Dear D.C.

My bottom was sore from sitting on the floor of Secaucus station, my hand burning from scrolling through my phone while it charged rather than just letting it charge. My Mega Bus which I will forever more call Mega Bust was three going on four hours delayed but I had a donut and a cold brew to appease me. The last seats remaining on the beyond delayed bus were in the way back and each time we hit a bump I flew into the air. For the first time in a long time I felt light. I met two kind souls and we talked for most of the ride which made the time accelerate. They gave me moral support as I fought for my $26 dollars back from the bus ticket. It might not be a lot of money to a corporation, but after that egregious delay and a missed opportunity to wander Georgetown at night, I wanted it back. I booked an Amtrak home and extended my stay through Sunday afternoon, hell with how much it cost. Experiences have value too.

Copley Hall at Georgetown University was my home sophomore year. 

Gooey cookies and subs from Wisemiller's, or Wisey's, were a favorite indulgence as a student. 

Although the delay was a nuisance, a departure from my normal routine still felt momentous. Train stations and airports hold much significance for me because the stories unfolding there are so palpable. Soon to be companions meeting for the first time while they share a bench and bake in the heat waiting for their bus, loners running away, a soldier coming home. My bus buddy was from Baltimore, around my mother's age, and had been in Boston for a week with a special "friend". Her children hadn't wanted her to take the trip because she is terminally ill, but she refused to compromise her plan. She only told me she hoped her friend would not fall in love with her because she didn't know how long she had. Her courage astounded me, but being prone to seizures and fainting, I could see why her children would be concerned. When we passed into Philadelphia she dozed off to sleep and I leaned over to check that she was breathing. A slight scar shown on the upper part of her chest as she inhaled and exhaled.

Colored and cozy on 36th street in Georgetown. 

Loaves at Baked and Wired. Georgetown Cupcake pales in comparison to this spot. 

Just around 1am I tumbled into bed, freshly bathed in hotel body wash, at the Key Bridge Marriott, where my parents and grandparents stayed whenever they visited me at Georgetown. I rose early the next morning and walked over the Key Bridge gazing out at the row boats on the Potomac and landmarks in the distance. I caught up with two dear friends, celebrated the pending nuptials of two other beloved friends, and found my way back to Georgetown for Thomas Sweet Chocolate Chip Cookie Ice Cream and rainbow sprinkles. Not to be confused with Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough, this ice cream literally tastes like cookie batter and is unlike any other ice cream I have ever had. 

The same menu at Filomena. 

On Sunday I visited the restaurant that gave me the life I now know, Filomena. One of the managers, Anton, greeted me as if no time passed. He only asked if James and I had children yet. Not yet I said. The cast of characters at Filomena remains the same although the hostess, like me back then, looked like a student. The menu hasn't changed, the decor hasn't changed, nor the music. The restaurant continues to do 400 covers a night effortlessly; why change a thing?  I embraced a few old friends and settled in to dip crusty bread in an Olive Oil confection complete with olives and herbs. For lunch I chose the Smoked Chicken and Mozzarella Ravioli with a thick rustic tomato sauce. I didn't take a photo of it although taking photos of food is one of my great joys. The food at Filomena is not made for Instagram. It is made to be savored. 

I leaned back in my seat with a full stomach to make room for my favorite Turtle Cheesecake and reflected on my brief five months of employment. In that short time I got a taste of the hospitality industry, made friends, practiced my Italian, ate too much dessert, and found the man I would marry. Fast forward to our long distance relationship, James, then an Executive Sous Chef, would call me to confirm the spelling of Italian words for the day's specials. I would send text messages back, privately wishing that I was there for one more "family" meal. I followed him back to D.C., he followed me to NJ and now we have family meals of a different kind.

I depart for the train. The bustle and magic of Union Station feels like my own Platform 9 3/4 only I have no years left at Hogwarts. This chapter isn't all that bad though. 

