your papers and exams in college, your TAs were sharing and laughing at you.)

Because that was all I could think to write, I didn’t write anything.

As soon as we read that Rosa Parks would lie in state in the Capitol rotunda, The Husband and I decided that we had to go.

We arrived at the Capitol South Metro station a little after 5, and followed groups of people out toward the Capitol building. I had read that the funeral procession would arrive at 5:30, and that the viewing would begin at 6:30. We approached a guard and were directed down to 3^rd Street. We cut in at 1^st Street, along with everyone else, thinking we had found the end of the line. Then we followed that line all past the reflecting pool, down onto 3^rd, and then saw it wrap back around the other side of the pool. We felt triumphant as we settled in at the end of the line to wait. The line was moving, but we realized quickly that we were moving because they were setting up lines to snake people back and forth, and we were filling in that space.

Soon we were back on 3^rd Street, and were only shuffling along in the line. It was chilly, but not too cold. The blue of the sky behind the Capitol was deepening, while in the opposite direction the sky behind the Washington Monument was lit with pale gold, although the sun had already sunk below the horizon. I studied the Capitol dome, glowing bright white against the darkening sky. I remembered the first time I’d visited Washington, three and a half years ago. We took a shuttle from BWI to the home of some friends who live in Alexandria. The driver was chatty, and tried to engage all his passengers in conversation—I remember him asking a van full of strangers who they believed was at fault for the problems in Israel. After dropping off a few passengers in the District, the shuttle turned a corner, and I saw the Capitol dome lit up against the sky. My excitement made the driver realize I had never been in Washington before, and he was excited to show me more. To what I’m sure was the dismay of an older couple who just wanted to get to their hotel, the driver took a route that would give us a view of the White House, before getting lost on our way to our friends’ house. But more than the White House, I remember that first glimpse of the Capitol. I remember my awe at seeing the dome all lit up at night for the first time, and it still impresses me. I like to say that when I get tired of seeing the dome at night, it will be time for me to leave Washington. I spent a lot of time looking at it last night, and I don’t think I’m tired of it yet.

People became friendly in the line, striking up conversations with strangers. A group of people somewhere behind us spent some time singing—“He’s Got the Whole World in His Hands,” “Jesus Loves Me,” “The Star Spangled Banner.” A little boy behind us, probably about three years old, was a bundle of energy running up ahead to give high fives to a man a few yards ahead of us whom I’m sure he didn’t know, then back to his mom, over and over again. I had brought a book, but even with the lights along the lawns, it was difficult to focus enough to read.

We wondered what was going on, and The Husband suggested I call our friend Jeff, and ask him to check on the Web or on television to see if there was any news of what was happening. It was nearing seven and the line was no longer moving very much. My feet and calves were starting to ache. Eventually, I decided to call Jeff, but didn’t get an answer. I thought about trying to call someone else, but finally, a little after seven, we saw the flashing lights of the motorcade approaching along 3^rd Street. Cheers went up throughout the crowd as buses rolled by—first the empty 1957 bus, then several full Metro buses full of Mrs. Parks’ family and friends. I stood on tiptoe, trying to peer over the top of the crowd, and saw people waving in the buses.

After they had passed, I turned to The Husband. “You know, given my experiences taking Metro bus on my commute, I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that they’re late getting here.”

Still, the line didn’t move. A woman in front of us called her father in New Hampshire and asked him to turn on the television. From him, we found out that the casket was being carried in to the Capitol by an honor guard, and that Bush and some congressmen were there for a ceremony. We were told that the cameras were turned off in the rotunda for a prayer. The woman’s father said he would call back if there was any more information.

Our line crossed over onto another lawn. We felt that we were making progress. The singing groups started up again, this time with “Joy to the World.” At last we could see people moving up onto the steps of the Capitol.

At 9:45 we were out of the line that snaked back and forth. Someone asked the guard who was letting us out how much longer she thought we would have, and she speculated it was an hour. I wanted to believe her, but I thought she was probably just making up an answer. As we followed the edge of the reflecting pool closer to the security point, we realized how chilly it was. We were exposed to the breeze now, and didn’t have a crowd around us to help keep us warm. In exchange for losing our warmth, though, there were occasional benches and curbs to sit down to rest our feet. After five hours of standing, it was nice to give my legs even a quick break.

Moving up hill towards the security checkpoint, I heard the little boy behind us, now in his stroller, say, “Mommy, are you okay?”

“Yes, I’m okay. Are you okay?”

“I’m okay. Mommy? What are you doing?”

“Freezing!” People around us laughed. It was an hour since we’d been told that we had an hour left to go. Another guard told us it would be another forty minutes, and assured us that Metro was staying open until one.

Twenty minutes later, just past 11:00, after going through the metal detectors, we climbed up the steps and walked around to the west of the Capitol, looking down towards the lines that we had been in all evening. We couldn’t see the end of the line, but we could tell it was even further away than when we’d first started. We walked slowly looking out over the Mall. The Washington Monument towered beyond the lines of people, and just beyond that, I could see the arches of the World War II Memorial. At the end of Mall, the Lincoln Memorial was also lit up, and I thought of Martin Luther King giving his speech there more than 40 years ago. I thought about him suddenly being asked to take a leading role in the boycotts after Rosa Parks’ arrest only a few years before that. I wondered if he would ever have imagined her receiving this honor.

