It's time to move on

I love Washington, DC. I love its wonkiness, its history and the fact that, for two weeks every spring, it's completely covered in cherry blossoms. I love that everyone here is concerned about the state of the world, and that you're more likely to hear people talking politics than sports on the Metro. I love that that's true even when the people in question are wearing Caps jerseys or D.C. United scarves and are heading to or coming from a game. I love that it's a completely different city in the summer than it is the rest of the year, and that significant amounts of snow are rare enough that the entire population turns into a bunch of five-year-olds and runs out to make snow angels and throw snowballs when there are more than a couple of inches on the ground.

I love this city, but it's time for me to leave.

I initially sat down to write this post in March, when some (probably Metro-related) city hiccup had me frustrated. At that point, the above sentence read "I love this city. But if I don't get out of here soon, I'm going to lose my mind." For months, I had been becoming increasingly annoyed by Washington's inefficiencies, its tunnel vision, its suit-and-tie culture. I took it as a personal affront every time someone stepped into my path, sped around a corner as I was stepping into a crosswalk or sauntered rather than speed-walked down an escalator in front of me. Instead of my usual smile at obvious first-time visitors (well, the non-obnoxious ones), I gritted my teeth and walked past as quickly as I could. I was frustrated, edgy and suddenly obsessive about my personal space.

It's true that the Metro has been hitting more rough spots in service more frequently throughout the past year, which leads to jammed platforms, trains that bear more of a resemblance than usual to sardine cans and irritable commuters. And tourist season started in March, which always adds to city inefficiency.

It's also true that, after almost seven years inside the Beltway, the fact that I am definitely not your typical Washington personality is probably catching up with me. If I'm meeting new people, I want what's happening on the Hill or in the Supreme Court to be part of the conversation, but I also want to talk about what the EU is up to, what's going on in the Sudan, favorite hiking trails, great trips taken or planned and future goals that have nothing to do with running for office. I haven't worn a suit since my first interview for my current job almost three years ago, and that's perfectly fine with me. I sometimes dread the very thought of networking (which, in Washington, is akin to blasphemy).

My revelation that maybe I was just tired of Washington and ready to be somewhere else didn't surprise my friends at all, which came as a surprise to me. "You're a total granola type," they told me, "of course you were going to get sick of politico-mania at some point!" Me, granola? Since when? True, I like to buy local, don't own a car, am into outdoorsy stuff and non-profit work and think Seattle is one of the best cities on earth, but the "buy organic" movement generally annoys me and I haven't worn a peasant blouse since my freshman year of college. And the car thing is largely because, 90% of the time, it's more convenient in Washington to not own one.

I'm still not entirely convinced that "granola" is an accurate descriptor of my personality, but the more I thought about it, the clearer it became that inside the Beltway was no longer the best place for me to be. I'd hoped for some time that I'd be leaving in 2010 or early 2011 to pursue a graduate degree, but last fall even that began to seem too far away.

Fortunately, a solution presented itself, as they usually seem to do, which is why I'm now writing this blog from the Middle of Nowhere, AZ. The lease on my Arlington apartment came up for renewal this month and when I asked this winter about the possibility of renting month-to-month or signing a lease of less than a year, I was told both were impossible. The idea of finding a short-term lease and moving in May, then wrangling all of my stuff into storage at my parents' house in December or January before transplanting to Australia for two years was less than appealing. I talked to my parents and my boss and decided that moving to my parents' house in May and teleworking for the rest of the year was doable.

So here I am in my new home office in the Arizona mountains, with Nala curled up at my feet. I saw a herd of deer, a couple of jackrabbits and a few very arrogant-looking ravens on this morning's run and am listening to the wind whip through the pine trees outside as I take my lunch break (which is actually almost the end of my workday, since I'm keeping East Coast office hours). My mom worries that I'll go crazy inside of a month with no friends my age in the area and the nearest movie theater and grocery store 30 miles away, but I'm thrilled to have what feels a lot like time out of time to spend with my parents, focus on the aspects of my work that I love, read, write and relax before heading off on a new adventure.

I spent my last month in Washington doing typically Washington things: having brunch or dinner with friends, going to happy hour, browsing Eastern Market, attending performances at the Kennedy Center and the Washington National Opera, visiting quirky landmarks like the Mansion on O Street, wandering Dupont Circle, the monuments and the Mall. I didn't sleep much, and set my usual monthly budget aside so I could make the most of my last weeks in the city that had become my home.

As I spent my evenings packing boxes and my days rediscovering my favorite spots in the city, something began to change. I was smiling at tourists again, stopping to offer assistance if someone looked especially lost. When my morning train stopped in a tunnel for the third time, I shrugged and turned another page of my book. Rather than rush in and out, I spent ten minutes talking to the man working in The Guitar Shop when I took my guitar in to be re-strung, and he made my day when he called the same afternoon to say it was ready just because "Well, I liked you."

I arrived in Arizona last Thursday, exhausted but happy. And, unexpectedly, knowing that I'm going to miss Washington like crazy this summer: jazz in the Sculpture Garden, lazy evenings on sunny patios, even the swampy mugginess of my morning runs. Watching the Capitol Building drift by for the last time from a Super Shuttle window was bittersweet, which turned out to be better than being thrilled to leave it behind. It was absolutely time for me to leave Washington, but in preparing to leave I was able remember why I fell in love with it in the first place.

Making Connections

The general pattern for winter weather forecasts in Washington, DC is as follows:

1. Forecast snow.
2. Predict that it will be the biggest storm in a decade, liable to keep everyone at home for days and make it impossible to get anywhere or do anything.
3. Send broadcasters to report on every single snowflake that falls on or near the District.
4. Make it sound like the world is coming to an end once the first quarter-inch is on the ground.
5. Pretend nothing was ever mentioned about a snowstorm once the snow stops after reaching a total accumulation of approximately half an inch.

