colorful.

Yesterday was a big day for me. Not only did I go to the BANK, one of those mundane cluttered sort of life tasks I usually find very difficult to follow through with, but I also thought of a more convenient way, post bank, to get to my beloved Eastern Market.

The color coated metro map makes maneuvering through the district without a vehicle quite a breeze, except, of course, on the days when rally attendees clog up all forms of public transportation on a mission to restore sanity, but that's the topic of a different post. This Saturday there weren't any zealous-overly-excited-at-the-thought-of-seeing-Jon-Stewart-in-person Rally-ers in sight, and I merely needed to make it to the orange and blue line to get to the most colorful part of the city.

In my mind's eye, this District isn't a particularly eclectic place. When I think of DC, blue is the color that comes to mind, but not bright clear October sky blue. It's more dull and grayish, like the suits I ride the bus with on my way to work some mornings. But when I think of Saturdays at Eastern Market, every color of the rainbow appears in my sight. There are vendors selling jewelry, some hand made and some old costume that still smells musty like my grandmother's jewelry box. One of my favorite booths consists of vintage tablecloths, aprons, and kitchen towels from an era I've only read about and seen portrayed in movies. There are hats, photographs, clothing, in season produce and paintings; In the summer there was lemonade that's now been replaced by hot apple cider. And amongst all of this product being peddled, there's a more laid back version of DC that doesn't have to be anywhere but where they are.

I live near the red line. It's monotone, and doesn't really share it's space with another shade. It's not such a bad thing to transfer lines. It's quite easy, in fact. But not having to has been added to my list of life's simple pleasures. When I realized the bus that takes me to the bank continues on to McPherson Square, home of the orange and blue, and that I could just hop back on post boring bank visit and get to the line I needed to be, I swear I think the sky literally got brighter, and the clouds a little more billowy.

I arrived around eleven and began with my favorite cup of coffee at Peregrine espresso. Just as I was looking for a place to sit with my americano and scone during the busiest hour of the busiest day at likely the busiest coffee shop in the city, the family at the corner table were arranging their trash and dishes to leave. Did I highlight CORNER TABLE enough in the last sentence? Not having to transfer lines and a spot at the corner table on my favorite day of the week at my favorite coffee place in my favorite part of the District? Too much goodness.

I sat down and began to enjoy everything about my morning, including the two little boys sipping their beverages with their dad at the stools across from my spot. One was likely four, the other a year or so younger. The older brother was drinking a San Pellegrino Lemonata from its yellow and blue aluminum can, and the younger a Naked juice in one of those tall plastic bottles shaded by it's mango orange contents. Littler brother wanted to try bigger brother's beverage. Bigger brother clearly didn't want to share. "It's really spicy," he said. "See, it says here on the can that it's a lemon spicy drink. I really don't think you'll like it."

"But I really want to try it," was the youngest response. The dad just smiled at them, and so did I, grateful for the spicy lemon orange mango color this conversation between toddler brothers added to the spectrum of my day.

comfort food.

The wine market where I work is so much more than that. Our window outside has the logo painted in rustic red letters. And it's deceiving.

There's a full kitchen in the back, and it's inhabited on most days by some of the most talented people I know. Our fried chicken was in Bon Apetit Magazine for being one of the best this side of the Mason Dixon Line. I had to look up where that was after learning of the crisp poultry's status. Customers get down right angry when our lunch sandwiches are out of stock. A grown man, somewhere between the ages of my father and my mother's father, actually threw a bit of a tantrum last week when he realized we were out of the turkey blta. He threw his arms up in the air, grabbed a different option, walked to the counter, asked me if those were all the sandwiches we had left for the day (at 3p, well after lunchtime), and then he frustratingly and haphazardly tossed his sopressata sandwich toward me on the counter! The salted caramel bars with a shortbread crust could tempt me to give up chocolate forever, if I had to choose. But the treat I love most? The scones.

I choked on fried chicken when I was little. The crusts on some of the sandwiches scrape the top of my mouth. Besides, the sopressata sandwich has an olive tapenade, which usually produces in me a genuine gag reflex. I've only ever eaten one whole salted caramel bar, and when I was finished, it felt like there was a solid stick of butter lodged somewhere amongst my digestive organs. But the scones have yet to get old, and have actually gained notoriety amongst the titles of my days.

Friday has actually been named "Scone Friday". This made it feel set apart, until a Wednesday happened by and I discovered I could eat the old scones for FREE! This caused me offer Wednesday's the occasional "Scone Wednesday". Those that pass scone free are just regular old Wednesdays.

When leaving work last Sunday, I noticed that there were a couple of scones that had yet to sell, and they were just lying there on the tray casually waiting to be chosen by a thoughtful guest coming in to purchase wine and then being surprised by a surprisingly delicious natively British treat.

And that's why I think I like them so much more than the rest. I am drawn to things far away, fantastical, other-worldly. Fried chicken, for better or worse, makes me think of the KFC buckets we gobbled up as children of parents that both worked full time and then some. Turkey blta's make me think of my childhood hatred of tomatoes and the weekly bacon prepared by my father, in the microwave, surrounded by paper towels, and also, pre-packaged and sliced lunch meat. The pecan bars are reminiscent of the Thanksgiving Holiday and pecan pie, two unarguably American and familiar traditions and treats. But the scones come from across the pond, and are a part of tradition not my own.

There is a course of action for a lot of people in life. Not everyone fits into the typical chain of events, but they're typical because a lot of people do. High School graduation is first, then college, or something like it. After that, there's further education or a job - which may or may not pertain to your degree. Hopefully somewhere in the mix you meet someone else. Companionship is desired by most, and it's anchoring. Even if you don't know exactly where you're going, you know who you'll be going with. So there's a chosen place to live, and a route taken to work, and maybe a kid or two. You may even have fried chicken for dinner, or if you're a vegetarian, maybe salted caramel bars.

Coming here has forced me into an acceptance and approval of myself, and my deviation from the normal course of events. I was walking down the sidewalk today thinking of my life's situation. I am tempted to give the various seasons of my life the label "in between". The acceptance of deviation as simply a different course, as opposed the wrong course, means the seasons aren't in between. In between implies that I am defined by what I have yet to do, and gives less weight and relevance to exactly where I am. Exactly where I am is just grand, just as relevant and likely essential to wherever I will eventually be.

I am, in my mind, taking the fantastical route, the one where fried chicken is no where to be seen, routes to work depend on what time I leave the house and also, which job I am working that day, and scones are chosen and munched in the settling routine moments alongside earl gray.