A Food Post

Ottawa has some GREAT places to buy food. In the market, there are stands full of fresh berries and vegetables grown on local farms. There are tables full of all things maple. There are adorable French bakeries and shops devoted to nothing but cheese.

However, none of these compare to the Italian grocery store I found yesterday. Imagine -- a store with nothing but floor to ceiling pastas, pasta sauces, olives, cheeses, desserts, espresso beans, aaaahhh!! It was sensory overload. I walked through every aisle. I bought fresh fettucini, roasted red pepper sauce, a wedge of fresh parmesean, a tub of hand-selected olives from the olive bar (squeal!), a six-pack of Pelligrino, and, best of all, a box of mini chocolate chip biscotti. After I came home and cooked the food, I brewed some coffee and indulged in about half the box.

Heaven.

I am already hungry for dinner. I think I will stop at the hot dog stand on my way home. This isn't just any hot dog stand. The lady grills them while you wait, and she has about 7 jars full of different toppings. My new fave topping: dill pickles.

My Busy Weekend

My first full weekend in Ottawa consisted of the following:

A bike ride that accidentally went too far and ended up being about 20k long. Ouch. All I wanted to do was bike along the canal. I got to a stopping point, decided I wasn't tired and made the fateful decision to take another trail along the Ottawa River. By the time I decided I was tired -- I had to bike all the way back. Uphill. God bless the person who decided to open up a hamburger stand on the bike trail. It made a nice stopping point about 3/4 of the way through.

A 2k walk to the Museum of Civilization on Saturday after the 3 hour bike ride, then a tour of the Canadian history exhibits from Vikings to Pierre Trudeau.

A worship service at the First Baptist Church across the street from my hotel where I unexpectedly ran into someone I knew -- a friend from work who was part of the Stanley Cup watching party last week.

A walk to the War Museum and a tour through Canadian conflicts from the Boer War to the trenches of WWI (I actually walked in a trench--Ottawa museums are so interactive!!), WWII, Korea, the Cold War and peacekeeping missions of the 90s and present.

An unexpected walk through the Aboriginal People's festival in front of the War Museum. Native Canadians are known here as Aboriginals, First Peoples, and sometimes Mohawks. They were wearing some of the biggest feathered headdresses I have ever seen and I got to see part of a dance and hear the drums.

Groundhog sightings: 2
Chipmunk sightings: 1

Thank you Gator for asking follow-up questions. This blog is intended to be interactive. To answer your question about the weather, it's been sunny and very refreshingly temperate with highs in the upper 70s and lower 80s. In other words, the weather is ideal.

I LOVE Ottawa and am looking forward to showing my visitors around in the next two weeks!!

Things I Like in Ottawa: The National Gallery

This was my view last night from the beautiful National Gallery of Canada.  I loved the museum. It was a very interestingly-designed building containing all different types of art - modern, classic, experimental, and with a special collection of Italian art on loan. But the best part was sitting outside at the museum's cafe with this view of the river and the back of the Parliament building. The weather was perfect, the birds were chirping, and the atmosphere was so peaceful.

I've Landed

{Scarlett}

Day 1:

I've arrived in Ottawa. Day 1 of new travels is always the hardest because you're in a completely new place and don't know where anything is, don't know a single person, and basically feel like a fish out of water. I spent the afternoon trying to get settled in my hotel and learning my new surroundings.

The flight was NOT what I was expecting as far as transit from one major capital city to that of its closest ally. There wasn't even a jet bridge to get on the plane so we had to walk down metal steps then back up more steps to actually get on board. The plane was the same size as the ones that fly from Dallas to San Angelo. The flight took about as long too -- a little under 2 hours.

The Ottawa airport was tiny too! Very clean and modern looking, but definitely small. I got new Canadian money from an ATM then got a taxi to take me to the hotel.

The drive from the airport to my hotel was really pretty. We drove along the Rideau Canal and I saw lots of people out on bikes and kayaks. I unpacked all my things then went for a walk. I found the national art museum (love!! I can't wait to go through) and the Beaux Arts neighborhood where there were a LOT of really neat, different restaurants with sidewalk seating. I found one that looked good and had a sandwich, fries and raspberry wheat beer.

Now I'm about to walk to the grocery store and will probably have an early night.

Bye from Canada!

Of China and Church - Easter Reflections

{Scarlett here}

Yesterday I read this article in the New York Times. It's about how members of a Christian church in China were detained for trying to hold an Easter service in a public square.

This breaks my heart. I can't imagine not being able to go to church on Easter Sunday, the most special of all Sundays, and I am humbled and worried to know that Christians on the other side of the world are probably still in jail for exercising a right that I often take for granted. It takes a lot of courage to believe in your Savior so much that you will willingly risk jail time to worship Him.

After reading this, I started to think of how lucky I am to be able to worship freely, and how sad I would be if I would ever have to miss worship on Easter Sunday. Then I remembered that one year I had. It was the Easter I spent in China.

