I enjoy convalescence. It is the part that makes the illness worth while.
(George Bernard Shaw)

I woke up in Wales on Monday morning, looked out the window, and went back to sleep. Here’s the thing about working in a school library: whenever a new super-strain of bacteria or virus emerges after circling happily through the kindergartners, it’s only a matter of time. Every teacher around you can be hacking and coughing and sneezing and sniffling, but you always think to yourself, “I’ll be okay. I wash my hands. I have a giant bottle of hand sanitizer that lives on my desk. If I see a child sneeze on a book, I wipe that book down with germ-killing alcohol. And then spray it with pure ozone. While wearing a biohazard suit.¹ Besides, I have excellent immunity from constant exposure to these things. I eat about ten clementines a day.²” Well, readers, there comes a point when even the best precautions can no longer protect you from five to ten different versions of the common cold all vying, like tiny gladiators, to battle against your immune system in the grand stadium of your body. One of them is bound to get in.

And so it was for me last week. My first day was one of denial. So what if I’ve got that weird tickle in the back of my throat that always signals an impending illness? It could be anything. I’ll just eat an extra couple of clementines.³ On day two, congestion and optimism went hand-in-hand. Hey, at least this cold is progressing really fast! At this rate, all my symptoms will be gone by the time I fly to England on Sunday. On Friday I bargained. If I skip karaoke tonight⁴ and rest instead, I’ll be better by tomorrow night. Saturday, acceptance. I’m going to England with a cold. My ears will pop on the plane and it will probably hurt because I’m so congested. Then we will arrive in rainy, frigid weather and I will have to take two trains to Wales, arriving too late at night to get proper sleep. This cold ain’t going nowhere.

Luckily for me, Barbara, my traveling companions and host in Wales, was even sicker than me. Harry, her husband, and I looked after her in the various airports and trains. Seeing someone who’d caught an even worse bug from the students made me grateful that mine was just a run-of-the-mill, pool-of-snot-on-your-pillow-at-night, annoying-but-ultimately-harmless-sniffling kind of cold. We spent the first day in Wales sitting in front of their log stove, nibbling chocolate and various types of cheeses while the weather outside couldn’t make up its mind if it wanted to drizzle, mist, or pour. We did that the second day, too. And the third day. In fact, I am told there are many beautiful and wondrous things in the Cardiff area, but this week, amid sniffles and group coughing fits, sitting in front of the fire with a ball of yarn and some music was the most splendid thing I could imagine.⁵

I made one brief foray into Cardiff, accompanying Harry on some errands around town. And that’s when the reverse culture shock hit me. I walked down the packed main street, shops ablaze with blinking Christmas lights and signs in nearly every window: “SALE!” “40% OFF EVERYTHING!” “50%” “BUY ONE GET ONE FREE” “75%” “FREE PRIVATE JET AND MANSION BY THE SEA WITH PURCHASE OF ONE-YEAR PHONE PLAN + DONATION OF YOUR FIRSTBORN CHILD!”⁶ I wandered, dazed, down noisy streets, through fluorescent shopping centers, past teenagers with neon hair and armies of chain-smoking mothers, strollers of wailing toddlers at the ready. I had forgotten exactly how commercial the western world can be especially–but not only–at this time of year. I wondered how I’d ever coped with it in the first place, and sat on a bench, ears buzzing and hands shaking, for the better part of an hour.

Many people who come to Morocco comment on how commercial it is. “It’s all about the money there,” they say, or “Everyone’s just looking to sell something”. I hear this constantly, from snobbish European tourists and wandering hippies alike. And excuse me, visitors to Morocco, but have you taken a good look at your own country recently? It’s incredible to me that the irony of this attitude isn’t immediately apparent to them. Yes, Morocco is commercial. But never in its wildest dreams could it be as commercial as the United States, England, or any major European country. And thank goodness! I love living in a country where towns haven’t yet been taken over by strip malls and Wal-Marts, where local businesses and even individual artisans flourish! You want a hat made in Tangier? Go to a haberdasher! When was the last time you saw a real, functioning tailor? How about a watchmaker? And you know that merchant who sells you leather goods and Berber carpets at double the correct price because you’re tourist?⁷ That money goes to his family, his friends, local businesses and cafés; not to multinational corporations.

