Spring, Finally

In an attempt to try a new route from a client meeting to my office, I inadvertently ended up in downtown DC. As locals know, the traffic during the annual Cherry Blossom Festival is no picnic, and this little detour cost me an extra 35 minutes. Sitting in the traffic, I noticed small white flakes flying past my car window. My brain automatically associated them with snow -- we had so much this year, at times it almost seemed spring would never come. But of course, they weren't snowflakes.
They were cherry blossoms.

Snow Baby

Earlier this week we got some serious snow. It was notable even by the standards of my former home in Upstate New York. For my current home in Virginia, it was just short of apocalyptic.

We had about 20 inches when all was said and done.

We took Lexie out in the snow so she could really experience her first blizzard. At first, she liked it.


Then, not so much.

Maybe next year.

No Sleep 'Til ...

The Beastie Boys' "No Sleep 'Til Brooklyn" recently got me thinking about my prior life in the NYC area. Strangely, my 2 years in Hoboken, NJ, was what came to mind, versus my 4 years actually in Brooklyn. Hoboken wasn't too bad -- it is a fairly safe, cute town with lots of restaurants and bars and an easy commute to Manhattan. But nothing could erase the reality of its location in the Garden State.

I used to go visit my aunt's family on Long Island pretty regularly, and when I lived in Hoboken, she would often introduce me as "my niece from New Jersey." It pained me deeply when she would say this, and I actually asked her to please stop telling people I was "from New Jersey."

After I moved to Brooklyn (Borough of Kings), I cast aside all ties to New Jersey faster than you can say "What exit?" It was as if I'd never lived there. Wiped from my personal history. Meanwhile, my colleague Tim had just moved to Jersey City -- the nice part. At the time, the nice part was only a couple of blocks long. Tim was telling us one day about his weekend plans, which included a bachelor party, and, much to his chagrin, a ride on "The Beast," a giant, loud, garish motorboat for tourists with shark teeth painted on the front (photo at right). Jason remarked, "Tim, if you die on that boat, your obituary is going to say you died on The Beast." And, giddy with opportunity, I immediately followed up, "AND it will say you're from New Jersey!"

Truthfully, Jersey wasn't really that bad. I just didn't love Hoboken enough to stand up against the stereotypes. Hoboken doesn't have much character -- the birthplace of baseball has long since been overrun with young college graduates hitting the bar scene. Brooklyn, on the other hand, has a soul.

Hey, Isn't That Massanutten Mountain?

This evening I was blessed with another opportunity to drive home with the windows cracked in spite of the calendar. When I crossed over Route 50 going south on the Fairfax County Parkway, I noticed the awesome sunset to my right -- orange and red streaks yawning up from behind the Blue Ridge. It used to pain me that I could see the Blue Ridge on my commute -- I mean, I used to work in Manhattan. Today, because the sky was so clear and the sun was illuminating the west, I realized I can see not only the easternmost mountains, but the ones behind those too.

Meanwhile, I acquired a baritone ukulele from Steve's family (it was Grandma Sara's) and have been trying to play it. Actually, playing it is not a problem. Getting it to stay tuned is where I'm going wrong. But seriously -- a ukulele?

My life is currently the opposite of "we're not in Kansas anymore."

You Can Take the Girl Out of the City, but...

Today I was driving home from some tax-free Virginia shopping and I found myself sitting at a stoplight, killing time by baldly staring at the occupants of the cars around me. I was second in line at the light. Beside me in the left lane, the left arrow had turned green, but the guy at the front of the line hadn't noticed yet.

In the New York metro area, the horns of the cars behind the leader would have blared at the very moment the light turned green. As the left lane next to me finally moved forward, I reflected on the fact that I now live in a place that is more mellow, lower key, quieter. A place where you can cut your neighbor some slack if he flakes out at the light.

Then, my light turned green. The guy in front of me just sat there. Precious seconds of green light ticked away. So I did the only thing I could do.

I leaned on the horn.

A Night With the Homies in NYC

Thursday night, I stopped in NYC on my way home from the Hamptons to have dinner and catch up with a few of my homies. We went to Pete's, a pub I once frequented, and we hung out for several hours.

I stayed in a hotel on the water in Jersey City (nice hotel, guaranteed parking, good deal through Hotwire). When I got back late that night after seeing my friends, I stood by the darkened Hudson River for a while and watched the lights of downtown Manhattan. I saw my old office building (the one with the square roof in the far right of the photo). Next to it, I saw the missing World Trade Center in my mind's eye.

On September 10, 2001, I left my office building musing about how my life had turned into the movie Groundhog Day. Every day seemed the same. At work, I sent out the same newsletters every day at generally the same time. I saw no logical path for advancement, and the managing editor's attitude toward me leaned toward disinterest. Walking to and from work, I always saw the same people. The pretzel/hot dog guy was always there. So was the fruit guy. I saw the same mother with a stroller nearly every day. The same crowds moved in the same directions. As usual that evening, I glared at the Marriott World Trade Center, from which my bag had been stolen months earlier as I sat at the bar (and whose security staff had been obstructionist and uncooperative), and I wished for the hotel's destruction.

I never went back to that office. The next morning, the Marriott World Trade Center (among other buildings) was indeed destroyed. My workplace moved "temporarily" to central New Jersey, and after six months, I couldn't take the commute anymore, so I quit and moved to DC for graduate school. File this all under "be careful what you wish for."

But now, I'm not sure where I belong. At times, I feel like a displaced person. I can't imagine that DC will become my home. I was born in New England, grew up in Pennsylvania, went to college in Upstate New York, lived in NYC, and here I am in DC. Maybe it doesn't matter. Maybe there's no need to define myself by where I live.

What do you think?