Milestone

Yesterday on my commute home, someone offered me a seat on the train.

I was so suprised that I refused her offer.

How to entertain yourself on Metro when you've finished the Sudoku

I stepped onto the nearly-empty last car of the train, sat down in one of the first seats, and immediately regretted my choice: the young man behind me was talking on a cell phone. But even though he was talking in a loud cell phone voice, he did at least seem to be wrapping up his conversation.

“Excuse me,” I heard a woman behind me and across the aisle say after he hung up. “You aren’t from this area, are you?”

“No,” he told her. It was a safe question on her part: from the conversation he was having, it had been clear he was in town to visit friends.

“Well, they recently passed a law about using cell phones on the Metro. It’s actually a $25 ticket.”

“Oh, I didn’t know.” He sounded very apologetic.

“A lot of people who aren’t from here don’t. It just passed and they don’t have signs up on all the trains.”

I bit my lip and tried not to laugh, as the young man apologized and the woman assured him that it was all right, that she was just trying to help him out. I wanted to turn around and look at them. Because of where I was seated I couldn’t even glimpse their reflections in the windows, but the man across the aisle from me was also suppressing laughter.

Last year for Christmas Brian gave me a book of lies to tell children. I’m thinking there ought to be one of fun lies to tell tourists.

Okay

When I went for my ultrasound last Friday, I was signing my file and noted the last date on it: “August 25, 2004,” I had written beside my name. I pointed it out to Brian.

“I don’t think I was thinking very clearly when we were here last year,” I told him. “I got the year wrong.”

I hadn’t been thinking clearly. I was terrified. When I signed that file it was part of the paperwork before the ultrasound to find out why I was spotting. I was nine weeks pregnant and praying silently that everything was going to be okay, even though I knew it wasn’t.

We had seen a heartbeat about two weeks before—a small, regular flicker on the screen—so I knew what to look for when the grainy black-and-white image appeared on the screen.

It wasn’t there.

I went home that afternoon to wait to eat ridiculous quantities of Ben & Jerry’s and wait to miscarry. I told my bosses, who didn’t know I was pregnant, that I was sick and I would be out for a few days. That was on Thursday. I didn’t miscarry until Sunday night.

I had decided Sunday afternoon that I would call the next morning to schedule a D&C. My fear of the anesthetic had made me decide to wait, but I was tired of waiting. I was ready to move on. I planned out the next couple of days as the cramping became harder to handle. I alternated between forcing myself to relax into child’s pose and pacing my bedroom, as I attempted to slow down my breathing and deny what was happening.

And then there was blood, lots of it, and the blood and the pain were something of a relief. At least I wasn’t waiting anymore. At least I wasn’t going to have to go to the hospital.

I took three more days away from work. Even though only one person in the office had known I was pregnant, I couldn’t bear to face anyone. I spent the days reading the news about Hurricane Katrina, eating ice cream, and talking on the phone and IMing with a couple of friends.

I didn’t want to talk to most people. When we told friends and family what was happening, we made it clear that I wasn’t ready to talk to anyone. But I needed those friends. Those friends who promised me that things would be okay. Who let me talk about it. Who let me talk about anything but it. Whatever I needed at that moment.

At least I wasn’t surprised by the intensity of the grief I felt. It seemed reasonable to me. It took awhile to work through, which also made sense, and when I began to reach the other side of it, I was very conscious of the change. I wanted to go out with friends again. I could look around me and appreciate the world. I wasn’t full of hate that I didn’t have any place to direct. I don’t think I was clinically depressed during those weeks, although I know Brian and my friends worried about it. I think I was dealing with grief in the only way it can truly be dealt with, and in the end I was okay.

***

It wasn’t until months later, until after my original due date had passed, that I got pregnant again. Sometimes I wonder about that connection. Knowing that day was my due date was sad, but I didn’t become depressed the way I had feared I might. I was simply very conscious of it, and I felt relieved when April 1st had come and gone. Getting through that date was freeing. I didn’t have a baby. I wasn’t pregnant. But I had made it and I was okay.

And then I was pregnant.

I was ecstatic and terrified. It had been too soon to test, but I had. It was too soon for the test to show a result at all, but when I looked down, there it was. I am not one who is willing to wonder if that second line is really a line. It was a digital test and it said “pregnant.” I was shocked.