For most people around me that day, it was an ordinary Sunday, and a work day for me. The season had changed; they always seemed to change so quickly and abruptly in China. One day it was bleak and cold, and the next day winds swept through bringing lots of pollen and dirt flying through the air and all of a sudden, lime green leaves began to sprout on the trees. I was teaching English at a private language school and the weekends were my busiest days.  The school administrator marked the occasion by bringing in a box of hot cross buns from the bakery to put in the teacher's lounge. I appreciated the gesture, but was really bummed that I was the only one out of all of my coworkers and friends who attached any religious significance to the day, and who mourned not being able to be in church. I heard that there was actually a Christian church in the Chinese city where I lived, but it was controlled by the Communist party. Even if I had Sundays off, I don't think I would have been comfortable worshiping there. (The reason Christianity is suppressed in China is because nothing is supposed to be higher than the Party.)

I was in China for 7 months, which is the longest stretch I've ever gone without ever going to church. It's interesting to try to figure out what being a Christian means in an environment like that when for all of your life, being a Christian has meant, if nothing else, going to church on Sunday. I'd like to say that I figured out, in the absence of my usual Sunday morning ritual, how to extend extra compassion, grace and love to my fellow man to make up for not being able to worship as usual. That I filled that empty cup with other good things.

The truth is, throughout the latter months of my time in China, it was all I could do to hang on to any sense of inner peace for myself, much less try to extend it to others. I read my Daily Guideposts nightly, which I think was my saving grace. In some way, that book made me feel connected to my Christian brothers and sisters even if they were a world away. As far as being able to discuss religion with anyone, when my coworkers--the only ones in that whole country of 1.3 billion I could speak English with--asked me about my faith, if I prayed, if I went to church, I answered them honestly, and my responses were usually met with derision. They made fun of me for so many things, for being from Texas ("small-town redneck" and "backwards"), for being an American ("sheltered know nothings who try to run the whole world but don't know anything about it"), for refusing to disrespect George W. Bush even though I have no love lost for that man but will not insult my own president in a foreign country, for not denouncing the Iraq war because my friends were fighting in it ("imperialist"), for trying to acknowledge the 4th of July (they tore down the red white and blue sign I put on my door). For all of those insults, they really hurt my feelings. But when they tried to make fun of me for being a Christian, it didn't hurt my feelings in the slightest bit. It just made me pity them. I suppose that's something.

When you get right down to it, the blessing of going to church isn't so much in the polished pews, the dress clothes, or even the beautiful music and thought-provoking sermons, though I love all of that. It's getting to be around people who believe what you do, who support you in struggles and who share in your joys and who understand the deep peace of knowing that God still speaks. Not having that in China made something inside my heart shrivel just a little bit. My faith didn't dwindle, but my joy did. (Thankfully whatever shrank has since been repaired.)

Back to those brave people who only wanted the joy of worshiping freely with other Christians on Easter morning. They have my respect, my sympathy and my prayers. I hope that if they're in jail they will soon be released. I hope that the day will come soon when they can worship freely and in peace.

Blessings to you,
Scarlett

Scarlett's LA Adventure

A few weekends ago, I got to have a fabulous LA adventure with my mom. It was an absolute blast. We got to see all of the glamorous sites of Rodeo Drive (helLO opulence), tour stars' homes (well, their neighborhoods anyway... HelLO Harrison Ford), and have some fun in the sun on the Santa Monica Pier.

Here are a few snapshots of our weekend:

My Egyptian Friends

{Scarlett}

I'm not here today to give my political views on what's going on in Egypt. Today, I just want to tell you about my Egyptian friends. They are weighing heavily on my mind because I'm so worried about their safety and their future. By telling you about them, I'm hoping that I can show some personality and humanity behind all of the TV images of rioting mobs and unspeakable violence. To me, those people gathered in  squares in Egypt's largest cities aren't just unnamed masses. My friends might be among them, friends who helped me through a hard month in Egypt, friends who I'll never forget.

I went to Alexandria, Egypt, one summer in July a few years ago. I wanted to study Arabic, so I signed up for a program and booked a plane ticket. At this point, I'd already traveled to 20 foreign countries so I thought I was a savvy traveler and that my days of culture shock were long behind me. I was wrong. My first few days in Egypt were terrifying, mainly because everything was SO foreign to me that I didn't know what to do or how to be. I was petrified of leaving the walls of my room by myself because I didn't know what would happen if I walked around on the streets alone. The heat, the unruly bustle of traffic, the unfamiliar language, the unfamiliar way people dressed, the jeers I got from men, and the jarring call to prayer blasted on the loudspeakers 5 times a day freaked me completely out. On my first day, a monk at the convent I stayed in walked me to a McDonalds. That meal was about the only thing I ate for 2 days. I was too scared to venture out to find anything else.

Then I started my Arabic school and met some of the most wonderful people who made me feel welcome, who (slowly, slowly) taught me how to read, write and speak, who took me to mosques, hookah bars, and to a Muslim wedding, who made me laugh with their jokes and made me think with their tough but respectful questions about the US.

First is Afaf.

She was a language teacher who worked with me on vocabulary. She was also an expert on ancient Egyptian history and could even read hieroglyphics. And in the male-dominated culture of the Middle East, she was a rare example of a female entrepreneur. She started her own tourism business and led tours around Cairo and Luxor. She was funny and vivacious, and very open with me about her Muslim faith and was willing to answer any of my questions. One day I asked her, "Afaf, why do you wear that head scarf? Doesn't it make you feel oppressed?" I will never forget her answer.