There’s surely a lesson in the following anecdote, dear readers, but I’ll be darned if I know what it is. I arrived at the Cardiff train station with forty-five minutes to spare. I did the civilized thing and purchased a delightful orange-flavored hot chocolate from a cheerful fellow at the station café, then parked myself in an armchair, sipping my drink and reading Hans Christian Andersen fairy tales. When the 10:45 to Nottingham appeared on the board, I walked out to the designated platform, double-checked the arrivals sign, and waited. At just after 10:45, a train pulled in. I lined up with a group of other Nottingham-bound passengers and we chatted while waiting for everyone to disembark. “Is this the train to Manchester or Nottingham?” A man in a tweed cap asked. “Oh, this one is Nottingham,” several others replied. “Manchester is next.” I boarded my train. A man in a business suit sat beside me and I smiled companionably, asking him “This is the train to Nottingham, right?” He smiled back and nodded. “That’s right.” Doubly reassured, I put in my headphones and gazed out of the window as the countryside began drifting by.

Possibly half an hour later, the conductor ambled through and frowned at my ticket. Uh oh, I thought. I’ve seen this look on a conductor’s face before. Either he’s constipated or I’m on the wrong train. “Sorry,” he grumbled, though he didn’t sound especially sorry, “They changed the platform back at Cardiff. Didn’t you know? You should have gotten off at the last stop and taken your train from there. Now you’ll have to get off at gobbledygook⁸ and wait for the next train to whatchamacallit⁹ and from there find a train to Nottingham.”

Now, unlike my dear mother, who tears up at the beginning, middle, and end of nearly any film,¹⁰ I don’t cry easily. But when I disembarked from that train in Cyllewuinaellyn,¹¹ rain pouring down on me, and noticed that the next train back to Newport (where I could catch the correct train to Nottingham) wasn’t due for another hour, I lost it a bit. After a minute of solitary sobbing, which would have embarrassing had the platform not been completely deserted, I wiped the tears and snot from my face and sorted out my tickets back.¹² The kindly ticket lady took one look at my flushed face, huge backpack, and rain soaked clothing, and wrote me a special note to take on the next train: “Due to platform alteration at Cardiff, Customer & others¹³ boarded wrong train. Please Allow to Travel on New Service [squiggly signature and official stamp]”

Halfway through the cab ride, I started laughing. My knickers were all in a twist¹⁴ over this train mix-up, but in Morocco it would be business as usual. I’d smile wryly, shake it off, and get on with my day. But because it happened in the UK, a place I associate with order and punctuality,¹⁵ I had a much harder time dealing with the change. In Tangier screwups like this are a part of everyday life, and I expect them all the way from a spice merchant in the street to a government official in the visa office.

After laughing loudly and awkwardly, I explained this to my bemused cab driver, who chuckled and said something reassuring and Welsh about everything being “all right now” and feeling “better after you’ve ‘ad a cup of coffee and a bacon roll”. Thanks, wise cab driver.¹⁶

On the train to Nottingham,¹⁷ I looked out the window and listened to the rhythmic humming noise as we breezed through an overcast landscape. “Aah-ah aah-ah aah-ah” over and over, turning to “aah-ooooo” when the the train slows. I saw a little girl with a headscarf and pretended that I was back in Morocco, on a train from Tangier to Marrakesh. It’s pretty hard to imagine Morocco while gazing at the British countryside. Like an English garden, there’s something reassuringly tame, yet also wild about the landscape here. Wet green fields in grids, with (sometimes) neatly trimmed hedges arching up into the hills. Craggy winter trees sprouting along roads and beside cottages. Thorns and gorse and nettles lining wooded footpaths. Rain pouring down until it turns the fields a bright, joyful green and fills the country lanes with calf-deep puddles of icy water. Wind that cuts through every layer of clothing and makes you feel as if you’re walking around this landscape naked, like a modern-day Lear.¹⁸

I enjoyed exactly one day of good health before relapsing in Newark. Whatever hit me this second time around was a doozy! Sore throat, cough, congestion, runny nose and eyes… probably the sickest I’ve been in five or six years. Spent a sniffly Christmas with family, maintaining a safe distance so as not to spread my horrible germs. Saw my two lovely cousins, which cheered me up more than all my Christmas stocking chocolates combined. Not much else to report, except that I’m happily tucked into bed,¹⁹ hoping that tomorrow is a little better.²⁰

