The Mount Vernon Trail and the Tortillas

As with many blogworthy topics that mom loves to talk about, such as my weight, her going on about lakes--in particular, her access to them and my lack
thereof--bothers me less for the content and more for the intention or insensitivity. Some things may be true, but they needn't be said; other things, having been said, are established and needn't be repeated at every opportunity. Mom has as much as admitted that she brings up the lakes issue to remind me that there is no natural swimming hole within reasonable driving distance from where I live. I find that unnecessary. And while I like a good lake as much as anyone, I don't dwell on the issue. I mean, I don't sit around, doing nothing, thinking, "if only I had a nearby lake."

This was going through my mind as I cycled on the Mt. Vernon Trail this morning. That trail is more than I could have wished for: it would have been enough to draw me to live in Alexandria, in and of itself, although there was plenty that drew me here without it. The segment that I take to work--that between Old Town and the 14th Street Bridge--is mostly pleasant and occasionally beautiful (and occasionally not so much); The segment that I take on weekends--from Old Town to Mt. Vernon--is just plain beautiful. I often wish I had my camera (although not enough to remember to bring it next time). It's ten miles of overwhelming beauty.

And it's right there. I get on my bike and go. None of this waiting for my parents to dilly-dally and discuss whether or not they've packed enough food, all while the morning slips away.

It's more challenging than the Old Town-to-Rosslyn segment, more hilly. The last mile, in particular, is one butt-kicking hill. But it's worth it.

***
I like to go early, before it gets hot or crowded. It wasn't too bad this morning, even though I left later than I like to, around 7:30, but more than once I had to brake because runners, if I may use the lingo of the day, behaved stupidly. In one case, three people were running, apparently together, ahead of me. I'd gotten into the other lane to pass them and was about to warn, when one turned around, without looking, and got into the same lane. I braked, she saw me, catastrophe avoided, but still: keep your eyes open, people. In another case, a group of runners was standing off to the side and one decided to step onto the trail just as I was coming her way. She saw me, apologized, catastrophe averted again, but seriously, people: pay attention. Don't get me started about the people who sprawl an entire lane or two (either collectively or individually).

***
I stopped into Trader Joe's on the way back. I'd gone too long without their whole-grain tortillas. Whole Foods' whole wheat tortillas just aren't the same. What follows is hardly ever a good thing: I found myself in a situation that reminded me of Tom Friedman's writings. I think this was in "The Lexus and the Olive Tree," but I could be wrong. Do you remember his thing about how Japan at one point decided to boycott Israeli products, which was all well and good when Israeli products were mostly oranges and stuff, which one could import from just about anywhere, but once Israel started exporting products that reflected cutting edge technological innovation, Japan found it difficult to keep its money where its mouth was? Anyway, I got into the express lane with my tortillas, hummus and eggplants. I was third in line and in no hurry--in fact, I was getting through the small cup of coffee I'd poured--but something was not right, the line wasn't moving. The woman checking out had just started writing a check. She waited until everything was scanned to start writing, and she was taking her sweet time. In the f*ing express lane, where one has no business writing checks, anyway. Then the cashier took her sweet time processing her check. And then it turned out that the check processing thing was broken. But even before that, everyone in the line was fuming. It had probably been at least five minutes, and all of us just thought, wait, she's almost done, but no. It was bad. We were all shaking our heads, and all went to different lines, from which we commiserated with one another, and the other cashiers commiserated with us. It all worked out, we all got our stuff and moved on.

While I was standing there, though, I thought, "if it weren't for these tortillas--if any other place carried tortillas this good--I would drop this basket right here and walk right out the door." I wouldn't even have put my stuff back-serves Trader Joe's right for allowing check-writing in the express lane. But I wanted my tortillas, so Trader Joe's got my business, and I had to admit that Tom Friedman, while arrogant, is occasionally onto something.