She said, "No! I wear it because I am precious. God made me so special that only my husband can see me without it. You can put a tomato out on the street, but a woman is precious and she must be covered." If that's the way she feels, who am I to tell her differently? Afaf guided me through a mosque and even taught me all the motions that Muslims go through when they do their prayers. She wasn't trying to convert me, she was just trying to explain.


Next is Sallam.

Talk about personality! He introduced himself by saying, "My name is Sallam. That means peace!" This guy was a huge flirt, and all of my female Italian classmates (and ok, me too) thought he was adorable. He always had that huge smile on his face and was free-spirited and fun-loving. He told me his favorite place in Egypt is Luxor, except for in the summer because it's too hot. One time he saw me typing an email on the school's computer and just marveled at how I held my hands on the keys and how fast I can type. He thought it was amazing and said one day he wanted to learn to type like that.

Last is the one who's closest to my heart. His name is Amr, and, looking back on it, he's the closest I've ever come to having a Muslim sweetheart.

He's from a small town and his dad is a preacher (well, an imam), so we had that in common. (Sidenote: you know how if you say you're from small town Texas, people ask you if you ride horses to school? He said the same thing happened to him except it was camels.) He's a really bright, intellectual guy who speaks impeccable English. He teaches at the best university in Cairo that's one of the most reputable universities in the whole Middle East. He taught at my school for that summer to make extra money.

One evening he invited me to a sidewalk cafe where we had non-alcoholic beer (like all good Muslims, he didn't drink) and talked about life and politics. He invited me to his apartment (which is a HUGE deal in this society and was probably a faux pas to have a member of the opposite sex unchaperoned in your living room) where we ate dinner and talked to his friends and roommates. He had to do most of the interpretation because I don't think they spoke English. Then one night, we were walking along the beach to a concert and he grabbed my hand and held it as we walked along the shore. As an American, this is about as mild a form of physical affection that you can get. But in Egypt, and in public no less, this was a major break with convention. It was sweet.

His dream was to study in London or in the US, but he said he'd prefer England because he'd heard that it was really dangerous for Muslims to live in the US and was worried that he'd get beaten up. He eventually did get to go study or work in London for three months and said it was a wonderful experience.

When I heard about all of the rioting, I emailed him to ask if he was OK. It took him a few days to get back to me, but eventually he was able to write back and say that he appreciated my email, he was OK and would write more soon.  That's the last I heard. I don't know if he's involved in the protests or not.

I get knots in my stomach when I think about what my friends might be going through right now and what their futures might hold. Every time I see pictures of the riots in the paper, I search the crowds for their faces.

I want so badly for them to be safe. I want so badly for their futures to be bright.

I'm sending them all the prayers my heart can hold.~

No Mo' Snow

I sit here on my perch in my corner apartment watching a dazzling winter snowstorm from my floor-to-ceiling windows. Big, fat flakes are falling to the ground. (And the snow is coming down hard too. Heh.)

Some people might say it’s beautiful. (And OK, right now, I’m warm and cozy on the couch in my sweats under an electric blanket drinking hot spiced chai and home two hours early from work and my view does kind of look like what Frosty would see from inside a snow globe.) But if you want to know the truth, I HATE SNOW.

It makes such a mess and is scary to drive in. And the day after, the snow on sidewalks and up against the curb turns brown and gross. It makes dirt stick to your car. Have you ever had to scrape snow and ice off your car while it’s still falling? Ugh!!!

I used to not be this way. I used to think snow was picturesque and I used to be pro-snowman building. This all changed for me on a dreary winter day, December 20, 2006. At the request of my good friend Gator, I will tell you the story. Lean in close…

…As I said, it was December 20, my 24^th birthday. I was working as a receptionist in downtown Denver. The snow started to fall in the morning, and it fell hard. Coloradans are hearty folk and don’t believe in missing work because of snow. I had to do some major arm-twisting with my boss to be able to leave by noon. By then, at least 6 inches of snow had already accumulated and it was still coming down hard. I got in my Acura, got on the highway, and hoped for the best.

It was treacherous driving. A few miles from my apartment, the already slow traffic came to a complete standstill. I moved maybe 6 inches in the first hour. And the snowfall had turned into a legitimate blizzard, a total whiteout. I could only see through a tiny 4-6 inch square on my windshield, and, through that, only the taillights of the car in front of me. My wipers were getting so caked with ice that they were useless against the onslaught. Every 30 minutes or so, I’d roll down the window, lean out as far as I could to grab the windshield wiper and knock some of the ice off with my scraper. The snow was blowing sideways and would whip into my ears and blow my hair all around my face. It was terrifying. I wasn’t able to move, I couldn’t see, I didn’t want to get out of my car for fear of being run over by an out-of-control vehicle, and worse: I was low on gas, low on cell phone battery, and had to use the bathroom.