And two special bonus holiday photos of the beautiful food²¹ I ate on Christmas day, despite the sore throat:

1. Those last two things may not be entirely true.
2. This is true.
3. A word of advice: twelve clementines in one day may not actually be excellent for your health.
4. And, by extension, copious amounts of wine.
5. Harry fell ill on the second-to-last day, too, making the house of invalids complete. A perfect concept for a singularly dull reality TV show. Cough cough cough. Barbara? Can I get you some cheese? Yes, please. All r–cough–ight. Harry, are you downstairs? Cough cough sneeze. Not at present. Would you like me to bring you a snack? No, that’s–cough cough–all right. I’ll come down. And so on and so forth.
6. Well no, not really.
7. It’s still half the Wal-Mart or Target price.
8. He didn’t actually say “gobbledygook”. He said something Welsh.
9. He probably also didn’t say “whatchamacallit”, given that he was a proper adult and a locomotive professional.
10. But only during scenes that are one of the following: dramatic, heartfelt, humorous, scary, reassuring, upsetting.
11. Disclaimer: This is not the real name of the town. But, to the best of my recollection, it may well have sounded something like this.
12. This following my memorable train mishap of last year, when I fell blissfully asleep on a train from London and overshot my intended destination by three stops and forty minutes.
13. Thanks, kindly ticket lady for making me sound a little less like an idiot.
14. To use one of my favorite English expressions.
15. Well, also delicious breakfasts, some of history’s greatest authors and worst monarchs, mad cow disease, pantomimes, and the Spice Girls.
16. Sidenote: You know how difficult it can be to hear taxi drivers through that muffled intercom when there’s a plastic barrier behind the front seats? Well, imagine that plus a thick Welsh accent. I smiled a lot, and agreed whenever I guessed it might be appropriate. For all I know, he might have been inviting me back to his place for a mountain of bacon rolls and Welsh sitcoms. He did point out his house during the drive to Newport.
17. The real one this time.
18. What, exactly, is it that makes us think that the British landscape is so hospitable in comparison with northern Morocco? The worst that happens there is a touch of sunburn or an unusually chilly sea breeze that makes you shiver in your t-shirt. Macbeth, Mary Lennox, the Baskerville hounds, and most of Daphne Du Maurier’s characters will all tell you that the British Isles are wild, untamed, and dangerous. Unless, like Drs. Doolittle and DeSoto, you can communicate with dogs, you will have to assume that this is what the Baskerville hounds are saying.
19. And have been all day.
20. I wrote the more eloquent sections of this post during my one healthy day, and it probably shows.
21. Prepared by my aunt, uncle, and cousins, who worked tirelessly for days to bring us a gorgeous Christmas lunch.

For fear of boring myself¹ I’ll try to keep this post brief. I took advantage of the long weekend at the end of week seventeen to attend a holiday market at the American Legation, where Moroccan women sold handmade crafts to benefit various local charities. ² The next day I hosted the library’s second fundraising cinema night,³ which was a big success. Filled the library with happy third and fourth graders, who were surprisingly excited to be in the library on the weekend. They loved the film and some even helped me clean up at the end.⁴

Those who know me well⁵ will remember that I have very strong feelings about Thanksgiving. Thankfully,⁶ I haven’t had to deal with the horrors of selective history education since my elementary school days. But this year I found myself in a school for Thanksgiving, surrounded by construction paper turkeys, small children in various interpretations of Native American and Puritan dress, and an excited holiday atmosphere around the school. ⁷

The first thing I did on Thanksgiving morning was send the following card via email to my friends and family:⁸

Unexpectedly, this particular Thanksgiving grinch was summoned to photograph the Kindergarten Thanksgiving lunch in the lower school. Picture this: four Kindergarten classes (roughly ages 2-7) all sitting around an enormous row of tables stretching all the way down the hall. Now add in the teachers and a few parent volunteers rushing around the perimeter, frantically distributing food and ushering children through the crowd. Remember, many children are talking, many are yelling, but all are making some kind of noise. A group of troublemakers at the end decides to bang their plastic plates against the table in unison. Another group fights over their seats. And then the plates are filled with food and a hush falls over the room. Children pose for me, mid-chicken leg ⁹ and grinning.

Now, I’m not saying that my feelings about Thanksgiving have changed, but spending lunchtime with a room full of happy kindergartners made my week.