As a result, DC Metro area residents have taken to rolling their eyes at all reports of incoming winter weather and sarcastically refer to forecast snowstorms as "Snowpocalypse [insert current year here]."

This year, however, Snowpocalypse 2009 actually arrived (on December 18th/19th - I know, I'm very late and have been very bad about posting lately) and sent the area into a frenzy with about 16 inches of snow in less than 24 hours. Which happened to be the same 24 hour period in which I was attempting to leave the area to visit my parents for a couple of weeks.

The snow started Friday evening, but it was drifting down so slowly and looked so pretty that I wasn't worried. Until I tried to schedule a pick-up for my 7:00am flight on Saturday and was told by every cab company in Arlington, VA that they weren't accepting reservations for Saturday - I would have to call as soon as I was ready in the morning and take my chances. Okay, so the cab companies were spooked. No big deal, they were overreacting, just like the weather forecasters, right?

Wrong. I woke up to a terrible scraping noise at 3:00am and looked out my window. A pick-up truck with a plow attached to its grille was clearing my building's parking lot of the four or five inches of snow that had accumulated. (Yes, for normal people in places that acknowledge that they get winter weather, that amount of snow is nothing to worry about. In DC, which - when it comes to weather and food, at least - is adamant that it's Southern, two inches is enough to shut down the streets and send people into a panic.) Oh good, I thought, the city was (inexplicably) starting with my parking lot, but then they'd start plowing the streets and everything would be fine in a couple of hours. I got up a little early and got ready to leave, spent 10 minutes on hold with a cab company and, at 4:50, was given a pick-up time in 30 minutes. A little long for a company whose drivers often park/idle next to my building at night, but no big deal.

By 5:30, I was worried. No cab yet, no call from the company telling me when the cab was coming and their lines were now so jammed I couldn't get anything but a busy signal. I took all of my stuff downstairs (Did I mention that my cat, a total stranger to air travel, was included in my luggage?) and flinched when I looked outside. The wind had picked up since I'd gotten out of bed, the snow was coming down harder and it was quite clear that the streets had not been plowed. Another resident was pacing around the lobby, trying to get through to any cab company while the security guard on duty looked up bus schedules for him. I offered to share my cab, if it ever arrived, and paced in the opposite direction, on hold with the cab company again.

By 5:50, my partner in panic (his flight was also at 7:00) had decided to give either a bus or one of the nearby hotels' shuttles a try. I was ready to walk at that point - DCA is literally down the street from my apartment, 1.7 miles by car according to Google maps - but I had no idea what Nala's tolerance for cold might be and I didn't want to risk giving her hypothermia by spending more than a couple of minutes either walking or waiting for a bus in the snow. I promised my fellow traveler that when (if) the cab showed up, we'd circle the block to look for him.

Shortly after he left, a woman came downstairs headed for the J.Crew sale at the nearby mall, which apparently started at 6:00. She was debating driving or walking and I was desperate enough at that point to offer her $20 to drive me to the airport. She decided she'd rather avoid driving in the snow and opted to walk to the mall.

Another resident pulled into the lot just after 6:00 and I briefly debated physically throwing myself in front of his Jeep and begging for a ride (without letting go of my cell phone, of course - I was still on hold with the cab company) before deciding it was on the edge of too late anyway. He came in as I was debating running back upstairs to call the airline from my land line to ask about a later flight, and the security guard - who had been on hold with another cab company for about half an hour at that point - asked if he would consider driving me to the airport, since she knew him. He was clearly reluctant, having just finished work and a long, snowy drive home, but when he looked at me his expression wavered (I have no idea what my face looked like, but it was probably painful to look at) and I pressed my momentary advantage, launching into a series of - polite, I hope - pleas interspersed with explanations of why I wasn't already outside dragging my luggage through the snow.

This gentleman turned out to be the nicest person on the face of the planet and said he'd drop his work gear upstairs and come back down to drive me to the airport. We left at 6:15, with me thanking him profusely approximately every 12 seconds.

It took Mr. NPE (Nicest Person Ever) and I 15 minutes to drive that 1.7 miles, and we only saw one cab (not from the cab company I was waiting for, which, incidentally, never did call to tell me they weren't coming), trying very hard not to slide backward down the ramp into the airport. Everything else on the road was SUVs. After thanking him one last time (okay, maybe it was more like six last times), I gave Mr. NPE my apartment number for anything he might need in the future - cereal, a cup of sugar, a kidney - and dashed into the terminal at 6:30, crossing my fingers and trying not to jostle Nala.

I got checked in with no trouble thanks to the minuscule size of Reagan National and at 6:45 tore off in the direction of the escalators and the security line, which turned out not to be a line at all, thanks again to the tiny size of DCA and the fact that a number of people were having the same trouble I had getting to the airport. (And, I found out later, to the fact that Delta had canceled all its flights the night before.) I scooped up a confused and fairly terrified Nala and clung to her for dear life while TSA ran her carrier through security, coaxed her back inside, grabbed a bottle of water and pelted down the concourse to my gate, stopping just long enough to hand my boarding pass to the gate agent, who was in the process of opening up all the unclaimed seats on the flight to stand-by passengers.