24 Hours in Brooklyn

Have you ever played a tourist in your own backyard? This past Friday marked my dad's first trip on a New Jersey transit bus. In 57 years of life in New Jersey, he had never taken a bus to New York City, citing his need for control as the reason for avoiding bus travel. A mock dinner service at the soon to open Circa Brewing Co. in downtown Brooklyn changed all that. He let go of the reigns and boarded the bus. My mom dropped off this burly man of nearly 300 pounds at the station and he gleefully revealed to me that he bought his own ticket. Like an expectant student on the first day of school when he arrived, I intercepted him in Chelsea and my sweet colleague helped us subway navigate to Brooklyn around the F train horrors.  Dad revealed he was nervous to make a trip by himself on the subway because in those 57 years of life living 20 minutes from Manhattan, he had taken the subway a total of 2 times. 

Coincidentally, I had purchased tickets to a private dinner in Brooklyn held by one of my favorite culinary entrepreneurs, Gabriele Corcos. I'd been to Brooklyn only once before this year and now I was doubling my visits in a weekend. My husband surprised me with a room at the McCarren Hotel and Pool so we could explore rather than rush home late in the evening with bellies full of porchetta. We rise early on Saturday, 7am to be exact, thanks to James and his military urgency. I curse the sun that peeks through my window and immediately retract my negative feelings because it is a gorgeous day, ripe for adventure. We arrive so early at the hotel that we secure free street parking and get a glimpse of the McCarren Pool in all its tranquility before a Veuve Clicquot summer party moves in; James and I don't quite fit in that scene so we take to the street. 

In that instant I am Francie Nolan, one of my favorite literary characters, from A Tree Grows in Brooklyn. I am subtly insecure, on occasion uncomfortable in my skin, perhaps trying too hard,  but my intentions are good and I open myself to what the world has to offer. James and I are giddy exploring McCarren Park Green Market. We sample pickles and ginger teas, pet pups, and practice taking pictures of beautiful root vegetables. I've been to farmers markets before, of course, but this one feels more like a village all its own as if the market rendered this location relevant and the people flocked here to be a part of it. 

We snag a matcha iced latte and a chocolate croissant at Woops! to fuel our journey and walk nearly 3 miles before realizing we are going farther from our destination. I am enjoying myself so thoroughly it doesn't phase me. We hop on Citi bikes and ring our bells, passing joggers, babies, and dogs, lots of each. We embrace our roles as tourists: sun burnt, dehydrated, foolish, and loving every moment of it. Advertisements are painted on the sides of buildings. We watch a man carefully finish off a portrait of a woman to advertise some brand that escapes me as I write. I only see the artist and the woman. 

We finally arrive at Smorgasburg. James instructs me to find the booth with the longest line and hop in that line, queues indicating something is coveted and worth trying. We opt for Mao's Bao  and are not disappointed. We walk more and settle in to Shelter to balance out all of the fried confections we had eaten with a selection of grilled Camembert, roasted vegetables, lox flatbread, and cold Brooklyn Lager. 

That evening we Lyft to the Tuscan Gun Officine Alimentari for Summer Porchetta Nights. I have long been a fan of Gabriele Corcos and Debi Mazar, of their show, their book, and the values of family and community that they champion. They are as I envisioned genuine, passionate, and inclusive. I tend to build in my mind an aspirational perspective of those I revere. For these two, the perception is upstaged by their true characters. Gabriele and his team work methodically in their small space to put out two kinds of bruschette, carrot soup with rosemary and chickpeas, pasta puttanesca, and his iconic porchetta. There are Aperol spritzes for me and bottles of Peroni for James. In his backwards baseball cap, Gabriele shares with us the origins of Pasta Puttanesca. As the story goes after a long night in a brothel somewhere in Italy, everyone had developed an appetite. They canvassed the pantry for items to cook with and only found olives, jarred capers, and sardines. Alas, puttanesca incorporates the shelf stable goods you'd expect to find in a brothel. After a long night of conversation with our new Brooklyn friends, Lisa and Chris, we sip on cappuccino and eat bite sized cornmeal cakes. I get a hug from Gabriele and realize one of my culinary life list goals.

Gabriele Corcos, James Beard Award recipient, tv host, author and culinary entrepreneur plating dessert. 