My eighteenth week in Morocco also saw the first meeting of the brand new upper school art club in the library. There are no official art classes for grades 7-12, so I started an after school art club with two other teachers. We’re just two meetings in, but it’s been great fun. Eventually, I think the art club will function as a kind of individual workshop time with group lessons for students who are interested in particular activities. We’ll be doing “traditional” art, knitting and crocheting, origami, sewing, beadwork, and much more! Teachers and students will take turns teaching the group, depending upon each person’s area of expertise. On the weekend I had more house guests, French ones this time, who were on a one-year bicycle tour of Mediterranean Europe. I showed them around town a bit and took advantage of the opportunity to practice my French. After dinner and dessert, we sat on a wall in the kasbah looking out across the ocean to Spain while a man played guitar and a group of giggling children practiced their flamenco dancing.

Week nineteen? More work. I had a dear friend visiting from DC for a few days, so we had great fun chatting, exploring the city, and figuring out which local foods might give him an allergic reaction. The week ended with another movie night, this time for the fifth and sixth grades.¹⁰ I celebrated my five month-iversary in Morocco with two Spanish friends, eating tagine and lobia at my usual haunt, and chaotic week twenty-one was full of “last week of school” activities.¹¹

Early Sunday morning I hopped on an airplane with two friends and–after two flights, a five-hour layover in Madrid, two more trains, and a short drive–we found ourselves at their cozy house in Wales. I snuggled into warm blankets and slept until morning.¹²

I have a secret to share with you, dear readers. After three weeks devoid of photos, blog posts, sunlight, and fun, I was feeling pretty demoralized. I seriously considered ending this weekly tradition for good, and instead returning to my pre-Morocco sporadic blogging schedule. And then I heard from some of you, in comments, via email or Skype, and even through a lovingly crafted letter in the mail.¹³ I thought for a while about my stress at work, lack of creative time, and shameful neglect of my camera and music. And you know what? Writing, reading, painting, photographing, music-making, and adventuring are the things that make me happy, and absolutely shouldn’t be relegated to the “well, if I have time” category.

So here I am, back and newly motivated. I’ll be blogging the next two weeks from England,¹⁴ and then back to Morocco in the new year.¹⁵

And in the way of an apology for the delay, here is a special bonus photograph of Loki supervising my blogging. It’s hard work, but someone has to do it. He’s especially adept at catching stray commas.

1. And you, too, dear readers.
2. Bought a little surprise for my mum. No guessing! You’ll have to wait ’til Christmas.
3. These biweekly movie nights are going to fund new shelf labels, a better speaker system, new furniture, and, of course, books.
4. I may or may not have bribed them with candy.
5. Or casual acquaintances who have unwittingly made the mistake of bringing up the subject.
6. See what I did there?
7. The fact that there was no *actual* holiday that week didn’t dampen anyone’s spirits in the least, and the kids were still running around the school chattering excitedly.
8. I spent the next few hours feeling simultaneously accomplished and guilty.
9. Chicken was served instead of turkey, for the most part, due to availability. Other dishes included salad, fresh fruit, rice, and some Moroccan cakes.
10. Getting closer to buying nice things for the library!
11. I even managed to find a decent fake Christmas tree and put it up in my apartment living room, which now cozy and feels a bit more like home. After making construction paper decorations, and adding some house guests and friends to complete my little Tangier family, I was all set.
12. Rainy morning, of course, since this is Wales in winter.
13. You know who you are.
14. Hopefully with cheering holiday photographs.
15. The jury is still out on whether I should continue the “Morocco, Week __” titling scheme while in England. Maybe I’ll stop being lazy and write clever titles for each new post.

A storm rolled in as we walked down the country road.

But cleared up in time for a great sunset.

We hiked through a forest of dead trees.

Surprised a marmot.

And watched a second sunset over snow.

Woke up to these clouds.

Hiking down, found several varieties of moss in only four square inches.

And three waterfalls into a lake.

And then a moth posed for me.

Then we drove ⁴ over to Mount Tamalpais,⁵ hiked to the top,⁶ and enjoyed even better views of Marin, San Francisco, Sonoma, and the park itself. I made the mistake of identifying a large bird as a vulture, but was quickly corrected by a fellow hiker. “It’s a condor,” he said, “Calling it a vulture is the biggest insult in the bird world.” Sorry, condor.⁷ After chatting in the gift shop with an elderly woman wearing a tiara,⁸ we reluctantly left the park, accompanied by an escort of seven or so cyclists. Crossed a mist-cloaked Golden Gate Bridge, parked, and ended the day lounging in a sunny park with some fresh pastries from a local bakery. Not bad, eh?

