She lives!
Big news out of the way - I'm done with grad school, I'm looking for a job, I have a summer internship at the NIH so I'm living in the DC area.
Pertaining to that last bit of news, I decided that since I'll have time on my hands, I should write again. It's been harder than I thought to sit down and do it, though. The inertia, it is strong. But since I don't want to be an object at rest, I am forcing myself.
My plan was (is?) to go to a whole bunch of museums, national landmarks, and cultural events - at least one per weekend - and then write about them.
Meanwhile, I am living not in DC proper but in an outskirt-y Maryland town, Rockville. In some strange ways, the neighborhood I live in has been reminding me of the motherland. The street I live on is very quiet, but as I walk toward the Metro and the road joins a larger one, like rivulets flowing into a river, people also start to trickle from side streets and into the Metro station. So why does this very solidly suburban neighborhood of a large US metropolitan remind me of a tiny town in Belarus?
The small houses sit in yards overgrown with grasses and vegetation that looks eerily familiar. Clover and daisies peek out from the mass of greenery. The light poles are wooden and pitted, splintery and dark. The houses look to be made of wood or bricks (not that they are, probably, but looks are important). The neighborhood smells of growing green things and fresh wood and birds sing loud and proud. There is an occasional squirrel running or sauntering across the road and the trees overhang the sidewalk and dapple the sunny ground with tendrils of shadow.
It's easy to notice the differences, too. The white picket fences, the well-paved road and cars in every driveway, the porches - none of these things existed in my hometown. But I prefer to walk my 10 minutes to the Metro reveling in the quiet and the perfect temperature and notice the little things that do make me feel strangely comforted.
Pertaining to that last bit of news, I decided that since I'll have time on my hands, I should write again. It's been harder than I thought to sit down and do it, though. The inertia, it is strong. But since I don't want to be an object at rest, I am forcing myself.
My plan was (is?) to go to a whole bunch of museums, national landmarks, and cultural events - at least one per weekend - and then write about them.
Meanwhile, I am living not in DC proper but in an outskirt-y Maryland town, Rockville. In some strange ways, the neighborhood I live in has been reminding me of the motherland. The street I live on is very quiet, but as I walk toward the Metro and the road joins a larger one, like rivulets flowing into a river, people also start to trickle from side streets and into the Metro station. So why does this very solidly suburban neighborhood of a large US metropolitan remind me of a tiny town in Belarus?
The small houses sit in yards overgrown with grasses and vegetation that looks eerily familiar. Clover and daisies peek out from the mass of greenery. The light poles are wooden and pitted, splintery and dark. The houses look to be made of wood or bricks (not that they are, probably, but looks are important). The neighborhood smells of growing green things and fresh wood and birds sing loud and proud. There is an occasional squirrel running or sauntering across the road and the trees overhang the sidewalk and dapple the sunny ground with tendrils of shadow.
It's easy to notice the differences, too. The white picket fences, the well-paved road and cars in every driveway, the porches - none of these things existed in my hometown. But I prefer to walk my 10 minutes to the Metro reveling in the quiet and the perfect temperature and notice the little things that do make me feel strangely comforted.