Fortunately, the woman sitting on the aisle in my row liked cats and cooed over Nala as much as the flight attendants had while I got her situated under the seat and we exchanged "getting to the airport" stories. One of the stand-by passengers claimed the seat between us and joined the conversation. While we laughed with relief over our good fortune in having made it onto a plane that was apparently going to take off, the stand-by passenger looked thoughtfully at Nala and said, "You know, I think I was on a shuttle with one of your neighbors. This guy was trying to get the driver to go past this apartment building because there was a woman there who couldn't make it to the shuttle because she couldn't take her cat outside. He even offered the driver $15, but he couldn't deviate from his route." My partner in panic hadn't forgotten me!

Neither of my seatmates nor I had eaten breakfast, but once we had been de-iced, anti-iced and cleared for take-off, they each bought snack boxes (which, when it came my turn to ask for one, turned out to have been the last two on the plane) and our row had a mini-party with them and the magazines we'd all brought. In between snatches of sleep, it was definitely the most fun I've had on a plane since high school Model UN trips. And although we took off an hour and a half late (de-icing takes a while, and before that the taxiway had to be plowed), we arrived a mere 27 minutes behind schedule.

That Saturday started with the potential to be the worst day in recent memory, but through the kindness, generosity and good humor of strangers, it turned out to be one of the best. Nala and I will definitely be baking a batch of "thankyouthankyouthankyouthankyou!" brownies for Mr. NPE when we get back to DC. And I'll be happily paying forward all that good cheer with every stranger I meet for a long time to come.

Why do we keep putting education on a back-burner?

I was raised to believe that there is nothing more important in a child's life than his or her education, whether via the multiplcation tables or a visit to a national park (those sneaky parents, slipping bits of history, geology, geography and environmentalism into something fun!). And that learning doesn't stop when you grow up.

As the daughter of an engineer whose definition of fun includes thinking up new ways to do things that get his name sent to the U.S. Patent Office and a teacher-turned-psychologist who got a second Master's in Industrial Hygiene before diving into the non-profit world of corporate real estate...well, I certainly got the point that education isn't something that's ever "finished." My family wasn't unique in my town: with five out of five elementary schools recognized as California Distinguished Schools and the only middle school and high school (and one elementary school) each recognized as National Blue Ribbon Schools, the school district I grew up in and most of the families who lived there were serious about turning out well-educated students.

What I didn't realize was surprising about my education until I got to college was that it was public. As a Community Facilitator and then a House Proctor in college (two of GW's versions of an R.A.), my residents assumed I had gone to private school K-12, as many of them had. About a year and a half after I graduated, primary education came up in conversation with my boss, who was floored to find out I had attended public schools until college. The stellar teachers, myriad extra-curriculars and demanding course load I had taken for granted were, it seemed, a very tiny exception to a very depressing rule.

I knew public education was underfunded but assumed the ratio of good to bad schools was skewed toward the good, even if "good" didn't always quite reach the quality of education I received. I mean, school was school; it was where I went every day, yawned through some classes, laughed through others and hung out with my friends before going to band practice, a Model UN roast, dance class or home to do copious amounts of homework. Wasn't it pretty much the same for everyone? When I kicked off college in Washington, DC by reading Ron Suskind's heart-wrenching A Hope in the Unseen, I quickly learned that the answer was "Not by a long shot."

The public education problem is nationwide, but DC has a reputation for having some of the worst schools in the country, from reading levels to graduation rates. In a city that is home to inspiring historical moments, beautiful landmarks and some of the most powerful and best-educated elected officials, activists, lobbyists and lawyers in the country, DC students are one of the most striking examples of the dichotomy between city natives and transplants - and one of the many "dirty little secrets" kept about what life is like for those who grew up here. And they know it.

I spent part of the summer after graduation teaching some of the kids considered DC's best and brightest high school students and I left every day wanting to cry in frustration. They wouldn't answer questions unless I refused to say anything else until they did (and sometimes not even then), the few who took notes never looked at them again and - most frustrating of all - 90% of them failed their final project because they plagiarized it.

My students drove me crazy, but I was more depressed than mad at them. Some of them knew what plagiarism was, but most of them had never been told that copying and pasting from a website is wrong (yes, even if you change the sentence or word order). Some of them were very bright, but had never been expected to actually retain anything or put in serious effort, so they didn't know how. Some of them were genuinely interested, but lived in a world where school was a joke and pretending disinterest was self-preservation. Some of them just didn't care.

The program through which I taught these kids was only six weeks long and while I'd like to believe sitting down and talking to them about what plagiarism is, why it's bad and the repercussions it can have made a difference, I know most of them probably forgot about it five minutes after they left the room for the last time.

After all, it has been made crystal clear to DC students (and, I would argue, a large percentage of public school students nationwide) that their education is not a priority, despite the lip-service paid to its importance. They've been shifted from school to school, teachers have been fired, teachers have been moved, and overwhelming numbers of teachers have been "let go" due to a supposed budget crunch (despite the fact that the DC schools' budget for fiscal year 2010 includes a $14.9 million net increase from 2009). In an environment that changes from one day to the next with no warning, how are these kids supposed to learn? And how can any government, local, state or federal, justify giving them such an unstable learning environment?

In a country that demands a college degree, if not a postgraduate one, for the overwhelming majority of middle class jobs but can't be bothered to make those degrees affordable, how are today's students supposed to become the leaders they've been told they need to be? Our education system is broken - has been, for a long time - but it receives very little government attention anymore because we have "bigger" problems. Are there issues facing the U.S. that are going to come to a head sooner than this one? Definitely. But what could possibly be more important than ensuring our country's future - in both a very realistic having-people-who-know-how-to-do-stuff way and a completely idealistic fulfill-your-dreams way?

Ooh rah, runners!

The 34th Annual Marine Corps Marathon is less than two weeks away and I'm starting to go into overly-excited hyperdrive mode. I printed my e-confirmation card this morning, drooled over this year's blue-and-white bib - much prettier than last year's army green - and perused the online race program. I signed up my cell phone to receive text message updates of my progress so my mom, who will be carrying my phone, will know more or less where I am on the course.