More photos on Flickr.

1. After being previously awakened at 4:30am by a prank call to our motel room. Insider tip: If you ever decide to prank call somebody in a motel at 4:30 in the morning, try to think of a better pitch than “There are starving children in Africa so we’re charging you extra to park your non-hybrid car.” Not especially believable. The man in the room adjacent to ours went into a 10-minute yelling fit when he got the call just after us. And the motel staff said the police were on their way. There’s a special place in hell for people who prank call at 4:30am.
2. Yes, I think banana slugs are cute.
3. Ten points to anyone who can tell me the real name for a group of chipmunks.
4. There were so many bicyclists on the road that–at times–it seemed like we were on a large two-lane bicycle path. I loved seeing the sheer number of cyclists in Marin County. Wish we had that kind of bicycle traffic in the DC area. Maybe then it would be a bit safer for cyclists.
5. Or “Mount Tam”, as it’s affectionately called by locals.
6. Where we saw a guy on a nearby cliff getting ready for some rock climbing and enjoyed the shocked reactions of other tourists: “What’s he doing?” “I can’t believe he’s that close to the edge!” “Is he still standing there??” Apparently they didn’t know about rock climbing. And how sometimes people do that.
7. I guess it’s much more exciting, though, to see a critically endangered species. Glad condors are still out and about in California.
8. And buying a surprise for my mother!

The thing that always astonishes me when I travel to the west coast is how easily succulents grow in the wild, on people’s doorsteps, on walls, everywhere! I will never get used to rounding a corner and seeing a jade tree or a huge, basketball-sized rosette. In DC I have to raise my succulents indoors, with careful watering and maybe a few loving songs. If you don’t believe me about the sheer number and beauty of succulents in San Francisco, I’ve included photographic evidence in this post.

More photos on Flickr.

1. I am succulent obsessed and not ashamed to admit it.

Just when I thought I was safe, two pedestrians decided it was a good idea to amble down the street in the bicycle lane, even though there was a sidewalk was a few feet to their right. I slowed down, but passed close enough to make them both jump. I’m happy to say that I also yelled several loud words, including GET, OUT, OF, THE, BICYCLE, and LANE, possibly followed with one more not very nice word. But had I not still been shaking from my earlier encounter with the car, I would have pulled over and had the following conversation with them:

Me: “Excuse me, I’m really sorry I scared you just then. Did you know that you’re walking in the bicycle lane?”

Pedestrians: “Oh, we didn’t realize.”

Me: “That’s all right- I just wanted to stop and explain to you what a huge safety risk it is for all three of us. It’s dark out, you’re around a corner on this road with low visibility, and if I hadn’t seen you in time all three of us could be in the hospital right now.”

At this point in my imagined conversation, the pedestrians react with understanding and gratitude, thanking me for taking the time to make the DC streets a safer place. I’d like to say that this conversation could happen in real life, but in real life it would probably just be cut short early with a hearty “Fuck you!” from one of them. (My imaginary conversation with the motorist is much shorter, consisting of a few well-chosen four letter words.)

But there’s no use crying over unenforced traffic laws. I’ve been contemplating this post for several months now, and now I think it’s time to write it.

Bungee jumpers, skydivers, and shark cage divers of the world, I challenge you to partake in the ultimate adrenaline rush: riding a bicycle in DC. The only difference between skydiving and cycling in this city is in the statistics. Skydiving is safer by far. Don’t believe me? What about the District of Columbia Fire and Emergency Medical Services Department? So far this month (and remember, we’re only on the third day) nine people have been struck by cars. And this is just the alerts they’ve had time to post on Twitter during working hours. As of August, there had been ten pedestrian fatalities this year, with an average of 8-10 pedestrians and cyclists struck every day. Check out this neat map of accidents in the month of July alone, compiled by DCist.com:
View D.C. Pedestrian/Cycling Accidents – July 2010 in a larger map

A recent Washington Post article describes seven Washington area pedestrian accidents, including three deaths, in less than a week. Here’s a great excerpt from a related article about these incidents:

Although overall roadway fatalities have declined to their lowest level since 1950, the number of pedestrian-car fatalities has inched down stubbornly. Nationally, the fatality count dropped last year by 322, to 4,092. In the Washington region, it declined by one to 85.

