When I was at Brandeis, I was part the group that put on major concerts. By the time I got to my senior year, I was an old hand at the process of taking pieces of staging apart, wheeling equipment boxes onto the freight elevator, and helping the roadies load everything onto the truck.
My memories of my last concert in college aren’t very distinct. I don’t remember much about Third Eye Blind’s performance. I don’t remember how long it took to do set up and take down. And, I don’t remember it being an unusually cold night.
What I do remember is that during loadout, I somehow ended up stationed at the loading dock. That frigid New England air started to creep up on me. As the hours ticked away, the cold seeped deeper and deeper into my bones.
I have big calves.
I’m not being self-deprecating or indulging in a moment of low self-esteem. They’re big, and I’m reminded of it every time I try to tug on skinny jeans or almost bust a zipper pulling on a pair of knee-high boots.
The natural response, I guess, would be to dislike them. And I won’t lie, I’ve cast an admiring glance or two at thin-legged ladies. But, I’m proud of my calves.
My body is a gift from people whose names and faces and stories I will never know. Somehow, all the things that they were have come together into one big compilation – and that’s me.
Like most Jews my age, I don’t remember learning about the Holocaust. It’s one of those things I feel like I’ve always known: the sky is blue; the Florida Gators are the best team; and Nazi Germany rounded up my people, sent them to concentration camps, and murdered 6 million of them.
I can remember being a little kid and sitting on the swing in the playset my dad built, spinning in aimless circles, and wondering: Why? What was the point in killing so many people? And why us?
I felt like everybody else, but something about people like me must have been terrible. If not, why would something like the Holocaust happen?
It’s not something I could appreciate at that age, but I know now that I wasn’t the only kid struggling with those questions. For every group targeted for hate, there’s a child staring at the clouds wondering if they can find a way to scrub off the things that make her different.
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The columns rise out of the hill, and if you didn’t know better, you might think they were the ruins of an ancient civilization. But this is DC, and there’s nothing old about a city established by an Act of Congress in 1790.
So what is this place and why are these columns here?
The place is the National Arboretum located in Northeast DC. And the 22 Corinthian columns standing in the field? They were once tasked with the important job of supporting the U.S. Capitol.
That’s right; these columns used to be part of the Capitol Building.
Anyone who has spent time with me knows that I like to talk about the weather.
Hang around long enough; you’re going to get a full weather report. Most of the time it’s just an acknowledgment that it’s too hot or cold outside. Sometimes it’s the exact start time of a forecasted storm. And other times it’s more along the lines of, “there’s a freak snowstorm coming, and the world’s going to end.” (Weather also makes me overdramatic)
If you’ve listened to me complain about the temperature, you might think I hate seasonal changes. It’s a fair assumption. I’ve been very open about the fact that harsh winters were a major factor in my decision to leave Massachusetts. And I’ve been known to wax poetic about the winters of my childhood, where the thermostat only occasionally dipped below a crisp 50 degrees.
But honestly, I love seasons. I love the way they mark the passage of time. I love how cold winters give me an excuse to drink hot chocolate and hide under the covers, and I love how hot summers give me a reason to sip sangria and stay out until 10 pm on a work night.
And fall? Fall is the best season of all.
I haven’t been around much lately. No, I haven’t been on some epic vacation in an exotic location. My journey was a little more off the beaten path. I spent the last few months taking a very intensive course in tour guiding, and I am now a licensed DC Tour Guide.
Random? You bet.
There are a lot of things that led me to tour guiding, and one of them was this blog. For the past year, I’ve been sharing my adventures and insights with all of you. Most of the time, my story is also the story of DC and of discovering the trails and hidden spaces that exist in this city. And since, deep down, I’m still the same person who spent four years pursuing degrees in American History and American Studies, I’ve found myself retelling DC’s story on the pages of this blog.
The more I’ve researched DC to write these pieces, the more I’ve looked for other ways to share the District’s fascinating history. Becoming a part-time tour guide was the logical culmination of my search.
Just like riding a bike. Once you know how to do something, you’ll know how to do it forever. Easy peasy.
But you know what’s not “just like riding a bike”? Riding a bike.
When I was a kid, I was nearly inseparable from my bike. From the time I figured out how to get the wheels over the bump between our driveway and the street without falling, my bike and I were unstoppable.
I would ride down the four roads in my neighborhood, pushing myself to top speed as I circled the cul-de-sacs. Those were the best days. I would entertain myself by singing random songs as I pedaled (clearly, I was a bit of an odd kid), often meeting up with my neighborhood friends, Alex, Kelsey, Carrie, and Tensi, as I patrolled my neighborhood territory.
Then, I got older.