One of my favorite things about the Marine Corps Marathon is its history: more than 380,000 people have run this race (the 400,000th finisher will receive their medal this year), among them politicians, journalists and a Supreme Court Justice. It's the fifth largest marathon in the country with 30,000 slots that sell out within a few weeks every year (this year, the field was 70% full by noon on April 3rd, 48 hours after registration opened).

The MCM is also full of compelling stories, a handful of which are featured in the annual program. Retired Master Gunnery Sgt. Tom Knoll will be running his fifth MCM and 187th marathon on October 25th. Yeah, you read that right: 187 marathons - that's roughly 4,900 miles in races alone. His reason for running so hard? He wants to raise $1 million for charity over the course of his lifetime. He's past the $800,000 mark at this point, so I'd say he's closing in on his goal. Gerard Michel, a Frenchman who's flying out for this year's race, is running as a tribute to the kindness of an American soldier who handed him an orange in Paris when he was a boy, in the midst of World War II.

This year's MCM is my first repeat marathon and I'm looking forward to feeling less nervous on the course. Rather than wondering where the next turn will be (or staring in dismay up a disconcertingly large hill just after I'd picked up my pace at mile 9, like in Seattle this June), I can put a mental overlay of my memories from last year's race over the course map: I know that the first 10 miles are the hardest, both because they contain the hilliest portion of the course and are the most residential (i.e. have the fewest spectators to keep the runners smiling). But you're still pretty relaxed, swapping jokes with the runners around you and cheering your head off for every wheelchair participant you see straining to make it up one of Arlington's killer hills.

Around the halfway point is when the Marines start to put on the pressure and you find yourself straightening your shoulders and picking your feet up a little higher. By mile 16, near the Lincoln Memorial, the crowds form a solid wall on both sides of the street and you're high-fiving lines of kids (and their parents!) every few strides. Mile 20 is the longest because the entire thing is run across the 14th Street Bridge (really it's the Rochambeau Memorial Bridge, but no one actually calls it that) and all you want is to get off that obnoxiously boring block of concrete.

By mile 23 you're exhausted, your stomach has threatened to revolt when those well-meaning folks at the beginning of Crystal Run offered you beer and you've probably seen at least one runner carrying shoes that their feet are too swollen to wear. But the finish line is closer with every step and by mile 25 you're bearing down, finding energy you didn't know you had and using every ounce of it to push yourself forward. While your mind is still focused on the hill that came out of nowhere at mile 26, you're crossing the finish line and on your way to a "Congratulations, ma'am" from one of the 253 2nd Lieutenants carefully placing a medal around each finisher's neck.

It may be a little sick to get so excited about something that drains your body of all nutrience, tears up your muscles and leaves you feeling like you could sleep for a full day...but I can't wait! During the next ten days I'll be sleeping more, getting all the potassium I can and obsessing, somewhat neurotically, about keeping my feet and legs injury-free. (And continuing to fundraise for Running for Life - it's raised more than $600 so far and I need 177 more people to donate $26.20 by December 3rd to reach my goal.)

Whether or not you're a running enthusiast, I encourage you to go watch a race in your area - a marathon, if there is one. The crowd's enthusiasm is contagious and watching people reach their goals is inspiring, whatever the venue. And without a doubt, your presence will put a smile on a runner's face (especially if you're giving them some much-needed cowbell).

Ooh rah, runners! See you out there!

Can this relationship last?

Dear Metro,

We need to talk. Our relationship is in serious trouble, and I fear we may never make it back to those happy, carefree days of our first year together, filled with joy rides to IHOP and the mall.

I've been one of your staunchest supporters for six years, Metro. I've defended your broken escalators, your random breakdowns, your rush hour delays. I've explained your mysteries to countless tourists and respected the whims of your temperamental doors. I've vowed to anyone who will listen that a life with you is a life that doesn't need a permanent car on the side, because you make sure I get everywhere I need to go.

I've demonstrated my commitment to you in hundreds of ways, from buying a SmarTrip after a year to prove I was serious about you to visiting you twice a day, five days a week, virtually without fail in the last two years. I rarely complain about the lack of a seat in the morning and I never use the countless other people in your life against you. Even though they sometimes drive me crazy, I know there's enough of you to go around.

This year, though, you've been treating me shabbily and I don't know how much more I can take. Don't worry, I'm not going anywhere. You and Washington's cost of living have plotted together to ensure that I can't. And the environmentalist in me doesn't want to buy a car unless there's absolutely no other option.

But you've been wreaking havoc with my schedule all summer. You've made me late to work with trains ten minutes apart during rush hour rather than the usual five (max!). You imposed your own schedule on my happy hour plans every Sunday through Thursday in August, demanding that I either get on a train by 10pm or fight my way through a delayed system to the yellow line, taking more than an hour to get home.

The first glimpse of trouble was way back in February, when you shut down every blue and yellow line station in Virginia from Friday night until Tuesday morning during President's Day weekend, despite my pleas to let me visit my friends on Valentine's Day. And now you're doing it again. I was looking forward to a relaxing Labor Day weekend with friends, maybe some shopping in Georgetown, a quick jaunt to Dupont Circle...until yesterday, when you told me you were closing three stations for the weekend, including mine. You're even closing the National Airport station. During one of the busiest tourist weekends of the year. Metro, this is serious! What is going on?

I know you're older than I am and don't have the energy you used to. I know sometimes you feel like you need a break and some time to yourself, but I depend on you, Metro, and there's no one who can take your place in my life.