Here’s a brief article (if you can even call it an article) about a woman who was killed by a car in southwest DC:

Now check out some of the comments from readers:

“You should always look both ways before crossing the street in DC. And always cross in a marked crosswalk. Not giving full time and attention and not being in the marked crosswalk contributed to her death … We are sorry for your loss.”

“Not saying this is the situation in this case, but people walk in front of moving cars in DC as if they are invulnerable, they dare you to hit them.”

A later commenter finally points out the obvious:

“Are there any more details on this? Everyone seems to assume that she wasn’t paying attention, but could it be that she WAS walking on green, and perhaps someone turned into her, etc?”

Now that I’ve served up these very sobering statistics and articles,¹ how about a side of anecdotal evidence? I don’t know anyone who cycles in DC and hasn’t been involved in an accident with a car at least once. I’ve had drivers speed past me with only a foot or two of space between us, leaning on their horns the whole time. Others have run stop signs or tailgated me for blocks, honking and flashing their lights. Just a few weeks ago, a colleague of mine was struck by a car while crossing an intersection. She had a green light. She (or rather, the car that hit her) broke several ribs, fractured her arm, and injured her hip. There were many other major and minor injuries. She doesn’t have feeling in one of her hands. In addition to the cast, sling, brace, and special orthopedic shoes, she’s still waiting to find out if she needs to have surgery. But if she hadn’t been wearing her helmet, she probably would have died. Her bike is gone, her helmet is cracked, and the only souvenir she has from her accident is the traffic violation ticket a policeman thoughtfully left with her on the stretcher. This is not an uncommon story.

I’m a very cautious, almost paranoid cyclist, but can’t shake the feeling that it could be my any day now.² In most places, it’s enough to wear a helmet and reflectors, turn on rear and front flashing lights, signal at turns, stop at signs, and use designated bicycle lanes.³ In Washington, DC it’s not enough.

All this is not to say that bicyclists and pedestrians are without fault.⁴ Many cyclists run red lights and stop signs, speed on crowded sidewalks, fail to signal when making turns or changing lanes, or even carry on phone conversations while biking (yikes!). Many pedestrians walk out into the street without looking both ways. Even more pedestrians walk into the street without checking to see if they have the walk signal. Just like motorists’ bad behavior, these things can be life-endangering.

DC cyclists, know your laws!

• Ride with the flow of traffic on the right half of the roadway.
• A person driving a motor vehicle shall exercise due care by leaving a safe distance, but in no case less than 3 feet, when overtaking and passing a bicycle.
• Allowed to pass motor vehicles on left or right, in the same lane or changing lanes, or pass off road.
• No person shall open any door of a vehicle unless it is safe to do so and can be done without interfering with moving traffic.
• Use of bike lanes and paths is not mandatory, but motor vehicles may not obstruct bike lanes!
• Cyclists are required to have a bell or other device. Sirens are prohibited.
• After dark, cyclists are required to have a front white light and rear red reflector (or rear red light), may be attached to operator.
• Helmets are required under the age of 16.⁵
• Motorists do not automatically have the right of way. Neither do cyclists.

Finally, please take the time to read this information about aggressive driving from the DC Metropolitan Police Department:

Aggressive driving is a combination of unsafe and unlawful actions that demonstrate a conscious and willful disregard for safety. The following offenses are included: running red lights and stop signs; following too closely, or tailgating; changing lanes unsafely; failing to yield the right of way; improper passing; and speeding. And aggressive driving is against the law.

Aggressive drivers may target bikers as well as drivers of other motorized vehicles. It’s in everyone’s best interest to avoid an aggressive driver rather than to engage him or her. Bikers can do that by getting out of their way and steering clear of them on the road; staying relaxed – remember, reaching your destination safely and calmly is your goal; not challenging them; avoiding eye contact; and ignoring rude gestures.
Whether you’re on a bicycle or in a car,⁶ you should report aggressive driving if you see it. Police will need to know the following information:

• Description of Vehicle (color, make, model, license plate state, and license plate number).
• Description of driver (sex, race, age, hair color, height, weight).
• Location of incident.
• Date and time of incident.
• Description of what happened.
• If you’re willing to be a witness, be sure to provide your name, address and phone number.