Crying is my response to a lot of different emotions. I cry when I'm happy, when I'm sad, when I'm confused. But when all those things hit at once? I freeze. It was four in the morning, and I was frozen. For an hour I sat, not thinking, not crying, not feeling. It wasn't until I woke Brian up and told him and felt his arms around me that I cried.

I told a few friends almost immediately—the friends that I knew I would need in case something went wrong again. One of them asked me how I was feeling about it.

“I’m okay,” I said.

“Really?”

"Well, I alternate among being blissfully happy, being in complete denial, and freaking the righteous fuck out. Which I think averages out to 'okay.'"

I was totally serious, and it’s completely true, even though typing it makes me laugh. I was terrified, but the joy of being pregnant won out. The checker at Whole Foods complimented my necklace, and I burst out with the news that I was pregnant. I called to schedule my first prenatal exam. I started thinking about baby names.

But every day I worried. Even when I would eat to settle my upset stomach and then feel sick ten minutes later because I had eaten, I would worry that it was all in my head. I felt guilty for being so afraid. The baby deserves for me to be happy. He deserves for me to love him, I told myself. And I did love him. That wasn’t something I could stop myself from doing, no matter how afraid I was.

Now “he” is a “she.” I’ve heard her heart beat. I’ve seen her little feet. People are starting to be able to tell I’m pregnant just by looking at me. Still, I’m anxious. But I just felt her wiggle.

Let the gender stereotyping begin!

It's a girl!

Ship-shape

I didn't think I'd have to confront body image issues while I was pregnant. Certainly I expected to be concerned about getting my normal shape back after Sticky is born, but worry about it now? When I'm barely showing? That's a bit of a surprise. Maybe that was naive of me.

Over the past couple of years as more of my friends have begun to have children, I’ve heard some of them complain about the weight they’ve gained, worrying that they’re getting fat. “You’re not fat,” I tell them. “You’re growing a baby. You look fantastic.” I didn’t understand how they could worry about their weight while they were pregnant. Then, back in June, I put on my favorite jeans and couldn’t get them to button. I knew I was pregnant and that I was supposed to be gaining weight. And in some ways I was pleased to know that something was really happening. But when I looked in the mirror I didn't really look any different, so I just felt fat.

I’ve never been obsessive about my weight. If I realize that I’ve been overindulging and that my clothes are feeling a little snug, I stop eating ice cream and start going to the gym a couple of times a week. I’m never what you’d call skinny, but I’ve found a size that I’m comfortable with and that I can maintain while still satisfying my love of all things sweet.

But I guess I'm a little more weight-conscious than I thought. Whenever I read in my pregnancy book about what I ought to be weighing at a certain point and realize that not only have I stayed within that range, I’m at the low end of the range, I breathe a sigh of relief. I carefully study photographs of myself and this new body to see if the weight's all in my middle or if I'm gaining all over. Floating around in the pool provides temporary relief from the heat and my sciatica, but I have been reluctant to go because it means going out in public in a swimsuit.

It is getting a little bit easier to accept the weight gain and changing shape now that I am feeling (and looking) a little more pregnant (although not enough that anyone's offering me a seat on the bus), rather than just tubby in the middle. Walking by a shop window last week, Brian pointed out a dress he thought I would like, but added, "I guess that probably wouldn't really work for you now, would it?"

"Nope. The waist is...well, it has a waist. And my waist is sort of...missing right now." And I could laugh about it.

Dilemma

I don't watch much television.

Because I don't have a television to watch. I get a huge kick out of saying "I don't watch much TV," when someone asks me if I've seen a particular show. "Oh, I don't either. There are just a few shows that I'm into," people respond quickly. Apparently most people think I must be morally opposed. But it's not that.

When Brian and I moved in together after college, it didn't really occur to us to get a television at first. Neither of us had watched a lot of television while we were in school, so there weren't shows we missed. I could listen to Giants games on the radio. Brian didn't seem to miss watching Lakers games. It wasn't some "kill your TV" kind of attitude; I simply didn't feel the need. I suppose the fact that we were living in Santa Cruz at the time didn't hurt either. We knew lots of people that didn't bother with TV, and people didn't seem to think it was weird that we didn't have one. Or maybe they just didn't say anything.