After at least four and a half hours of being stuck like this, I finally made it up to the intersection where I could turn around. I thought that I might make it home if I took a different route. However, there was an incline to get to the on-ramp to the interstate, and my Acura just couldn’t do it. My car did amazingly well up until that point, but then it just … gave up. It wouldn’t go forward. When I tried to back down, it wouldn’t go backward. I was stuck. And the blizzard was still coming down.

At this point, my memory gets a little fuzzy. It had been about five hours and I was rapidly losing the will to carry on and barely cared what became of me. I resigned myself to living out the rest of my days in a car stuck on the on-ramp.  A police officer appeared and tapped on the window. I rolled it down. He asked me how I was doing. I told him that my car was stuck, my cell phone was dead, I was almost out of gas and it was my birthday. He said happy birthday. (Thanks, buddy.) He asked if I needed help. I’m like, duh.

He got some other cop, and the two of them held onto my arms as we walked down the interstate on-ramp to a police SUV at the bottom.  I got in the back of the SUV, and the two officers, whom I still think of fondly, let me pick the radio station and chatted with me on the 2-3 mile drive home. They couldn’t actually turn into my apartment complex because of the snow. They got as close as they could to the nearest curb. I waved goodbye and walked about a quarter mile through thigh-high snow to get to my front door. My hair was wet and ropy. My clothes were drenched, and when my roommate opened the door, I’m sure she saw a wild look in my eye.

A few days later, I, with the help of some friends, a big jeep, and a tow rope, recovered my car from an impound lot. It had snowed AGAIN after they put it in the lot and it was stuck in ice and had to be jerked out. I almost didn’t make it home for Christmas and, on my move back to Texas, got stuck at a trashy truck stop in Durango on New Year’s Eve thanks to another storm.

Since then, I’ve hated snow. Living through Snowmagedden last year didn’t help. I’ll save that story for another time, but let me just say that I put the ‘crazy’ in stir-crazy.

Dreaming of fruity drinks on tropical islands,

Scarlett

Whatcha Eatin? Part One: Aggieland

{Scarlett here}

Hello everybody! This report is coming to you live from my home state of Texas. I've been sent here for work and took a few extra days of vacation to see some of my favorite cities and friends in the Lone Star State. I met up with my ol' pal Work Girl for an epic road trip across Central Texas that involved 1) loud, prolonged laughter, 2) awesome hotel rooms, 3) singing along to the radio in her Mini Cooper and 4) making lots and lots of good memories. However, the definitive part of our trip, the one thing that everything else revolved around, ended up being -- you guessed it -- food.

I looove food. I've always enjoyed going out to eat, and one of the things I miss most about not living in Texas are my favorite food groups: Mexican, bbq, and fried. Sure, you can find imitations in Washington, DC, but let me tell you, it's not the same. So I set out on this vacation with very specific ideas about exactly where and what I wanted to eat.

My first foodie experience was in the Dallas/Ft. Worth metroplex. I had a gourmet, 5-star breakfast at the buttcrack of dawn on Saturday morning. In a gas station. With a two police officers, a judge, and a detective (my very own brother). Most cops get donuts and cheap coffee for breakfast, right? Not these. I was treated to a first class meal of yummy breakfast tacos and freshly brewed coffee at what's billed as a five star restaurant. You just have to walk past a couple of gas pumps and through the potato chip aisle to get to it. I also got to catch up on on the lastest scuttlebut on crooks, theives, and ne'er-do-wells. I'm telling you, this was better than cable tv.

I went back to the police station with my brother, where Work Girl picked me up to start our road trip. (Let's hope that's the LAST time you have to pick me up at the police station, right??) Our first destination: College Station, home of Texas A&M University, our alma mater. I hadn't been back since I walked the stage for my Master's two years ago. Combine my excitement about going back with about 8 cups of coffee that I'd had that morning and I was practically bouncing around the Mini Cooper like a rubber ball. We intended to be in College Station in time for lunch but because of rain (yeah, let's blame it on the rain) by about 12:30ish we were still on the road, getting hungry, and needing a(nother) bathroom break. We were conveneintly passing through Small Town Texas and noticed a Dairy Queen. We decided to pull in to use their facilities and agreed that it would be rude to not order anything. To be polite, we decided to get a blizzard: chocolate, with Reese's Pieces. It was a nice prelude to our much-anticipated triumphal entry to College Station and Wings n More, our favorite local restaurant (don't judge.)

Both Work Girl and I had fond and vivid memories of Wings n More. We'd had dates there. Lots and lots of dates. We remembered exactly how it looked, exactly what the waitresses wore, and exactly how it was supposed to taste. So when we walked in and noticed some changes we were alarmed. First of all was the menu. Not only did it look different, they'd changed the minimum number of wings you had to order from 6 to 10. (OK fine, I'll get 10.) Second was the ketchup bottles. They used to have those red cylinders with the little plastic cones on top that allowed you to create designs on your French fries. No more. Those have been replaced with fat Heinz bottles. So much for the smiley face I was going to make. And they got rid of the huge rolls of brown paper towels on each table and instead had a pristine stack of white napkins. Sigh. Grudgingly we ordered the wings, the fried pickles, the chicken tenders and fries, the Dr. Peppers and the side of ranch, hoping against hope that it would come out the same as we remembered but fearing that these imposters who took over the place might not know how things are supposed to be run. At least in that regard, our fears were misplaced. The pickles? Delish, hot and crispy. The wings? Spicy, messy and juicy, just how they're supposed to be. The fries? Delectable, despite the tampered-with ketchup. The Dr. Pepper? Just as good as we remembered.