Sunday morning we wander through Brooklyn Bridge Park and take in the World Trade Center from yet another perspective. The sheer magnitude of the bridges and the buildings take my breath away. At Almondine, we have draft lattes and butterful pastries. I envy the French lifestyle of indulging in these decadent confections and maintaining a trim figure. If I ever make it to France, I'll be sure and inquire how they do it. Lastly, we find enamel plates, vintage baseball cards, and artwork entirely drawn on post-it notes at Brooklyn Flea in Dumbo. After being rushed off a corner for a movie filming, we pile into the Jeep and head back across the river. We never boarded a plane or traveled extra far but it felt as momentous as if we had. 

Grass is green wherever you water it, as they say, and you need not go terribly far for an adventure.  Board that bus, take that subway, wander with wonderment in your own backyard.  

Commuter: The sea and silence

It's the first day back after the long Fourth of July holiday weekend. A commuter near me is particularly agitated and Shhhh-ing anyone who utters a peep in his "quiet" car. The door is jammed and rhythmically knocks; this happens when the train isn't level. My sunburn is itchy. I close my eyes.

Waves are pounding against the shoreline. I am back on the beach alone with the rush of the wind and my thoughts. My college roommate's mother always said "never go into the deep confines of your mind alone, it's a dangerous place." I went there anyway.  Other than the gulls, the waves, the wind, all the sounds God intended to bellow on into perpetuity uninterrupted, there is silence. The sound of silence. I am not accustomed to it, rather more familiar with noise.

Taylor ham for this Jersey girl at Dockside Diner. 

Long live cold brew.

I resort to talking in the moments I doubt myself. Discomfort creeps in and I feel an urgency to explain. When I am wronged, the first remedy is to utter the words: to my mom, my husband, the cats, even social media "friends" if very desperate. I try not to do this as I know everyone has their own set of complex issues and Facebook makes a poor therapist. As I sit, I'm reminded of my Nana's love of the sea.  She used to walk the beach with her mom early morning until noon each day in the summer. I lay back on the cold sand and fog rushes over me like J.K. Rowling's dementors. I peer into the sky and pray for peace in my heart and in the hearts of the people I love. Anxieties try to challenge my serenity but I do not let them in. I am regenerated alone on the beach with no one around to judge or affirm.  The sea reacquainted me with silence, the silence that the city took from me. The sea taught me to stop filling the space, to forfeit the spewing of words, when silence can heal instead.

Linguini aglio olio. 

James knew to lure me from my slumber with the promise of cold brew iced coffee each morning: the Nitro variation from How You Brewin is the Guinness of iced coffee and Chameleon Cold Brew served at the Dockside Diner is my new elixir. When hunger peeled us from the sand, we cooked. My sun kissed skin still warm from the beach and my unruly curls contained with a headband, my uncle said I looked like an Italian peasant farm girl stirring the risotto. It was the best compliment I could have received. We drank wine and indulged in assorted cheeses from The Cheese Shoppe on the front porch to the tune of classic rock. After our bellies were full we would walk around the island and reminisce. We waved at strangers because who could be hostile in a beach town?

One meal two ways: Seafood risotto turned arancini. 

On the morning of the fourth, we leapt into our Jeep with the windows down. I wanted to check emails even though I knew driving next to someone with their head planted in a screen would be a nuisance. "I wish for once you would let yourself enjoy your surroundings," he said.  So I put my phone down to take it all in.  We sang off key. Well he sang off key. I am always on key thanks to Nana and those years of singing lessons. He drummed the steering wheel and I peered at everyone else heading home. 

Felt Food

The artist, Lucy Sparrow, behind her register.

Toys are the first friends you can choose for yourself. Your siblings and pets are already affixed in the family dynamic upon your arrival, but a trip down the toy aisle is your chance.  I took a stroll through the Meatpacking District and into an art activation out of my childhood dreams, a New York City bodega housing  9,000 items hand-made of felt by Lucy Sparrow.  The exhibit at The Standard, High Line, titled 8 'till late, houses  everything from cigarettes, women's hygiene and Heinz ketchup to a slop bucket, frozen food section, and a soft pretzel carousel. A butcher counter with dangling meats, mix tapes, and handles of Campari: literally every detail down to the cash register and the ATM sign is accounted for. It is thoughtful, in every way.

