February 28th, 2010: move from cozy garage apartment to cozy mango basement room in big house.
May 31st, 2010: move from cozy basement room into small carry-on suitcase headed from seattle>boston>DC, final destination.
June 10th, 2010: move from tiny suitcase into bedroom in very large house next door to Lebanese Ambassador.
November 25th, 2010: move from bedroom with tiny suitcase into tiny bedroom in house of parents.
January 14th, 2011: move from tiny bedroom in house of parents into bedroom in apartment of Kyla.
I'm visual. I think I see the source of desire I have to just stay where I am for a minute or two.
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
Sunday, May 1, 2011
market ease.
The better part of my weeks in DC happened on Saturday mornings. I headed east, from the red line to the orange and blue line to the Market, where color in the district was displayed in abundance. I looked forward to it all week long; The americano I would sip with a scone alongside a slow ease through people and dogs and strollers and goods being peddled to the masses. There were laid back smiles on the faces that were changing the world, seriously, the other days of the week. It's as if the entire District of Columbia, wound tight with deadlines, pressures, extra hours and the like, let out one big Saturday morning sigh of relief, and that relaxed sigh filled the air we all breathed in.
There's a market here in the place I am living now. Tents pop up every Saturday and have for quite some time. I lament the fact that I resided blocks away for a year without ever visiting. Markets didn't have a place in my life as eating was done out. My refrigerator saw the light of my kitchen a few times a week, and its only inhabitants were ketchup, sometimes some form of milk, and a to-go container of left-overs.
As this year's spring began to tease us with its presence, this market began to be a topic of conversation among many that I know. I started to anticipate its arrival, mostly because I cook again and the purchasing of perishables has become part of my norm. I was also told grandiose tales of legendary goat cheese, along with the admonition that to get it one has to get it early, as the faithful snatch it up fast.
True statement: I would get up before dawn for goat cheese. Early arrival would not be a barrier. I was there at open, seven-o'clock am, with the anticipation of attaining the cloud like unpasteurized substance that had gotten me out of bed so early. I wasn't anticipating the sense of calm and joy that came from simply being in the midst of all a market has to offer.
I went to where I had been told to go and I was met with rejection. They didn't bring extra to sell that week, but only had enough for their members. Also, in the future, I was to ask for fish bait. I walked away practically weightless with a big goofy smile plastered across my face. I couldn't have the very thing I had gone for and I was barely bothered. While perusing the other booths of breads, flowers, cheeses, leafy greens, green garlic, rosemary and every other spring vegetable and herb one could think of, as well as having contact with those that have nurtured these edibles on display, I was struck again with the ease that met me on those market streets in DC.
My weekly ritual was a ritual for a reason. I took the train trip all those mornings because of a need for familiarity, but also because the environment was comforting and beautiful in the ways I needed my familiarity to be. Walking through the little market here brought up those familiar feelings, the way a song can take you back to a place completely forgotten.
My train trip has shifted to a bicycle ride, but I happily and intentionally find myself on a blocked off concrete street every Saturday morning breathing in sighs of relief, the aroma of fresh vegetables, and meeting the smiles of the people that get it with a smile of my own.
True statement: The goat cheese was worth the wait.
There's a market here in the place I am living now. Tents pop up every Saturday and have for quite some time. I lament the fact that I resided blocks away for a year without ever visiting. Markets didn't have a place in my life as eating was done out. My refrigerator saw the light of my kitchen a few times a week, and its only inhabitants were ketchup, sometimes some form of milk, and a to-go container of left-overs.
As this year's spring began to tease us with its presence, this market began to be a topic of conversation among many that I know. I started to anticipate its arrival, mostly because I cook again and the purchasing of perishables has become part of my norm. I was also told grandiose tales of legendary goat cheese, along with the admonition that to get it one has to get it early, as the faithful snatch it up fast.
True statement: I would get up before dawn for goat cheese. Early arrival would not be a barrier. I was there at open, seven-o'clock am, with the anticipation of attaining the cloud like unpasteurized substance that had gotten me out of bed so early. I wasn't anticipating the sense of calm and joy that came from simply being in the midst of all a market has to offer.
I went to where I had been told to go and I was met with rejection. They didn't bring extra to sell that week, but only had enough for their members. Also, in the future, I was to ask for fish bait. I walked away practically weightless with a big goofy smile plastered across my face. I couldn't have the very thing I had gone for and I was barely bothered. While perusing the other booths of breads, flowers, cheeses, leafy greens, green garlic, rosemary and every other spring vegetable and herb one could think of, as well as having contact with those that have nurtured these edibles on display, I was struck again with the ease that met me on those market streets in DC.
My weekly ritual was a ritual for a reason. I took the train trip all those mornings because of a need for familiarity, but also because the environment was comforting and beautiful in the ways I needed my familiarity to be. Walking through the little market here brought up those familiar feelings, the way a song can take you back to a place completely forgotten.
My train trip has shifted to a bicycle ride, but I happily and intentionally find myself on a blocked off concrete street every Saturday morning breathing in sighs of relief, the aroma of fresh vegetables, and meeting the smiles of the people that get it with a smile of my own.
True statement: The goat cheese was worth the wait.
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