The rest of our food experience in College Station was also divine. We went to La Bodega for dinner and had the BEST baja-Cali tacos. I chose the pulled pork while Work Girl tried the sushi taco. I paired mine with a frozen margarita swirled with sangria. Yum! The next morning, or ok maybe it was noon, we went to our favorite coffee shop hangout, Sweet Eugene's, for brunch. I have spent HOURS in that place, reading, cramming, and consuming just about every latte combination they have. This time I got a cappucino and a jalepeno, sausage and cheese kolache. Work Girl had a non-fat chai and egg and cheese bagel. We sat in a cute little table near the window while we enjoyed our food and reminisced. The whole combo was so good that I had another. (What, those kolaches are small.)  We capped off our visit to College Station by driving through campus and looking at our old dorms, our old dining halls and our old classroom buildings, awww.

And with that, we set out in the rain for Austin. To find out what we ate, um, I mean what we saw, um, I mean all of the culture we consumed in the state capital, stay tuned for more from Work Girl.

The Peak

{Scarlett here}

When I was little, we lived in a tiny town of about a thousand people. Moving to a town of two thousand people when I was 6 was a HUGE upgrade because they had a Dairy Queen and a Pizza Hut AND a doctor, all in the same town. No Wal Mart, no McDonalds, no movie theater and no mall, but I could get a Blizzard whenever I wanted. As you can imagine, growing up like this forges a unique perspective on the finer things in life.

As a little girl, I remember one of the most exciting things ever was driving through Midland, Texas, and admiring the skyline from the back of my parents' station wagon. It was amazing. It was probably about like what Dorothy felt when she glimpsed the Emerald City for the first time. I was just in awe of how tall the buildings were. Skyscrapers, my parents called them. Wow. I'd never seen buildings so tall that they actually brushed the sky. I craned my little neck to gaze up at them, trying to see all the way up to the top, in wonder at the marvels of human ingenuity that could build such amazing things.

Fast forward to me as an 18-year-old, moving off to college. I had hit the big time. I was moving to College Station, Texas, and would be right in the thick of city life. There was traffic! And more than two traffic lights! An Olive Garden! (The luxury!) A mall! A Target! Lots of ice cream places! (squeal!!) AND a huge movie theater. It was official: I had landed in the middle of a booming metropolis! And I loved every minute of it.

There's been a lot of mileage between where I sit now and the 18-year-old who thought the Olive Garden was the height of sophistication. I'm not exactly sure of the exact time and place that I realized that College Station is not, in fact, a "booming" metropolis and that Midland, Texas, is just a *little* more dusty and barren than the Emerald City. It might have been that summer I spent in Paris. It could have been my post-college move to Denver and my job in a REAL skyscraper downtown. (I always felt so grown up in my high heels with my Starbucks cappuccino in hand as I walked to my job in one of the tallest, shiniest buildings in Colorado's capital city.) Or maybe it was living in China in a city of 5 million, which, to the Chinese, was a mere backwater, that put my previous experiences in perspective.

I like the apartment I'm in now. It's the nicest place I've ever lived. There are granite countertops and stainless steel appliances. We have floor to ceiling windows that go all the way around the living room. I love sitting on the couch with my coffee and being able to look down on the street and watch people and cars go by as I watch TV.

At the end of the month I'm moving to a place that's even more wonderful, if you can believe that. It's a gorgeous apartment home with the same nice countertops, high ceilings, huge bathrooms and a balcony. It's in the best part of town too, with all sorts of shops, restaurants and bars near by. It's where all the hip, young people live. But despite all my newfound urban sophistication, I KNOW that little girl who was in awe of the skyscrapers in Midland is still somewhere deep down inside me.

How do I know? Because the very BEST thing about my new place is that it will be within walking distance...

...of The Cheesecake Factory.

How could life ever get better? I have reached the peak of all human achievement.

~Scarlett

Things I Learned in 2010

{Scarlett here}

1. Traveling in the US can be just as much fun as traveling overseas. SoCal, I love you. NYC, you're exhausting but for V, I'll come back anytime (as long as we can go to bed by 8:30). Orlando? That was a fabulous time that I'll never forget. VA Beach and Asheville, Annapolis and Charlottesville, I'm glad you're close enough that I can drive. And there's nothing quite like visiting Texas, though sometimes I wonder why they don't stamp my passport when I cross the Red River.

1a. But they DID stamp my passport when I went to RIO!!! Now I know what it's like to have visited 5 continents!

2. I came into my own as a professional. I know that because I can say what I do without giggling (most of the time).

3. My heart is stronger than I thought. It shattered into a million tiny pieces, but now? I'm SO much happier because I figured out who I am as just *me.* Not me + what he wants me to be - what he doesn't want me to be.

3a. All the good reasoning in the world can't change someone's mind.