We were no longer behind the people we had been waiting in line with. Instead we followed a couple and their son up the steps. The boy was a miniature version of his father, formally dressed in a suit, a long overcoat, and a hat. The men were asked to remove their hats has we entered the building, and everyone lowered their voices.

As we entered the rotunda there were ropes guiding people in a circle, and as we passed a guard, I at last saw the deep shine of the small casket. We paused as we reached the far side of the casket. I watched more people file in. In whispers, people thanked Rosa Parks as they made their way around; some were crying; a woman crossed herself. I remembered to look up into the dome just as we left. As we moved back down the marble steps, I realized that I hadn’t noticed any of the paintings or statues. The small casket had been the only focus.

We emerged from the Capitol and made our way slowly down the steps, looking out over the crowds of people and the view of the Mall once more. When we reached the bottom of the stairs, we quickened our pace and headed home, wondering at the number of people that remained. The line stretched far beyond where we had joined it six hours before, looping around corners, and we couldn’t tell where it ended.

I am glad I went. I am pleased that Rosa Parks was honored in such a formal way. I am grateful to have had the opportunity to pay my respects to an important woman. I am moved by the murmurs of thanks from people of all different backgrounds. But I think the most important part of the evening was the wait in line. My feet hurt and my legs ached after six hours of shuffling through a line. But it was important to see the crowds that turned out, to feel that I was a part of something, to understand how much one woman symbolized to so many people.

Washington moment

I was walking down M Street after work yesterday when my dad called. A few minutes into the conversation I had to ask him to hold on for a moment: I couldn’t hear him for the sirens that were approaching. Two police cars moved through the dregs of rush hour traffic slowly, sirens screaming, followed by a limousine, a black SUV with men in sunglasses watching out the windows, and then another police car. When they had passed and moved far enough along the block, I brought my phone back to my ear.

“Sorry,” I said. “Just a little motorcade. How was your trip?”

In which I write about an event that I'm already tired of reading about

Last Wednesday, I attended an all-day meeting at a hotel over by Embassy Row. During lunch, someone came over to the table where I was sitting and mentioned to the group that the White House, Capitol, and Supreme Court were being evacuated. The bearer of the news didn't have any more information than that.

One woman sighed. "I hope whatever's going on is over with before too long. This could really mess up the commute out of the city this evening."

Then we went back to our food and our conversation.

When the meeting resumed after lunch, there was an announcement that everything was fine. We still didn't know what was going on, but it hadn't affected us while it was happening, so it didn't seem worth speculating over now.

I forgot about it until I got home and turned on the computer. My browser opened up to the Washington Post, with news of the small plane that had accidentally ventured into restricted airspace over the District. I had an email from a friend in the midwest, wondering if everything was okay. Was I scared? Had I been evacuated? By that time, I was sure she had the news that everything was fine, so I wrote a quick note back, telling her that we hadn't even really known anything was happening.

I've been wondering if I should write about this at all. I was going to mention how the media overreact to these kinds of things, but after reading nothing except that in the Post for the next couple of days, I'm pretty much tired of it.

I think I'm more interested now in the fact that we don't react. We don't panic. We worry about our commutes and eat our pasta. Most of these things are seen as inconveniences. Last summer, when the terror alert was raised for certain buildings in several cities, buses entering the Pentagon were being stopped. They ran mirrors along to check underneath, and bomb-sniffing dogs were led around the outsides of the buses. I heard rumors that the Pentagon police were even boarding some buses, although it didn't happen on my bus. One of my neighbors was glad they were taking these precautions.* I was upset that my seven-minute bus ride was taking 45 minutes. Add that onto my 5 minute train trip and 2 mile walk to from the metro to the office, and my commute was ridiculously long. I was noticably cranky upon arriving at work that week.

A couple of months ago, as my morning bus made its way to the Pentagon, the driver announced that people weren't being allowed to board trains at the Pentagon Metro. I felt somewhat panicky. After the bombings in Madrid, I began to worry about the terrorism and the Metro.** But none of us displayed any fear. We just concentrated on how we should get to work. The trains were apparently running, just not stopping at the Pentagon, so we got off our bus, and joined all the riders from other buses in the trek back to the previous station. As we passed a HazMat team closing up shop, a Pentagon police officer informed us that we would be allowed to board trains at the Pentagon, and we retraced our steps, and we continued on our normal journey into work.

Even though I'm continuing about my normal business, I am nervous. I worry. In November, in spite of my fear of heights, I climbed the steps to the top of the dome of St. Paul's Cathedral to look out over London. I knew I was safe, but my stomach felt empty, and my knees shook. Back in Washington, I hear that the trains aren't stopping at the Pentagon station and see the flashing lights on the emergency truck, and I have to tell myself not to panic, even as my stomach feels hollow and my knees go a bit wobbly. Then I take a deep breath and head to work. And if it's happening across town, I don't pay much attention at all.


*He works in one of the buildings that had its alert level raised, so he may have just been more nervous than the rest of us in general.

**I'd like to point out here that my main fear isn't that something bad will happen on Metro during my commute. I'm more worried about something happening 30 or 40 minutes after I've exited the system, while Brian's commuting. Because, seriously, if the train I'm on explodes, I'm dead. If the train Brian's on explodes, I'm alone. For me, personally, Plan B there sucks a whole lot more (I am so freakin' eloquent). I haven't decided whether this is selfish or unselfish on my part. And when I mention this to people, they mostly are just surprised that I've thought it through so carefully.