When we moved to Washington and I started grad school, if I admitted I didn't have a TV people thought it was weird. People here are more likely to ask why we don't have a TV set, and while I was in school, I would say, "Because I would just watch it when I'm supposed to be studying." It's true, too. When I travel for work, one of the first things I do when I get into my hotel room in the evening is turn on the TV. Maybe it's only because I like the noise to fill up the empty room, but I'm afraid that's what I'd do at home too. Most of the time I can't find much I'm interested in (although there's always an episode of Friends or Seinfeld on one station or another), but it doesn't take long before I'm totally sucked in.

Most of the time I still don't miss having easy access to television. During big sports events like the World Series or March Madness, we can walk down the street to the brewery to watch the games. Having gone to school for public policy, I have plenty of friends who were having groups of friends over to watch the debates in 2004. We joined Netflix and can watch movies on our computer.

This week I started wondering about our decision, though. It never occurred to me that when we had kids we might get a television. It's not something we talked about. But then I read about Grace Davis's suggestion to write about the books, music, movies, and television shows we want to share with our kids in honor of the 37th anniversary of Sesame Street. Instead of thinking of my favorite books (A Wrinkle in Time! The Little House books! Ramona!) or of the fantastic children's music I've added to my Amazon.com wish list, I immediately thought, "We have to get a TV so Sticky can watch Mr. Rogers." Because as much as the Sesame Street theme song makes me smile and in spite of my love of Big Bird, I have my fondest childhood TV memories of watching Mr. Rogers. Can I deny Sticky the happy routine of watching Mr. Rogers change into sneakers and cardigan (always hoping it's the red cardigan today)? The Trolley-Trolley music? The reassuring voice addressing him directly?

We may end up revisiting our decision. Perhaps Brian can create some sort of TV set that only gets Sesame Street and Mr. Rogers. But maybe that's not necessary. Looks like Netflix has several Mr. Rogers DVDs to choose from.

Because "WTF?" didn't qualify as kind or helpful

Last night I stepped onto the right-hand side of the escalator down to the platform at the Foggy Bottom Metro station. I heard some grumbling behind me and turned to see commuters making their way around a family of tourists who were standing (single file, at least) on the left.

"Number one rule for riding Metro is to stand on the right on the escalator so people can pass on the left," I told the tourist mom in what I hoped was a kind and helpful voice, "especially at rush hour."

"Oh, but we need to get the train on the left side," she replied.

At the Foggy Bottom station there is ONE escalator going down to the ONE platform where trains in BOTH directions arrive. I tried to find a way that her reasoning made sense, and opened my mouth to say something else, but then I walked away to wait for a train that would be arriving on the left side of the platform.

Lesson learned

Even if it is beautiful and cool in the morning and there are views along the river that look like this:



and you get to see lots of little animals like these:









it's not a good to hike on trails that require you to climb over a lot of things like this:



if you look like this:



My back hurts. A lot.

Mt. Shasta

Last weekend Brian and I went to Mt. Shasta to attend a friend's wedding (which was the most beautiful wedding in the history of weddings, I'm pretty sure). I had never been there before, and I'm very sorry that it was such a quick trip to the West Coast, as I would have liked to spend more time exploring such a spectacularly beautiful area.




We stayed at the Shasta MountInn, which I selected based on the exclusively excellent reviews on TripAdvisor.com, where we had a view of the mountain from a cozy bedroom. The owner, David, is an incredibly kind man. When I called to make the reservation, he asked whether we were coffee drinkers and how long we were staying in the area. After we arrived, he made sure we had good directions to get to the wedding. The next morning, we sat and talked with him in the kitchen while he prepared a delicious breakfast. And when we left, he asked us to send him an announcement when Sticky is born. I actually think I'll take Sticky back there one of these days.

