Yesterday's post = 100.
Today, we're at 101.
Speaking of 101, this week's temperatures in D.C. are suppose to exceed the 100 degree mark. Seems like a good time to get out of town and head to L.A., but my best friend, Mary Ellen, who's getting married this weekend in L.A., says it's hot, hot, hot there, too.
My mother has been in Salt Lake this past weekend for another funeral and she says she's melting into the pavement, which is also melting.
The other 101 0f significance is that vaunted stretch of highway that tranverses California north and south. Known simply as 101, it's the road that will take you from the northernmost border of Washington State all the way to Los Angeles. (In California, 101 is also often called El Camino Real, or the King's Highway. It follows the original route traveled by the Spanish explorer Juan Gaspar de Portola in the mid-1700s.) Along the way, you drive through some of the most beautiful landscape around and through some of the most storied cities in our nation.
I miss 101. And while I know I can't run from my challenges or problems, I certainly know I was happier and more productive when I lived in California. I'm not suggesting that California is the only place in the world worth living, but it's a far sight better than D.C. with its frenetic, me-first, arrogance and pace.
And speaking of frenetic, yesterday a group of us went to the farmer's market in Takoma Park to partake of the bounteous harvest. Going to farmer's markets around here is like living in Soviet-era Russia. People run around and push you aside for a juicy plum or a succulent peach like they haven't seen a piece of fruit in ages and ages. The behavior is appalling and chaotic. On top of that, throw in the stroller moms with their SUV strollers and it's the most perplexing and aggravating experience going.
And why are strollers so damn big these days anyway?