4. People don't just fake their deaths on soap operas. Bizarre, right? I'll have to explain that one later.

5. I love blogging. It's my creative outlet and I'm SO glad I started. And even though I don't do it as much as I used to, I often think about my favorite bloggy friends (I know you know who you are because I comment on your posts!) and wonder how you're doing and send happy thoughts your way.

6. I stink at making pork loin.

Oh wait, that was tonight, not 2010. Close enough.

7. I have the BEST friends. You are supportive, encouraging, fun, smart and beautiful and I am SO lucky to have you in my life. (YES, I'm talking to you!)

8. If the sign in the parking garage says "no right turn," they mean, "NO RIGHT TURN."

9. Double-stuff Oreos + I Love Lucy = a great way to spend a Saturday morning

10. I can RUN! Who would have thought? The Marine Corps 10k was one of the most fun things I have ever done in DC. I've already signed up for 2 more races this year.

11. A positive attitude goes a REALLY long way.

12. God still speaks.

Bloggy Book Club

{Scarlett here}

Good evening, lovely ladies. My friend Gator suggested we start a bloggy book club so we could all talk about what we're reading. I think it's a GREAT idea. It's also funny that she asked. I happen to be reading what is going to be the inspiration for my next few blog posts.  It's called:

Bright Lights, Big Ass: A Self-Indulgent, Surly Ex-Sorority Girl's Guide to Why it So Often Sucks in the City, or Who Are These Idiots and Why Do they All Live Next Door To Me? By Jen Lancaster.

Now I'm one of those people who gets really caught up in books. Sometimes I start giggling while I'm reading, such as: in a room full of people, in the backseat of a car during a road trip, in bed before I go to sleep, or at the cafe at Barnes and Noble. But I don't think I've ever almost spit coffee from laughing so hard like I did in my own living room this afternoon as I was reading this book. This woman is HYSTERICAL. Yes, it's a light read about nothing of real substance. But it's so funny and entertaining that I can't put it down. She makes fun of Carrie Bradshaw for trying to glamorize city life. She has this cynical, sarcastic spin on what it's really like to live in the city. I love it. It's also refreshing to know that I'm not the only one who thinks that city life can be a real pain sometimes.

What about YOU? What are you reading these days?

Notes from the Frozen Tundra

{Scarlett here}

It looks like we have a little S family reunion going on in this blog! Awesome.

We started Wild and Precious because we wanted to show the worldviews of two best friends who lead very different lives. Our friends are a huge part of our lives and we love it when you come and write for us. Gator, you're welcome here anytime.

For those of you who came today for a glimpse of daily life in the nation's capital, glimpse this: my car has been in the body shop for the past week and a half due to an accidental run in with a parking garage wall. I have been relying on the charity and goodwill of my friends who've offered me rides to work, Target, and even the hair salon (thank you Little JS). I'd never let a minor car accident stand in the way of my highlights.

Ahem.

Today I couldn't partake of my friends' benevolence because I had an all-day conference to attend. Instead, I had to rely on public transportation. Normally I don't mind that (too much). There's a bus stop a block-ish from my apartment that takes me to a metro stop where I can catch a train to almost anywhere in the city. However, the temperature today is 23 degrees with a windchill of 8. At that point, I'm not quite sure how they distinguish between 8 degrees and, say, 5. It might as well have been 30 below for all I care. It was miserably, horribly, nose runningly, toe freezingly, teeth chatteringly cold.

I hate the cold and I hate snow. When it's so cold that your face hurts when you step outside, that's unnatural. I've been battling the mother of all headcolds and was not looking forward to exposing myself to the elements in my weakened condition. At any rate, I rose to the occasion by doing what any good Washingtonian would do -- I layered my powersuit with cold weather gear: a bright yellow scarf, red leather gloves, a new bucket hat with a jaunty bow on the side, and dangly earrings, for morale (mine). I slathered on a double layer of lip balm, tightened the belt of my knee-length overcoat (Gap, last season), steeled my resolve, and stepped out the front door of my apartment building.

I was immediately met with an icy gust of wind. The block and a half walk to the bus stop was not for the faint of heart. At one point in the middle of the crosswalk, I had to hold my hat on my head with my gloved hand to keep it from flying off. By the time I made it to the bus stop, the wind had driven into my ears like icy nails. They felt more like ice cubes affixed to my head (accessorized with stylish jewelry, of course.) When the bus finally came, I shuffled my frozen legs up the bus steps and attempted to wrestle my bus pass from the bottom of my purse with my gloved hands. That is impossible to do. I had to pry one glove off with my teeth and then jiggle my purse till I could get the pass unraveled from a pile of kleenex.

There was just enough time on the bus ride for me to regain feeling in my face before I had to get off and shove onto a metro with a thousand of my closest (sniffling and sneezing) friends.

I braved the cold once more to hop on another bus at the metro stop to take me to the conference. At that point, I think I lost feeling in my cheeks. After the conference, I did the whole thing again in reverse. My nose feels a little like plywood with splinters but at least I lived to tell the tale. Now I'm back in my apartment, cozy and warm with plenty of tea in the pantry, a radio station that plays nothing but Christmas music and a good book to read.