This information–along with great tips for drivers, cyclists, and pedestrians–also comes in handy PDF form (download here). I’m going to put it up in my workplace and encourage you to do the same.

If you drive in DC, or anywhere, please be aware of pedestrians and cyclists! This means avoiding phone conversations, listening to loud music, or anything else that may distract you when you’re in your (relatively) safe metal bubble. Know your rights and responsibilities. Know your traffic laws. And remember, driving is a privilege, not a right.

My heart is still pounding, but at least I’m not crying anymore.

1. For extra credit, check out this national report, aptly titled “Dangerous By Design”, on pedestrian accidents.
2. Mum and Dad, if you’re reading this, please don’t panic. I’m as safe as I can be without giving up my right to personal, emission-free city transportation.
3. In fact, sometimes bicycle lanes can be more dangerous than the road itself. Where there are lanes, they’re usually hemmed in on the left by traffic and the right by street parking. Even something as simple as a door opened from a parked car into the bicycle lane is enough to seriously injure or even kill an oncoming cyclist.
4. There was a bicycle hit-and-run just last week.
5. If you’re over the age of 16, you’re still just as likely to die from head trauma! Please wear a helmet.
6. Or walking!

As is often the case, I volunteered to provide dessert for a social occasion without actually knowing what I’d make. Or if I had the necessary ingredients. Or even the time. This tart is the result of an hour of frantic online recipe browsing, leafing through cookbooks, and running around Harris Teeter like a madwoman, and another hour of stirring, accidentally powdering all nearby surfaces with confectioners’ sugar, slicing fruit quickly rather than safely, and pouring hot jam. But it’s worth it for all the envious looks you’ll receive from your roommate, passers-by on the street, and even the normally surly DC bus driver who isn’t supposed to let you on with open dishes of food but makes an exception because it looks so scrumptious. Most of this recipe is taken from Colleen Patrick-Goudreau’s The Joy of Vegan Baking.

Last Minute Vegan Fruit Tart²

SHORTBREAD CRUST:

• 1/2 cup (112g) non-hydrogenated, nondairy butter, at room temperature³
• 1/4 cup (25g) confectioners’ sugar
• 1 cup (125g) all-purpose flour
• 4 tbsp ice water

Preheat the oven to 350°F (180°C). Lightly grease the pie pan with canola oil or nondairy butter. I used this 9″ tart pan, but any similarly sized pie dish or square casserole dish will do. Use tartlet pans or even a muffin pan if you want to make cute little tartlets.

In a medium-sized bowl, cream the butter and confectioners’ sugar until light and fluffy. (If you have an electric mixer, use it. If not, a spoon employed vigorously for several minutes is also sufficient. My mixture was creamy–rather than fluffy–and still turned out fine.)

Add the flour a third at a time and beat until the dough just comes together. If your dough, like mine, doesn’t just “come together”, stir in ice water one tablespoon at a time until the dough begins to form a loose ball. It’s okay if it’s still a little crumbly.

Press the mixture into the bottom of your prepared pan. (If you are making tartlets, be sure that you spread the dough quite thin in the tartlet pans or muffin tin, as it will puff up when baking.) Bake for about 20 minutes, or until lightly browned. Bake time will vary depending on your oven. Mine took about 35 minutes, so start out with 20 and check every 5-10 minutes after that. Remove from the oven and place somewhere to cool.

–

PASTRY CREAM (CUSTARD):

• 1/3 cup (65g) granulated sugar
• 2 tbsp (16g) all-purpose flour
• 4 tbsp (32g) cornstarch
• 1/4 cup (60mL) water
• 1 1/3 cups (315mL) nondairy milk (I used rice milk, but soy milk is obviously fine, too)
• 2 tsp vanilla or lemon extract (I used vanilla)

In a medium-sized bowl, beat together the sugar, flour, cornstarch, and water on high speed until creamy, about 2 minutes. (Again, I just used a fork for about 4 minutes, adding the ingredients one at a time.) Set aside.

In a saucepan, bring the milk to a simmer. Pour about 1/3 cup (80mL) of the hot milk into the sugar mixture and stir to thoroughly combine. This doesn’t have to be precise; just make sure the sugar mixture is a little liquid-y. Pour this sugar-milk mixture back into the saucepan with the rest of the milk. Return to the stove and heat over medium-low heat, whisking constantly. This is important! Don’t stop whisking for anything, not even zombies or kittens! It will begin to thicken immediately. (They’re not kidding. It only takes about a minute or two, if that, for the cream to thicken sufficiently.)