Something's gotta give, Metro. Please, help me save our relationship - I don't want us to end up hating one another. I'll try harder if you will.

With love,
Jessalyn
xoxo

Beautiful Places: NoVA

I was 16 the first time I came to the mid-Atlantic, headed to Georgetown for three weeks as a Junior Statesman of America. Flying into Virginia's Dulles International Airport in early July, I remember thinking "It's so green!" For a teenager who has grown up surrounded by sand and palm trees, and whose concept of natural beauty is based on the mountainous landscapes of Montana, Northern California and Vancouver Island, a mostly flat, green, deciduous forest is fascinating to look at, but not particularly pretty.

I thought downtown Washington was beautiful, with its white marble and broad avenues; I liked the look and feel of the brick in Georgetown and its narrow, tree-lined streets. But looking out my dorm room window at the river and Northern Virginia on the other side just made me think about how uncomfortable I was every time I walked out into the sauna that is summer in the mid-Atlantic.

The Potomac looked the way the air felt: like very soggy mud you'd want to avoid whenever possible and wash off immediately if it happened to come in contact with your skin. The leafy cover provided by the trees reminded me that if I stood under any of them for more than 30 seconds, at least three of the five gazillion mosquitoes who love the area's shaded, damp scenery would inevitably find me and launch an attack.

When I came back to the area two years later for college, not much had changed. The Potomac was slightly less brown, and I did enjoy being able to watch the seasons change, but I still didn't see any innate beauty in the landscape. (With the exception of fall colors. "The leaves are changing color! On that tree, and that one over there, and...all of them! Look!" was pretty much my standard line every time I walked out the door in October, and my dorm mates from cooler climates spent the month laughing at me.) In the six years since, a love of the region has snuck up on me.

I lived in Alexandria my first year out of college, in a decent-enough one bedroom, the one thing about which I absolutely loved was the view. Most of the outside wall in my living/dining room was window, and overlooked the forested rolling hills between Alexandria and Mount Vernon. I didn't pay much attention in the summer, but once the leaves started to change, I would stand at the window and just look every day.

When I started running on the Mt. Vernon Trail, I regularly jumped at birds singing in or flying out of bushes practically at my elbow as I passed. And at the rustling of some small creature in the underbrush. And at the awful, sticky feeling when I was the first person through some of the morning's spiderwebs. My pace slowed by a good 15 seconds per mile on the stretches of trail that paralleled the river, as I watched the herons and ducks come and go and the occasional fish briefly break the surface with a splash.

I still approach potential spiderweb hotspots with caution, but I've stopped jumping at every other manifestation of the region's native species in my path in favor of appreciating them: on long runs, my first moment of levity in the morning comes from the bullfrog chorus I pass heading south; I gauge the progress of the season by the height of the cattails in a marshy Potomac tributary; I know where to look for ducklings to coo over in early summer.

Lately, I've begun to find even the morning haziness that's an omnipresent indicator of humidity in July and August beautiful (even if the humidity that causes it is still completely, disgustingly, damply uncomfortable). It adds a dreamlike sheen to the landscape and makes things like the doe and her fawn playing in a meadow between the river and the US-1/395 bridge this morning feel a little like reality has momentarily bumped up against a fairy tale. Northern Virginia will likely never be the first thing that comes to mind when I think of beautiful places, but it has a lush, green-and-pastel appeal that epitomizes all the best parts of Virginia charm, and makes you wonder if its roots might be in the landscape itself.

Memo to the D.C. Newbie

The D.C. Newbie might become aware of an air of hostility tainting his first experience with the District. It isn't personal, Newbie - logically, those of us who live and work here realize that you couldn't possibly be aware of this city's numerous quirks immediately upon your arrival. It's just that there are so many of you, and a very large minority of your cohorts seem to toss common sense to the wind once inside the Beltway, and it gets a little frustrating.

So as someone who realizes that D.C. customs and common courtesies are not always immediately evident to newcomers, a list of tips and unwritten rules:

1. Washington is not a playground, an amusement park or a museum exhibit. People actually live and work here, and don't appreciate being delayed by people on vacation who don't realize their party of six is inevitably always in the way. (I think this goes for any major city/tourist destination.)
   
2. Unless you actually have somewhere to be at 9am, avoid the Metro at rush hour. Similar to #1, the Metro is not a joy ride, it's how people get to and from work. A lot of people, actually, and it's very, very crowded on weekday mornings and evenings, with people who are prone to crankiness. If you're a tourist, find something within walking distance of your hotel to do until 9:30 or 10am. Trust me, if it's your first time in the area, you'll feel uncomfortably awkward during morning rush hour on the Metro. Especially if you have kids. Infinitely more so if one or more of them are in a stroller. Plus, minimum fare is 30 cents cheaper after 9:30am ($1.35, instead of $1.65).
   
3. Escalators are a mode of transportation, not a reason to be lazy. Yes, in many other cities in the world (L.A., for example), no one walks on escalators. Here, most people do the majority of the time. No one cares if you stand, as long as you do it on the right-hand side - the left-hand side is the "fast lane." If you stand on the left, you're the equivalent of the VW bus doing 30 in the carpool lane, so don't be surprised if someone asks you, impatiently, to move.
4. Same goes for sidewalks. The generous width of the sidewalks is not an invitation to walk five abreast, it's a concession to a city with a large number of pedestrians. Just as many people take the Metro rather than drive to work, many people also walk, so stay to one side here as well.
5. Use the buddy system. Breaking your group up into pairs (with at least one cell phone in each pair, and one person who knows where you're going and more or less how to get there) will save you a lot of frustration. If the large family I ran into post-D.C. United game this Saturday had been using the buddy system, the pairs who were on the platform as the "doors closing" chimes sounded could have jumped into whatever car was nearest them, and those who were still on the escalator could have caught the next train, everyone confident that everyone else would get where they were going within about 10 minutes of one another. (Instead, the two teenagers who got there first spent two or three minutes delaying the train by standing in the doorway, shouting down the platform at the rest of their group to hurry up, delaying the train and cramming their entire extended family into one already-overcrowded car.)
   