Maybe that sounds like a boring, low-key night in the city, but tomorrow evening I have a networking happy hour at a swanky bar that serves Vermont cheddar apple pizza. (HelLO, delicious.) All I'll have to do is get on the *#)$% bus to get there.

Rumor has it that our friend Scout is also under the weather. Hugs to you, friend, and here's hoping for your speedy recovery!

Church Parking Lot Wisdom

{Scarlett here}

I had the most insightful conversation in the church parking lot yesterday. It was with my new, absolutely wonderful friend who had invited me to Thanksgiving dinner. After we gave each other hugs and said how nice it was to spend Thanksgiving together, she paid me a huge compliment. (I'm not trying to toot my own horn, but this story won't make sense unless I tell you what she said.) She said, "You know, for a young person, you have so much poise. Most people wouldn't come to Thanksgiving dinner at the home of someone they barely know, but you seem like you'd fit in anywhere."

I was a little embarrassed, and told her thank you, then tried to explain that I've been traveling for many years and it's taken a lot of practice with homesickness, loneliness, and figuring out how to make friends quickly before I could get to that point. It doesn't just come naturally.

She nodded. "And I think that's your testimony."

My testimony??

With those words, she made something click. It's NOT just about me and my coping skills, whatever they may be. In the grander scheme of things, those skills, such as they are, are a gift from God.

She continued. "When you have God, you are home anywhere you go. He gives you a little push out into the world, and you can go anywhere and do anything because you're never truly alone. It's a wonderful assurance."

Coming from some people, that might have sounded like yet another shallow bumper sticker cliche. From her, it was anything but. She's right.

I could live in the same small town I grew up in and not be "home" if I'm not able to take into account the One who made me and where I fit into the universe He created. Or, I can go to an almost-stranger's home on Thanksgiving and make friends with everyone there, all because I am confident in myself because I know where and how I belong.

That doesn't mean that fear goes away, or insecurity never creeps in, or doubt never casts a shadow. It just means that there's something bigger beyond that, and a peace that really does pass all understanding that's greater than all the bad.

In this week of giving thanks, I'm so thankful for the wisdom of a new friend, and for her pointing to the One who makes all blessings possible.

The Best Day

{Scarlett here}

Why is it that we only seem to really appreciate things once they're almost over?

Last night I had the BEST night in DC, and it was to bid farewell to a good friend who's moving off to greener pastures. (Well, at least I hope the pastures are still green. At this time of the year in TX, they may be yellow, but that's beside the point.)

We didn't have any scripted plans. We just wanted to enjoy her last night and each other's company. Another one of her best friends came over, and the three of us started the evening by drinking champagne and eating cheese and pretzels while giggling on the sofa. Then we got dressed up and went to a neighborhood dive bar where we met another friend. We laughed and kicked back with Blue Moons and cracked each other up by making up fake stories to the guys who tried to come talk to us. (Someone out there now thinks I'm a flight attendant from Baltimore. Little known fact: I'm not.)

Then we went to the grocery store and got turkey, fancy cheese, sourdough bread and yummmm salt and vinegar kettle chips. We piled back in the car and headed to downtown DC, destination: the Washington Monument. As anyone who's ever driven in DC knows, it's next to impossible to get where you're going without accidentally circling down a side street you didn't intend to take. Last night's detour led us to a street by the Sculpture Gardens. When we peeked inside, we saw a beautiful, tiny ice rink with maybe twenty amateur skaters gliding across it under twinkling white lights. The three of us just sort of gasped. We parked the car, and without any real discussion whatsoever, we walked into the garden in unison and rented skates. It was about 9 pm.

The rink wasn't too crowded and nobody was really very good at ice skating so we fit right in with the crowd. We made several loops around in the crisp night air. It was wonderful. Then we got back into the car, and resumed our journey toward the Washington Monument. As it happened, we ended up more on the Lincoln side, with a view of the monument from across the reflecting pool. We spread out a blanket and had our makeshift picnic right there. It was ... perfect.

Throughout the course of the evening, we each said what we like best about DC. A year ago, that would have been harder for me to say. My first year in this city was tough. I didn't have a good job and I felt like an outsider. I had friends, but all of us felt like we were just hanging on by our fingernails. We were all struggling. This year, actually, sometime within the last two months or so, something finally clicked. After 23 months of living here, I finally feel like I belong.

What's my favorite thing about DC? I love the milkshakes at Good Stuff. I love the way the monuments and museums still sometimes take my breath away. I love all the different ethnic restaurants and the hipster vibe that rocks along with all the buttoned up politico types. I love that I don't have to explain where I live by giving the nearest big city that's only 3 hours away. But my favorite thing is the Passion. Passion with a capital P. It's everywhere. People come do DC because they want to change something, they want to work for something, they want to make a difference. Every single one of my friends has it. I've got friends who are passionate about politics, passionate about international affairs, passionate about the environment and passionate about their faith. I. LOVE. IT.

What about you? What's YOUR passion?

~ Scarlett

Crash

Yesterday I accidentally smashed the side of my car into a wall.

It was one of those split second, STOOPID accidents that make you feel like a TOTAL idiot. I was coming down the ramp in my own parking garage, had a car full of groceries to unload, and just wanted to get up to my apartment. I had my eye on a parking spot around the corner and was headed toward it when all of a sudden I heard the sickening sound of metal on concrete that can only mean one thing. The scrape left a pretty big dent in the side of my beautiful white Mustang.