Scrape the bottom and sides of the pan as you whisk. Cook until it begins to bubble, then whisk as vigorously as you can for 30 seconds, and remove from heat. (Mine never bubbled. If yours doesn’t either, just remove from heat when it seems about as thick as your average chocolate pudding.) Stir in the vanilla/lemon extract.

Your pie crust should be baked and ready, so go ahead and pour the cream into the crust right away, smoothing it flat with a rubber spatula or large spoon. It doesn’t have to be perfect, since the fruit will be covering it anyway. Be sure to put your fruit on top immediately, before the pastry cream sets.

If your crust isn’t ready yet, you can store the pastry cream (covered) in the fridge for up to 3 days.

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TOPPING:

• 3-4 tbsp (80g) jelly, jam or preserves (I used apricot jam. Peach is also good.)
• 2 1/2 cups fruit, sliced (I used about 1 1/2 cups of strawberries, 1 kiwi, 7 blackberries, and a handful of blueberries)

Arrange your sliced fruit on top of the tart. Even if you’re the worst pastry decorator in the history of the world, there’s no way this will look anything but delicious.

Heat the jelly in a small saucepan, whisking constantly. Once it’s hot, strain into a small bowl, mug, or measuring cup, leaving behind seeds or anything else solid. It should be liquid enough to pour. If it’s too thick, just reheat with a little water added.

Using a pastry brush (or a small spoon, in a pinch), brush the heated jelly over the top of the fruit. Everything should be covered with a thickish layer, but not overwhelmed. It should look moist, shiny, and wonderful. NOTE: it may be difficult to stop yourself from devouring the tart right then and there. (Another argument for tartlets.)

Serves 8, supposedly. It served three of us, with about 1/6 left over.

For an equally delicious, non-vegan version of this recipe, simply use real butter and milk.

1. Don’t be ashamed! There is nothing wrong with wandering droolers.
2. More photos on Flickr.
3. I cheated and used real butter, from happy farmer’s market cows.

When I was in elementary school, I used to complain about stomach aches all the time to get out of math class.¹ And when I say all the time, I mean all the time. The school nurse knew me. She could even recognize my footsteps and my knock. Anyway, being an extremely patient and sympathetic woman (perhaps she didn’t like math either), she always let me stay. I would hop up onto the spare cot with a Where’s Waldo book and spend the next half hour searching through the pages.

So after stumbling across downtown Silver Spring with a vicious zombie horde,² I found myself seated next to undead Waldo for a special screening of Shaun of the Dead! It was like a dream (nightmare?) come true!³ Here he is at the bar before the walk:⁴

The great thing that I discovered about Halloween in the city (versus good ol’ Fredericksburg) is that festivities go on for at least a week preceding the actual day! This meant that after the zombie walk on October 24th, I still had a whole week of events to look forward to! Highlights included a screening of Nosferatu at AFI with a live orchestra providing the soundtrack, trick-or-treating as Charlie Chaplin, and a Halloween in Paris party at Bistro Napoleon, where I spotted one of my favorite costumed pairs of all time:

Fantastic, right? Happy Halloween, and don’t forget to mail me your leftover candy!

1. What can I say? Math gives me a stomach ache ;)
2. Yes, I dressed as a zombie too, complete with slashed throat and blood-smeared face.
3. I think I alarmed him with my enthusiasm.
4. If you love Waldo as much as I do, you’ll be thrilled to know that the DC Defenestrators staged live-action Waldo searches in the city recently. The fun never ends!

As promised, here are my four most recent paintings. They’re actually finished, which is more than I can usually say! We’ll see about continuing this trend.

Everyone should have blue skin.

spring

summer

fall

Voila! I’m going to save up for a couple of canvases² so next time I don’t have to paint on paper.

1. Have I lost you yet?
2. Did you know: en française, ‘canvas’ is ‘toile’. Not to be confused with etoile or toilette.

"I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each"

"I do not think that they will sing to me"

My sunburn notebook from two years ago:

And one extra this year because I had so many leftover magazine clippings:

1. I fell asleep on the beach for four hours or so…
2. I hope my mother didn’t need those magazines.