Also, I think I'm starting to look a little bit pregnant:

Note to self

If you are ever again living in a rental unit that has two locks on the door, but you are given a key to only one, ASK FOR THE KEY TO THE OTHER. Otherwise the condo association maintenance unit might manage to lock you out of your home, and you might not notice until after 11 pm on a weeknight, when there are few neighbors awake to help you out, and you'll have to depend on a friend in California to coerce someone at a cafe in California to let them use their computer to look up the after hours help line, so that you can wake someone up to bring you a ladder to help you break into your own home. Which is really not how you want to finish off a lovely evening of baseball, especially if that evening was already less lovely than anticipated because the Giants blew the game in the end (Note to Armando Benitez: What the fuck, dude?) , and especially when you have to leave the house at 7 am the next morning to catch a flight to California and you haven't begun to pack yet.

Now

I spent a lot of the last year living in the future. I was always thinking nine months ahead: "If I get pregnant this month the baby will be due in..." It actually got me confused about the dates, and I would catch myself thinking fall was right around the corner, when we had just celebrated Christmas. Several times I tried to shake myself out of that way of thinking, tried to make myself focus on right now. On living my life, pregnant or not. Of not putting things on hold for something so uncertain.

For a few weeks I was able to concentrate very much on the present. All I could think of was the fact that at last I was pregnant and hope that the pregnancy would last just another day; of what I could eat that wouldn't make me sick; of when I could get in another nap.

Now that we're a little more confident, more convinced that ClearBlue Easy wasn't lying when it flashed the word "pregnant" on the screen, I'm back to living in the future, forgetting to concentrate on now. I am so excited to meet this baby that I forget to appreciate this time right now. This last time of just Brian and me, just ourselves together. This time with my body going through amazing changes.

A few weeks ago I woke up in the night to a spectacular thunderstorm, with one roll of thunder beginning before the previous had ended and bolts of lightning flashing across the sky. At first I lay there thinking about the baby and what our lives would be like during next summer's thunderstorms. And then I sat up in bed, watching the trees thrash outside, throwing rain against the window, and I thought about how just a few hours before I had heard the baby's heartbeat at my prenatal appointment for the very first time. I realized that I didn't have to wait until this winter for him to be real. He already is.

The details

Judging by some of the emails I'm getting, my last post lacked certain details that some of you deem essential information. So:

• I am about four months along.
• Sticky is due on New Year's Eve (although family history says that means that this is a mid-January baby).
• I'm feeling fine. I had morning sickness (which really ought to be called "all fucking day sickness") for about a month, but it was relatively non-pukey. Now I've got a bit of a backache and some sciatica that comes and goes. The pregnancy books all indicate that these are problems that arise later in pregnancy. I have come to the conclusion that I am therefore some sort of pregnancy prodigy. And that whoever invented the Snoogle should be nominated for sainthood.
• I am not really showing yet. I just look like I've been eating too many donuts. And for awhile there I was (vegetables made me sick, but donuts never betrayed me), so maybe that really is the problem.
• We don't know if we're having a boy or a girl yet, but we will definitely find out, so we can all start gender stereotyping to our hearts' content. We don't have much preference either way (although my intuition is boy), but if Sticky's a girl, she is totally going to have ruffles on the butt of her first Giants fanwear.

Does that about cover it?

A little bit of news

One night at dinner, probably over a year ago, I mentioned to Brian that I thought one of our friends was dating someone new.

"What makes you think that?" he asked.

"I read it on the internet."

And we laughed at the funny world we live in where you read your friends' blogs or journals or whatever you want to call them and find out what's going on in their lives. It's funny and kind of weird, but it also just makes things so easy.

Sure is a convenient way to let folks know that we're having a baby, don't you think?

Gouranga! Or, the best spam ever

Last night I checked my work email, and discovered several new pieces of spam. It wasn’t surprising: In June 37 percent of the mail I receive at work is spam, in spite of the university’s claims that 30 percent of incoming mail is captured as spam and never makes it to our inboxes. There was one piece of mail that puzzled me. It wasn’t offering me cheap “c1allis” or “v1@gra,” a new way to enlarge my “d!cckk,” or a way to refinance my home or consolidate my debt. There were no attachments or suspicious links, just a message:

Call out Gouranga be happy!

Gouranga Gouranga Gouranga

That which brings the highest happiness...

I called Brian into the office to look at it. He had never seen it before, either, so I googled “Gouranga.” The first hit had something to do with Grand Theft Auto and I ignored it. But I quickly learned that it was a phrase used by Hare Krishnas meaning “be happy,” and that the spam’s been around for awhile. My favorite part of the explanation was that someone had identified themselves as the sender and given a very simple motive: I am just very enthusiastic person, who wants everybody to be happy.