6. Don't drive. Not because I think tourists or interns are bad drivers (Washingtonians are terribly rude drivers, so driving skills are relative here anyway!), but because it will stress you out, cost you far more than public transportation and probably take you longer. Parking is expensive, the streets weren't built to handle today's traffic volumes and there are so many one-way streets you'll have to drive twice the actual distance between points A and B. (And when you slow down or stop to ask a convenient pedestrian for directions, four times out of five they won't know what to tell you, because they don't drive and so don't pay attention to which streets are one-way in which direction.)
7. Be aware of where you are. In the summer, I regularly miss trains, open doors and green lights because I have to find a way around groups of tourists and interns who have stopped directly in front of the escalator they've just stepped off, the building they've just left or the curb they've just stepped up on. It's easy to focus on the internal dynamic of your group, but keep an eye on where you are in relation to those around you, too - they'll appreciate it. (I wanted to applaud yesterday for an eight-person family visiting the District who had all stepped back against the wall of a building while one family member bought drinks and hot dogs for everyone from a street vendor, rather than having the whole family crowd both the cart and the sidewalk. Way to go!)
8. Metro car doors are not elevator doors. Okay guys, this one is crucial: the doors on Metro cars will never - ever - spring back if you stick your arm, leg or backpack between them. They're just not built to do that. Yes, if you're very strong you can force a door to stay open by leaning all your weight on it, but once the conductor closes (or tries to) the doors, you forcing one to stay open won't do anything but break it - and that means every single person on the whole train has to get off and wait for the next one. In which case everyone will be very cranky, and very cramped on both the platform and the next train. So either get on or get off, but when the "doors closing" chime sounds, get out of the doorway.
   

Interning in Washington is a rite of passage for many American college students, and can be a fantastic experience. But for interns, there are a few more specific tips:

1. Remember that you're an intern. Interns are great and can be a huge help - but they can also sometimes forget themselves. This is especially true of summer interns on Capitol Hill, who are usually also part tourist, and often leap before they look when it comes to how Washington works. Interns, do a good job at the basics - boring as they are - and keep your eyes open, and you'll get both the good recommendation and the insight into non-profits/law firms/the Hill you were (hopefully) looking for when you applied. Save the rest for when you're a paid employee.
2. Keep your eyes and ears open. (i.e., Talk less, watch more.) Yes, you've written research papers on several of the issues that are important to the organization/firm/Congressman/Senator you're interning for. But you won't know the specifics of how they address those issues, and you certainly won't know the office culture, before you arrive. Rather than making an early faux pas (that will inevitably become what you're remembered for), observe the inner workings of your new digs before jumping in with what you know.
3. Intern badges are interesting only when you're not in Washington. (Hill interns, this one's for you.) Any internship that involves a badge or other form of ID requires you to wear them because it's standard operating procedure for whoever you're working for, not because your boss thinks it makes you look cool. Yes, showing such badges to your out-of-town friends makes for good, concrete proof of your awesome internship in the nation's capital, but wearing it out to the clubs on a Friday or Saturday night just makes you look unprofessional, and announces your (probably unpaid) intern status to everyone you meet.
4. Don't do anything stupid just because you're in Washington. D.C. is actually the worst place to decide to go a little wild, because since it's not a state, every infraction is federal. Fake IDs? Really, really bad idea. Not only will you end up in the federal system for attempting to purchase alcohol underage, but if anyone actually serves you, the establishment could lose its liquor license and the bartender will inevitably be fired and probably charged as well. As a result, Washington bouncers, bartenders and servers are really good at spotting fakes - the hard-nosed ones will turn you over to Metro PD (again, federal offense!); the more laid-back ones will just confiscate your ID and kick you out (or sometimes offer to give it back for somewhere in the neighborhood of $50-$100...and still kick you out). Oh, and your intern badge? Not a valid ID.
   
5. dcinterns.blogspot.com is an invaluable, if snarky, resource. Consider it your ongoing summer reading assignment and make it your mission in life to never see yourself there. (For non-interns, it's just hilarious, especially if you've ever lived or interned in Washington yourself.)

All that said - have a blast in D.C.! It's a great city, despite the extremely swampy summer weather, and the history here is not to be missed. Washingtonians don't always come across as the friendliest of people, but smile, ask politely for any information you need and you'll usually be pleasantly surprised. Oh, and always carry an umbrella - the summer thunderstorms are bone-rattling, and can produce themselves from a clear blue sky in 20 minutes flat.

Leader of The PACK

What's better than puppies and kittens? Not much! (Maybe kids, but it's a tough call.)

A friend of mine just completely made my day by sending me a link to one of the best ideas for a volunteer opportunity I've ever heard of: The PACK, a recent project of the Washington Humane Society.

According to WHS' website, "The PACK (People & Animal Cardio Klub), consists of a group of volunteers who regularly meet at local parks to run with adoptable shelter dogs from either of WHS's two Adoption Centers." The dogs wear bright orange vests that say "Adopt Me" and many of their two-legged pals wear Washington Humane Society t-shirts.

They run every other Saturday in areas that are popular with locals on the weekends, so the dogs get maximum visibility along with their exercise. Check out WHS' web page about the program, or read "Running With the PACK," a blog post by a WHS/The PACK volunteer.