As a kid I had an affinity for cash registers actually. From a Pink Barbie one that scanned tags, I matured into an actual register my mom got from Staples. In it I kept dollar bills and coins I accumulated from selling animals made out of beads and painted rocks at the town pool. At one point I had a Cabbage Patch Doll that swallowed plastic celery and pretzel sticks, which was captured in her backpack so that the process could continue, the hum of the mechanical swallowing still fresh in my mind. She was taken off the market because she ate one too many mouthfuls of children's hair. I had short hair, and I loved her. 

As my eyes darted around the bodega I was filled with childhood nostalgia around the rituals we cherished.  Campbell's tomato soup with white rice and grilled cheese on snowy days was one of my favorites.  Today some scoff at packaged foods, but I ate my fair share of them and I was a happy camper. If my sister and I were especially behaved we were allowed to eat Swanson meals, that came partitioned in a little microwaveable tray. I was always bewildered how the tiny brownie cooked to perfection in its designated section, in no time at all. I loved those brownies. Chips Deluxe too. 

Back in the bodega, all of the felt creations are for sale. The cashier rattles off to us the items that flew off the shelves already- Wonder Bread, Spam, Brillo Pads, and Peanut butter. A simple people we are. Wonder bread and peanut butter. I picked up a pack of Tic tacs for myself, a reminder of another ritual from my high school days. For whatever reason, I had a difficult time residing in the present, but rather anxiously worried about the future. My beloved guidance counselor would buy me packages of Tic Tacs as a reminder to pop the cap and take a breath when anxiety threatened my peace. 

My mother tells me I carried around a wicker basket filled with soaps in the shape of nursery rhyme characters. They had personalities and I spoke to them. When I didn't give them adequate face time, guilt washed over me. Eventually they were replaced by an American girl doll I named Sarah. To be young and worry about such things again.  Art and play are critical; my afternoon at the bodega reaquainted me with both. 

Commuter: The Weekender

There are different vibes on the weekend trains. Everything feels more celebratory. Chatter of children is heard, fans are donning their team's memorabilia and out of towners are counting the number of stops before they embark on a city adventure. I can identify with them because I am still nervous on new routes I haven't frequented enough.

I smell Taylor ham, egg and cheese. Let me tell you, New York City is missing out on pork roll. I asked for Taylor on my bagel at Ashby's and the cook had no idea what I was talking about, but the woman behind me let out an audible sigh that she wishes they had it too. She was a Jersey girl. I'm saying it here, Taylor Ham would change the bagel game in New York. 

Devices have substantially changed the way we  travel, the way we live.  We have a podcast plugged in our ears,  a puzzle in our hands, alerts from CNN as they happen. If not for my new found affinity for writing on the train I would enact a no phone policy and just gaze out the window or at other people even. The train is a privilege not afforded to all and I want to relish the experience. 

I peek over at a young family with a sweet child, a mammoth camera and fruit smoothies all around. With the onslaught of the wellness movement is Juicy Juice no longer a thing? During my childhood, it came in a can. A half gallon sized can that you had to pierce with a bottle opener on both sides in order to pour. I really liked Juicy Juice, and the taste of Dimetapp too but that got recalled. Oops. We had fewer answers when I was a kid and we survived. Even fewer answers the years before that, and they survived too.

I've lost the look of someone who doesn't know where they are going. I helped tourists identify that the Freedom Tower and Central Park are not next to one another.  I felt something like pride when that happened. 

Commuting is like other hierarchies. When we are new at something, we reside in a vulnerable space. Unless we have unfaltering self confidence like Molly Brown, but even those people are vulnerable in new situations. It's human nature. Then we accumulate experience and assume the role of the senior, the veteran, the sage. If we are mindful, we retain the feeling of being the unknowing and hold on to awareness of the pain that comes with it. We treat the new person in a vulnerable position with dignity and respect. I penned a letter during a troubling time right out of college where I was quite lost in the work world. I called it "Read this when you are no longer entry level." And when someone is blubbering in the station, looking for the right platform, I'll surely help them, but only if I'm not lost myself.  No guarantees.