Something about that made Brian and me smile.

True fiction

On my way out the door this morning, I grabbed a copy of the New Yorker that was sitting on the coffee table, this summer’s fiction issue. I read through “Talk of the Town” and a couple of the short memoir pieces during my commute. They were all interesting stories, memories from war time, but none really engaged me.

On the way home I turned to one of the short stories, Uwem Akpan’s “My Parents’ Bedroom.” I was immediately drawn in by the voice of the narrator, a young girl in Rwanda. In the first column of the story, I learned that her mother was Tutsi and her father Hutu. Maybe that should have been enough warning. Maybe I should have stopped reading there.

I didn’t.

Standing on a crowded train somewhere between Foggy Bottom and Rosslyn, I finished the story, fighting back tears, willing myself not to sob on a crowded train. I concentrated on the little diamond at the end of the story, watching the words on the page blur in and out through my wet eyes. The Rwandan genocide, which I had paid only vague attention to when it was in the news in the 1990s and which had been touched on in the commentary on Darfur that I’d read on my morning commute, was suddenly gruesomely real to me. It’s fiction, I tried to tell myself. But it’s not. These things happened.

Are happening.

Brian was a little traumatized by my arrival at home. I went upstairs and cried, sobbing for the family in the story, for the real people who lived through genocide (or didn’t), for the people in Darfur. I tried to tell him about what I had read (he’s not so much for the fiction issue), and as I attempted to explain how this story had somehow made real for me the stories I had read in the newspaper, something different occurred to me: what if this story hadn’t been about Rwanda, or about any real place? What if this had been some sort of science fiction story, about tragedies in a made-up world? Would the story have had the same impact on me?

I don’t think it would have. Even if an author had written such a story as a metaphor for Rwanda, it wouldn’t have been as powerful. Akpan’s narrative, written in the first person and set in a real place, made the story and the history live. The narrator’s story became truth and the history became personal.

Water-logged brain

Before I turned on the computer yesterday, I knew it had rained a lot--enough that one of the air conditioning units in my apartment was leaking wander and that a wet spot was growing on my wall because the condo association doesn't do a good job cleaning out rain gutters--but I didn't expect to see that they had measured seven inches of rain in 24 hours over at National airport. I didn't expect the news that several Metro stations in the District were closed due to flooding. Those stations were beyond where I exit the station, so even though I knew it would likely slow my commute I didn't worry too much.

When will I learn? It took me more than two hours to get to work yesterday morning. I wasn't alone. A lot of people in the DC area reported two- to three-hour commutes. But it was still annoying. I rarely drive to work. It's a 20 minute drive with no traffic, but 40 minutes or more during rush hour, so normally I'm happy to accept a 45-minute trek on public transit. At least then I can get some reading in.

When I reached the Pentagon station, I asked the station manager about buses to Foggy Bottom or Georgetown. He told me what to take, but also point out that the roads were pretty packed too. I'd see that on my bus ride to the Pentagon, and decided to take my luck with the trains.

Much like when a stuck train had caused delays on my evening commute a couple of weeks ago, I made a couple of new friends in the station. We peered down from the upper platform, watching people try to crowd onto the yellow line train that was headed into the District, shook our heads at the people who yelled angrily when they realized they weren't going to make it onto the first Largo train that arrived on our platform; wondered aloud at the people who arrived at the station and seemed surprised to see it so crowded, unable to figure out how they had missed the morning news.

Not everyone became friendly, commiserating with fellow transit riders. There were the angry yellers and people who called colleagues on their cell phones to gripe about being late.

Over an hour after arriving at the station, a blue line train arrived that I thought I'd be able to board. The platform had cleared a bit, and the train wasn't so crowded that arriving passengers couldn't clear off. As I slipped through the doors, a woman with a carry-on sized rolling bag and a brief case pushed towards the doors and stopped.

"I'm getting off at the next station," she explained to people who pushed by her, trying to fill in toward the center of the car so that others could board.

"The doors open on the other side of the train at the next one," I told her, trying to be helpful to her and others. There was room near the other doors and if she moved there, there would be more room for people to board.