I don't know about you, but to me this sounds like an amazingly rewarding opportunity for everyone involved: dog lovers (like me!) who otherwise may not have the opportunity to do so can interact with a great bunch of dogs, the local population gets some exposure to the great pets who need homes in their area, and most importantly, dogs get the exercise they need and the attention and affection they deserve.

My training schedule (yes, I'm at it again) may not allow me to do too many runs with this group before mid-summer, but I've emailed AsktheTrainer@washhumane.org for more information, and hope to get involved soon. In my book, Washington Humane Society is the leader of the pack (Laugh at me for my terrible pun/80s music reference, but I couldn't pass it up. Obviously, given the title of the post...) in creative volunteer opportunities that do good in more ways than one.

Welcome to Washington, Mr. President

My legs are half-frozen, my hair is a tangled disaster, my shoulders are knotted and sore from hunching against the wind...and I've never been more thrilled, inspired or hopeful in my life. Why? Because I stood on the National Mall at noon today and watched President Barack Obama take his oath of office as the 44th President of the United States.

(Above, the Washington Monument from across the (half-frozen!) Potomac.)

I was not an Obama fan during the primaries. I was pulling for John Edwards, then for Hillary Clinton, shaking my head at Obama's lack of experience and rolling my eyes at his celebrity status with so many people my age. But then, the last few months of the primaries, I started really listening to what he had to say, watching the way he interacted with people and the effect he had on them.

Once I started paying attention, I couldn't actually find anything to dislike about Barack Obama at all.

(Below, the crowd at the Lincoln Memorial, around 9:30am)

As the general election heated up, so did my enthusiasm for the Democratic candidate, this husband, this father, this basketball player, this statesman whose love of country resonates in every word he speaks. Well before November 4th, I was committed to doing what I could to see him elected, not only because he was my party's candidate but because I finally saw in him the spark that so many others were drawn to before me. The hope, the commitment to change not only for the betterment of this country but for that of the world, and the unflagging patriotism that acknowledges our country's failings at the same time that it reminds us of its greatness and its potential.

On November 4th, I cast one of the millions of ballots that helped turn Virginia blue, then sat on the floor in front of the TV with tears streaming down my face as President-elect Obama gave his address from Grant Park in Chicago. And today I stood on the Mall, again with tears in my eyes, and listened to President Barack Obama speak for the first time - seriously, hopefully, determinedly - to the American people.

I've always been proud to be an American, proud of the dreams and determination that have made us what we are, proud to be part of the astonishingly diverse heart of this country. But I've never been as filled with hope, and the belief that the status quo can change for the better, as I am today.

(Above, my vantage point from the WWII Memorial)

The day before the election, I wrote a post for my non-profit's blog, an excerpt of which I've been thinking about for the last week or so:

"I have a challenge for our next president, whether he turns out to be Barack Obama or John McCain:

Hold onto the sense of community that’s grown among your supporters, among the citizens of this country, during the campaign. It’s been a long one and we’re all tired of it, but we’re united in our desire to see a better, brighter future for America. Take that unity and hold it up for the country to see, make it clear that regardless of who any one person voted for, the next steps in American history are up to all of us. Foster that sense of community among the diverse voices that comprise the citizenship of our country – if you do, I believe that you’ll be able to accomplish more than any president in the last twenty years has dreamed possible.

Use the collective energy of that community to fix what’s broken...Gather [it] around minority groups who are too often the innocent victims of attackers who don’t understand them and only recognize them as different and therefore dangerous. Pit the enormity of that positive vibe against the negativity of...extremist positions, and let’s see if we can’t overwhelm them in such a way that makes the[m] obsolete.

I believe the American people have the power to accomplish all that and more and I challenge you, Mr. President, to harness it. The marathon[ of the election]’s almost over, but the real test of strength has yet to begin. I hope you have the guts to meet it head-on, and win."

(Above, President and Michelle Obama - on one of the Mall's jumbo trons - as he takes his oath of office)

I'm sure no one in President Obama's closest circles (and probably not many in mine, for that matter) has read that post - November 3rd was kind of a busy day for them! - but listening to him speak, the following night and this morning, I feel heard. And I believe that with President Obama in office, the dream of a united America, of an active citizenry and a government - or at least a White House - that hears and fights for the needs of its citizens can once again be a reality.

(At left, the crowd at the WWII Memorial)

If I didn't believe that, I probably wouldn't have walked the 4.5 miles from my apartment to downtown D.C. in this morning's 20-some-odd-degree weather, bundled up in tights, knee-highs, wool socks, jeans, tank top, long-sleeved tee, sweater, windbreaker, scarf, coat and fleece headband, with hand warmers in my pockets and toe warmers in my shoes, to stand with the mass of people that filled the entire length of the Mall and the steps of the Lincoln Memorial and watch the swearing-in of our 44th president. If I didn't believe that, I would likely have spent this Inauguration as I spent the last one: ignoring it, and wishing the motorcades and barricades and military checkpoints would stop messing with my routes through the city.

But I do believe it, so I wanted to be there, to watch history in the making, to watch the first moments of a presidential term I believe will bring extraordinary and much-needed changes to America. And to say: Welcome to Washington, Mr. President!

A Christmas addict's "bah, humbug!"

This might seem odd after the "yay Christmas!" elements of yesterday's post, but I really hate that Christmas is such an in-your-face event, beginning every November. I'm actually something of a Christmas addict: I obsess about finding the perfect present for everyone, bake up a storm, wear a lot of red sweaters and usually continue singing Christmas music well into February. It's my favorite holiday, but its pervasiveness in our society just doesn't seem fair to those who don't celebrate it, which, given the diversity of the American people, is presumably a fairly large minority.

