on seven years

I probably should save this post for about six weeks, but I'd most likely forget, or not be in the mood... So I'll strike while the inspiration is hot. Or at least lukewarm.

This morning, I got off the metro at Farragut West -- I usually get off at McPherson Square, but sometimes, if the morning is fine, and my boss is on vacation and can't see when I get in, I add a few blocks to my walk. Especially since this particular route takes me past the White House, and that's always interesting. Always something going on around there, somewhere. This morning, when I pulled my nose away from the Express celebrity gossip page, I saw a planter with about eight varieties of tulips in it. Yellow ones with frilly edges; pinkish-red ones that had multiple layers of petals, giving them more of a posey-ish look; purple fluted ones; and some of the more standard shape, as well. Gorgeous. I kicked myself for not toting my camera around, but you'd think after two visits to Keukenhof, I'd never want to another tulip picture again. But ohhh, I love tulips! They're so simple, and bright, and bold. I love that combo. They lack the complexity of roses, but roses seem more vain and showy and self-aware. And prickly, of course. Whereas, tulips seem more childlike, with the simple splashes of color, and short growing season. And they're one of the first heralds of spring. I love both roses and tulips, actually. They each have their place, and their season.

Lafayette Park was typical for that time of day -- I saw at least four squirrels with peanuts in their mouths, frantically trying to find a place to bury them. I thought they stored things in the fall... Hmmm. It's cute how nervous they look about it. How furtive they seem about their hidey-holes. I saw a working man or two in a fedora, striding importantly along the path. A homeless person or two still slumbering, though not as many as some D.C. parks seem to support. I suspect the po-lice are rather diligent about combing Lafayette for suspicious activity. And oh MY! What gorgeous tulips with purple, um, is it hyacinth? maybe not -- was there. I love that D.C. stays on top of the seasonal plantings. Gorgeous red tulips in front of the White House, too. What a lovely photo I could have taken -- er, had I had my camera -- except that Mr. Nuclear Bomb Protester was there, just as he has been for the past umpteen decades. Anyone know anything about that guy? Does he sleep there, too? I've always wondered. Are there several, and they do shifts? I guess I get irked when people are exercising their freedom to gather, protest, squat across from the White House, and the people (Bush, Clinton, fill in the blank) whose policies they're protesting don't notice or care, but the tourists are the ones who pay with marred photos. Boo. Yeah, yeah. The tourists notice, and the message gets passed on, blah blah. All right. I'm being hard-hearted. Indulge me.

Anyway, it's inspiring, and just plain pretty, to walk by the White House occasionally. To see the hordes of tourists, and realize, hey, they came from a long way away for this moment. And I could see this every workday! It makes me feel a bit better to live thousands of miles away from where I'd like to be.

Which brings me to my actual point. I moved here seven years ago on May 21. Awfully hard to believe. Yet it makes sense, considering all the places I've lived in this area (Cleveland Park, O St. NW, Rosslyn, Manassas) and all the people I've known. I've attended three churches, dated three guys (eep), had a kid. Worked at the same job, miraculously. In two different departments, though.

I've been told that seven years is about when you become indoctrinated to a place. Is that the word I want? Probably not. It's when the Americans who live in Germany really start fearing America. They lose sight of what it really is, and develop a real, deep-seated (seeded?) Germanness. I'm afraid that's what's happening to me. At what point am I not a West Coaster any more? I haven't lived there in eight and a half years. It's feeling less and less part of "me" when I return. More like a place I love, but not a place I'm in. Kind of the same way I feel about England. The mentality, weather, lifestyle (how scary) are feeling familiar here. I have resisted this, but is it worth the fight? Maybe when I stop wanting to go to the West Coast, that's when it'll happen.
More than anything, I'm feeling comfortable here, I think. Like it would be a pain to get up and move. When I think a few years down the road, it's in terms of the D.C. area. Again, not that I WANT to be here. But... if I'm thinking of a few years at a time, it's now a bearable notion.