"No, they open on the left."

"At the cemetery? No, they open on the right there."

"They open on the left when the trains are traveling in this direction," she said. "It does't just change sides. I think I know that by now."

Baffled, I shrugged and gave up. "Sorry. Didn't realize this was your normal train."

"Oh, it's not. But I'm here a couple of times a year on business."

The train pulled out of the station, and a few minutes later we arrived at Arlington Cemetery. The doors opened on the right. A few people nearby responded to the woman's "excuse mes," as she attempted to make her way across to the opposite doors and out of the car, but no one stepped out of the train to help make way. There wasn't anyone at the station waiting to board, and the doors closed before she could escape.

As the train began to move forward again she turned back to find a pole to hold onto. I noticed that she avoided making eye contact with me.

Enchilada sauce

Each weekend, Brian and I sit down to plan our our dinners for the week, flipping through our favorite cookbooks and compiling a list of recipes, from which we make our shopping list. Whenever we're having enchiladas, I tell him, "Once you're done making the shopping list, I'll put down the things I need for enchiladas."

Yesterday was his birthday and he had requested enchiladas for birthday dinner. For probably the eighty zillionth time, he suggested that I write down the enchilada recipe, so that he can just make the list from that. And for the eighty zillionth time, I told him that I couldn't do that,
because if he had the enchilada recipe he wouldn't have any reason to keep me around. But last night as I put together the sauce, I did take note of what I did. As it turned out pretty well (sometimes I go a little overboard with chile peppers--nothing some extra sour cream served at the table can't fix), I thought I'd share it here.

(Do note that I make no claims about the "authenticity" of this sauce. It's just a tasty, spicy red chile sauce--much better than the flavorless tomato sauce most Mexican restaurants around here dump on their enchiladas. And some of them don't even seem to dip the tortillas before they fill and roll them. Punks.)

Elizabeth's Tasty Enchilada Sauce

10 dried pasilla chiles
1 large chipotle pepper in adobo sauce, minced*
1 teaspoon adobo sauce
12 cloves garlic**
2 teaspoons ground coriander
6 teaspoons ground cumin
2 teaspoons dried oregano***
1/4 cup olive or vegetable oil
2 28-ounce cans tomato sauce****

*And seeded, if you're feeling cautious. Last night I left in all the seeds and the sauce had chipotle flavor but not a lot of heat.
**Yes, twelve. Be quiet.
***I am all in favor of using fresh herbs most of the time, but for a lot of Mexican sauces, I really believe that dried oregano is better. I do at least start with whole coriander and cumin seeds and grind those fresh.
****I've experimented with crushed tomatoes, with pureeing cans of whole tomatoes, and with the tomato sauce that comes with Italian herbs in it (well, that one was a shopping mistake). I'm a regular Cook's Illustrated, don't you think? Anyhow, just use the plain old tomato sauce.

Stem the pasillas and shake out as many of the seeds as you can. Place in a large bowl and cover with 3-4 cups boiling water. Let soak for 10-15 minutes while you prepare the other spices.

Place the pasillas in a blender. Strain the soaking water into a measuring cup. Add about one cup of the soaking water to the blender, reserving the rest, and blend to a thick puree. Set aside.

Heat the oil over medium heat in a heavy pan. Add the garlic, coriander, cumin, oregano, chipotle, and adobo sauce, and saute 2-3 minutes. Don't burn the spices or your sauce will taste bitter.

Add the pasilla puree to the spices and stir until blended. Let cook for about 2 minutes.

Add the tomato sauce and the remaining pasilla soaking water. Bring to a simmer, cover, and let cook over low heat for 15 minutes. Let cool before assembling enchiladas.

This makes a lot of sauce. I made a 9x9 pan of enchiladas last night and had more than half the sauce left over. It freezes well. Or, you can make an extra pan of enchiladas and freeze them. I never think those taste as good when they're cooked, though, and once you have the sauce, the enchiladas are pretty easy to put together.

And I still let him have some cookies

When one is baking chocolate chip cookies and can't find the cooling rack for when the cookies come out of the oven? One should not seek out her husband to pose the question, "Have you seen my rack?"

Unless, of course, she wants her husband to just start laughing instead of answering the damn question.