I know that commercial businesses feel the need to use Christmas decorations as a way to entice Christmas shoppers into their stores, but can't the merchandise speak for itself? Scrambling through the aisles of Target yesterday (pre-kitchen time), I was way too busy concentrating on not stepping on small children, avoiding their parents' carts and elbows and keeping my eyes open for the elusive Lucky the Wonder Pup I was on a mission to find for my niece (who, fortunately for me, is too young to read this blog!) to even notice the store's décor. And I would have bought the toy there regardless of what the store was decorated for (Eid al-Adha, Hanukkah, the Winter Solstice, Kwanzaa...whatever!), because they had the best price for it.

I guess my point on that score is that commerce is commerce and a free market economy is pretty much going to do whatever it's going to do, regardless of what color lights a store has strung up, so why can't they focus on doing something more productive with their holiday profits than buying tinsel and sucking up even more electricity than usual?

On the non-commercial side of things, I get that decorating is a way to express the spirit of the season, which I love - from carolers to those goofy light-up Santas and snowmen people put on their lawns and in their windows. I actually talked my mom into buying a pair of vastly oversized candy canes to flank our front door when I was maybe nine or ten, pestered my dad to find an extension cord long enough to accommodate them and couldn't wait to plug them in every evening (sorry, Mom and Dad...).

But the metro stop closest to my office is decked out in red and green tinsel, my apartment building has two Christmas trees in the lobby and 2-foot-tall nutcrackers flanking the doors and my gym has been playing nonstop Christmas music since last week. Especially in a city with as diverse a population as Washington, how is that okay?

Yes, I appreciate the effort made to spread some Christmas cheer, but during a season that - for those who celebrate Christmas - is all about bringing joy to others and the spirit of giving, how can we justify actions like these that exclude so many? My Hindu and Jewish friends and colleagues are no less deserving of goodwill, peace and happiness than I am, yet there's nothing for them in this flurry of red and green, often not even the token gesture of "Happy Holidays!" in a store window instead of "Merry Christmas!" Isn't it bad enough that they spend Christmas Day on the outside looking in on a society that's almost completely shut down for the holiday, without adding the insult of a month and a half beforehand when they're made to feel isolated from the rest of the country?

On a personal level, celebrating with decorations and music is one of the best things about a holiday - it fosters togetherness for friends and family and gives us a reason to spend a little more time with the people we love. But that celebration should remain personal - it shouldn't be a societal free-for-all of "Merry Christmas, everyone! - unless you don't celebrate Christmas, in which case go away and don't bother us until it's over. We'll start bugging you to take a more active (fiscal) role in society again on December 26th. Thanks. Bye."

In the 21st century, we should certainly be capable of wishing people peace, joy, love and grace without tying it to one religious holiday. And I think we owe it to one another to do so.

Becoming a winter runner

Having grown up in Southern California and spent my first two Washington winters bundling into my warmest winter coat as soon as it dropped below 55 degrees, I've always been of the head-to-the-gym-if-it's-below-45-degrees persuasion and so have not amassed a large selection of outdoor fitness clothing suitable for winter weather. But, not wanting to lose the strength, stamina and endurance (and the option to eat whatever I want) that I built up in the seven months of training leading up to the marathon last month, I'm determined to give becoming a winter runner a shot this year.

So I decided to buy a pair of full-length running tights rather than relying on my standby "warm" tights, which stop at mid-calf and give me the excuse of cold and wind-burnt calves and ankles to head inside. After spending another 15 minutes grumbling about the price of running gear (this has been a common internal thread for me this year), I opted for the CW-X Performx Tight. They're pretty cool, they not only ward off cold and some wind, but are designed to stabilize your legs and improve your body's efficiency of movement.

I struggled into them this morning (they really are like tights, only thicker, slightly harder to maneuver and much less prone to ripping) and took them out for a spin in this morning's 38-degree sunshine.

The first half mile was normal, and I congratulated myself on finally having the sense to invest in winter-appropriate gear. At about three-quarters of a mile, I started to wonder why my shins were sore. At the first mile, I was gritting my teeth, struggling to pick my feet up and keep up my pace and wondering what was wrong with my tights - or my legs.

Well, I thought, I haven't been outside of the gym in about a week and a half, so it could just be that my legs have gotten spoiled by all that time on the low-impact elliptical, right? Sure, why not? I kept going, and noted that I was actually right on pace as I jogged down from the road to the Mt. Vernon Trail. Okay, not so bad.

I distracted myself with thoughts of who I was going to ask if this was normal for new winter tights, and tuned back in at about 2.5 miles to note that the soreness was fading. At 4.5 miles, I heard someone behind me and forgot about the tights as my competitive streak took over and I kicked up my pace to stay ahead of them. That usually only works for about a half mile, tops, since I'm definitely not a speed demon, but this time I had a hill working in my favor (I'm pretty good at keeping pace on hills, which many runners aren't), so I managed to stay ahead of my "opponent" and keep myself distracted until I left the trail to climb back up to the road.

I finished my 7-mile route in a decent enough time, stretched out and decided that maybe tights, like shoes, just need to be broken in, since by then they felt snug, but pretty good. My knees felt very supported without feeling constrained, and my quads didn't feel like they were working quite so hard as usual. Of course, now I'm loathe to wash the tights for fear that they'll shrink...but that's another problem entirely.

Any winter gear suggestions (for any outdoor activity), questions or comments? What should I be wearing to keep up this winter running? I'm still looking for a warm (brightly colored, since I usually run in the morning before work, when it's not always light) upper body solution to swap out for my layers of long sleeves and sweatshirts - any ideas?