I LOVE that car. Maybe it's silly to admit, but I'm so proud of it. I am proud to (finally) be making enough money that I can AFFORD a decent car. I'm proud that I picked out a fun car, something I always wanted instead of something that's overly practical. Even though it's been almost a year since I bought it, I still get a thrill from getting behind the wheel of my sporty, sleek 'stang. So I was (and maybe still am) about as crushed as my passenger side panel from making such a stupid mistake and damaging it.

But yesterday's date also brings to mind another far more tragic crash, one that I'll remember on the night of Nov. 17 for the rest of my life. Early on the morning of Nov. 18, 1999, at 2:42 am, a bonfire crashed at the Texas A&M University campus in College Station, TX. Twelve students, some of them not even old enough to drink, were killed.  My brother was a sophomore at A&M at the time, and he was assigned to work on the Bonfire on the night it fell. Strangely, he said he felt like he should stay in and study instead. Thank goodness for that instinct of his or he might have been among those injured or killed.

I don't think I'll ever forget that next day. I was still in high school, but had already made up my mind to go to A&M and already felt a kinship for the people and spirit of that university. My whole family and our community were relieved of course that my brother was OK, but the images of students, just barely past their teenage years, having to remove logs to look for bodies, and seeing a whole campus in mourning for the loss of 12 brothers and sisters who died too soon was just heartbreaking. In fact, it still is.

Some people have asked me since then, why were they building a bonfire anyway? And why were they building it so high, and why in the middle of the night? How could something like that have happened? As more time passes from when Bonfire was a living, breathing tradition, it gets harder explain, especially to someone who's never been to A&M's campus or had the experience to see the Aggie spirit up close. The Bonfire was built over a period of several months, starting with a bunch of guys going out to a forest and cutting huge trees down then hauling the logs back to campus. It was lit the night before the big rivalry game against the University of Texas on Thanksgiving. But it was about so much more than a rivalry. It was about unity. It was about a bunch of different people from completely different backgrounds coming together and working on a massive project that could only be accomplished through sweat, grit, determination and the swagger that's unique to 18-22 year olds.

Last night I woke up in the middle of the night and had trouble falling back to sleep. I started thinking about my car, and being upset again that I smashed it. But then I thought about the magnitude of the other crash. I thought of how grateful I am that my brother is OK, but how fragile life really is. How there are 12 families who will never be the same because of that night, and one larger university family that mourns with them still. How those students, so young, showed such poise and resilience in the face of grief and tragedy.

I want to slow down. I want to not be in such a rush to get to a parking spot, or to get anywhere else for that matter. I'd like to acknowledge, if only to myself, how grateful I am for the days I've been given, no matter how many the Good Lord gives me. I'd like to not get bent out of shape even if my car does, because at the end of the day, it's just a thing, and things can be replaced.

If there has to be tragedy, I'd like to let it help me keep a proper perspective.

Still bleeding maroon,
Scarlett

The Case for Nuance

I never used to fit in well.

Sure, that was painful as a teenager, but I think it actually helped me in the long run. The benefit of being an outcast was learning from an early age not to place too much weight on other people's opinions (they didn't like me anyway) and to chart my own course and make up my own mind about things. I'm not really sure what it's like to be popular, but I suspect that once you're in the "in" crowd, you'd try to do whatever it takes to stay in, even if it means subverting your will to the group's. Bye bye independence.

But enough about junior high politics. The point I'm trying to reach is that I really hate the one-or-the-other classification system that seems to be prevalent in our country right now. I think it creates false choices and unnecessary divisions among us.

We've got:

Republican or Democrat

Rural or urban

Rich or poor

Liberal or conservative

Intellectual or "real"

and so on.

I think most of us are far more complex than any of these categories can contain. I know that I'm a little bit of all of the above. Of course, such complexity wouldn't fit into the 3 minute sound bytes we see on cable news, so we all have to get smashed into categories that will generate the most attention. That creates a vicious cycle which puts us all on the defensive, and makes us see the "other" as an opponent, instead of just another person with a different viewpoint.

Republican or Democrat?
I went to one of the most conservative universities in the US, I believe in fiscal responsibility, but I have left-leaning social views.

Rural or urban?
I'm from a tiny town of 2,000 people but now I live in the most powerful city in the world. I used to honk at people as I drove by because I knew them and wanted to say hi. Now I use my horn to try not to get smashed on the Beltway.

Rich or poor?
I'm still paying off student loans and am not going to make the Fortune 500 list anytime soon. But compared to most people in the world, I'm filthy stinking rich.

Liberal or conservative?
In West Texas, most people automatically assume I'm liberal (as if that's a bad word) though I'm not really sure why since I haven't discussed my politics with many of them. In DC I'm moderate. To Europeans I'm George W. Bush's niece.

Intellectual or "real"?
Building up an expertise in something isn't a bad thing, right? Whether it's auto mechanics or Russian poetry, can't we all just agree that maybe, just maybe, we need each other's skill sets?

Contemplating nuance,
Scarlett