A sad day

The Cody's on Telegraph is closing. I don't even live in the bay area anymore, and that still makes me sad. I was enthralled by Cody's when I was a high school student--the sheer size and the number of books sent me into bookworm heaven. I remember a day when I was 15 or 16, wandering with a friend along Telegraph Avenue, where we bought little necklaces that said "peace" in different languages, browsing stores like Cody's and Amoeba. Finally we walked up to a coffee house, I think Cafe Strada, where I ordered a coffee drink that I didn't really like (and that probably made me sick later, as I've never coped well with caffeine) and hoped that people would mistake us for Cal students.

I'm sad to see that Cody's go, but in a way I also feel guilty. I want to support independent bookstores, but honestly, I do most of my book buying in used book shops or on Amazon. When I lived in Santa Cruz, I never entered the Borders that opened on Pacific Avenue, but continued to shop at Bookshop Santa Cruz and Logos. Now that I'm in DC, I love Politics and Prose, and I even like Kramerbooks, although it's really just not a good venue for browsing. When holidays come around, though, or there is a specific book that I decide I need, I order from Amazon.

But when I'm at home in the bay area, visiting friends in Berkeley, I love to stop in to browse and maybe pick something up at Cody's or Moe's on Telegraph, or the Cody's down on Fourth Street. I'll miss the main Cody's. Let's cross our fingers that the other shops are able to stay open.

There was that time that the man with the Southern accent was talking loudly about how no one else was talking

On my first day of orientation at Georgetown, I met another woman who had just moved to Washington from California. “Have you noticed how much less friendly everyone here is?” she asked in a low voice. I shook my head. So far everyone had seemed very pleasant. A few of my neighbors had introduced themselves the night that we were moving things into our new apartment from our U-haul trailer. The bus driver on the route that went by my house had been helpful in explaining how to get various places. The majority of the people I knew so far I had met that day in orientation, and of course they had all be very outgoing and friendly. Earlier in the summer, when I’d visited to find a place to live, I’d had a grand time with some women I’d met in the hostel where I’d stayed, and several of the prospective landlords had been friendly and helpful when they learned I was new to the area. Basically, everyone seemed great to me.

But eventually I did begin to see the difference. It wasn’t necessarily a difference between being in a big city and being in a beach/college town. The friend who had pointed out the difference had been living in Los Angeles. The place where I really started to notice the difference was on the Metro.

The summer after college, I worked for The Husband’s aunt at a law firm in Oakland (we call that “nephew-tism”), commuting on BART from Martinez. I always had a newspaper or book with me, but most days I had at least one conversation either on a train or in a station, with someone I didn’t know. People would comment on the banana slug on my sweatshirt (um, it was a rather casual law office) or the book I was reading. They would sit down on the bench where I was waiting with a big sigh, and I could ask them, “Long day?” One day, on a crowded Pittsburg-Bay Point train, a seat near me opened up. A man in a business suit gestured for me to take it. I smiled at him and sat down. A few minutes later, as the train pulled into the Walnut Creek station, I felt someone lightly touch my shoulder. The man who had let me sit down was looking down at me. I met his gaze, and he winked at me, handed me a business card, and made his way toward the door. (I tossed the card when I got to North Concord-Martinez, but I made sure to tell The Husband about it when I called him that night.)

On Metro, there aren’t the same casual conversations. Occasionally some tourists will ask me for directions and I may chat with them for a bit about getting around, the museums they want to visit, or places to eat near their hotel. But the casual conversations with other commuters are few and far between—they pretty much only happen when buses are running late or the weather is doing something extreme . Mostly it’s not something I notice, and I don’t mind having quiet commutes.

I’ve noticed it this week, because people seem to be breaking the rules. They are talking to me. I picked up a copy of Isabel Allende’s most recent novel, Zorro. People notice the cover and say something. They want to know about the book. Is it really about that Zorro? Is it the traditional story? Is it good? On Thursday and Friday, every time I got on a train and once when I got on a bus, someone had something to say. And while their questions and comments do take me away from the book (which, like every other story I’ve read by Allende, has me totally captivated), I enjoy this chance to talk with random people. It’s occurred to me that if I want to meet new people, I should just continue to carry this book around with me, tucking whatever I’m really reading inside. But that might be weird.