Voilà!

I’m back! Gene and I have been in France the last 10 days -- first in Paris, with a day trip to Rouen, and then in St-Jeannet, a tiny village in the foothills of the Alps, north of Nice. The trip was absolument superbe, incroyable, magnifique, formidable and every other French superlative you can think of.

Everywhere we went, I kept saying, “This will make a great blog!” I’ll be telling you stories about France for weeks -- probably to the point where you’ll wish the French had never outlawed the guillotine.

Not until we got to Paris did we discover our visit to Provence would coincide with the Cannes Film Festival. I had to check it out since we would be in the neighborhood and all. We arrived in Nice on May 16 and immediately drove the 27 kilometres or so over to Cannes (which is a blog in itself). And, ooh-la-la! What an event!

I’ll tell you more later, but for now maybe you can help me. I snapped the above photo of a woman I recognized, but I can’t remember who she is. Do you know? I can hear her voice and am sure I’ve seen her in movies, but I can’t place her. Cannes you?

Many thanks, Anne, for filling in while I was away. I loved your thoughtful posts and look forward to more.

A toute à l'heure, mes amis!

It's Anne again -- Lorin will be back soon! I thought I'd chime in on Lorin's earlier post about her early morning walks with a neighbor.

Reston, where Lorin and I live, is a suburb that is (for the most part) designed with the pedestrian in mind. This is extremely rare. Mostly, the automobile rules the road in the burbs.

It gives new meaning to the Shel Silverstein poem, "Where the Sidewalk Ends." You'll be walking along, and suddenly the nice granite sidewalk will disappear. You either have to walk on the shoulder of the road or turn around.

My mother experienced the plight of the pedestrian when she visited me when I lived in Leesburg, Va. She's lived her whole life in cities, and is used to the connectivity of the urban streets. One day, while I was at work (with the car), she decided to go for a walk.

When I got home, she was sitting on the couch with a harried look on her face. "I just thought I'd go to the Target across the street," she said. Even though the Target was 1/4 mile away, she had to cross a large road with six lanes of traffic, a narrow median, and a "no crossing" sign (which she ignored). She had looked so lost, standing there on the shoulder of the road with the cars whizzing by, that a woman had pulled over and offered her a ride.

I truly believe our society will grow stronger if we learn to use our legs again!

A few reasons to embrace a walking lifestyle:

• Notice the gas prices slowly going up? Yup -- those $4.50 per gallon prices are sure to return.
• Walking sheds the pounds. About 1/3 of Americans are clinically obese.
• Global warming: Fewer CO2 emissions from cars means a healthier planet.

There are small signs that the pedestrian is making gains. A lot of the newest developments are "town centers," with stores, homes and offices all within walking distance of each other. And I was happy to see a government website that has great tips for making your community more pedestrian friendly.

I'll conclude with a few words from a great man and a great walker (of cobblestone streets, of course):

"Providence has appointed few to roll in carriages while He has given to all a pair of legs, which are machines infinitely more commodious and serviceable. Be grateful then and make a proper use of yours."

-- Benjamin Franklin

The Great Playground Hunt

Thank you, Lorin, for this opportunity to guest blog!

This weekend, I spent some time swinging, see-sawing, and flying down slides. No, I don't have kids. And no, I am not a crazy person.

(This last point, I admit, is debatable.)

A little back-story: I work at the National Wildlife Federation, in the same department where they publish the nature magazine Ranger Rick.

It's great -- from my cubicle, I can see the photo editor's monitor, always brimming with close-up photos of flamingos or otters or wolves. Sometimes I hear things like, "Does anyone know what month we last did a story on the blue-footed booby?"

It's a fun job. Right now, I'm working on a project with another non-profit, Kaboom!, to map all of the playgrounds, parks and other places to play in the U.S. It's simple: find a playground, take a picture, and upload it to the online map.

I need to practice what I preach, so this weekend my husband and I went playground hunting.

Sadly, of the five playgrounds, only one had actual children playing on it. The rest were empty, despite the sunny weather. Actually, I was a little relieved. I worried that parents might look suspiciously at a strange woman taking pictures at a playground for no apparent reason.

At one playground, we did see two boys on a motor-scooter driving through mud-puddles, using the playground as an obstacle course. At least they were outside!

I tried the see-saw, with my husband on the other end -- and realized it had been a very, very, very long time since I'd been on a see-saw. I actually got a little motion-sick. And I was terrified of falling off. But I laughed harder than I had in a while.

This is, in fact, a perfect activity for me at the moment. You see, I've reached my crisis-limit. The most recent national emergency, the swine flu, pushed me over the edge. I was already anxious about the terrorist threat, the failing economy, and global warming. When a possible pandemic influenza strain came knocking, I just let it all go.

And reconnecting with playgrounds has made me realize that adults should play more often. I've always been a fan of the idea of an"adult" recess. Instead of boring coffee/watercooler breaks, we could all run outside and play tag, wall-ball and capture the flag.

Hard to imagine? I bet the national stress-levels would sink dramatically.

Let me know if you want to join me in this "adult play movement" -- I, for one, am ready for it!

Here's Anne!

Friends, you’re in for a treat!

I’m taking a short break from Chatterlines and giving you the chance to hear a new voice. My good friend Anne Keisman Cissel, an amazing writer, will step in for the next couple of weeks. I feel very lucky that she wants to do this.

Anne and I worked together at the Loudoun Times-Mirror in Leesburg, Va., where she became something of a local celebrity through her popular feature, “Where’s Anne?” Each week she and photographer Lisa Johnson found an obscure spot in Loudoun County, and Anne would pose for a shot. Readers then guessed where she was; the first one with the correct answer won a prize. Readers loved it!

Rumor had it that Anne’s picture was plastered on the side of a county bus à la Carrie Bradshaw in an ad for the paper (see above), but few of us actually can attest to that.

Anne also covered county government for LTM. She went on to become business editor and later, assistant managing editor. She left the paper after five years to become online media coordinator for “Green Hour,” a Web program of the National Wildlife Federation.

Over the years, Anne and I bonded at our newsroom desks and in cheap restaurants over lunch. At LTM she turned a deaf ear to my gum chewing, and I tolerated her deep sighing after particularly contentious phone interviews. Anne lived in Manhattan before moving to Leesburg; our mutual passion for The City has energized many a conversation!

Anne and her husband, Scott, moved to Reston a few years ago. Now that we’re practically neighbors, we’ve tried to recreate our NYC lifestyle. That mostly means wearing black all the time and complaining about how much it costs to live here. Contrary to popular belief, the world-class Lake Anne Center in Reston was not named after Anne.

I know you’ll enjoy Anne’s posts. Her singular prose is surpassed only by her sharp wit.

Have fun, Anne!

Ruminating about rummage

My son Andrew is in charge of our church’s annual rummage sale Saturday. The money raised goes to programs for our senior high youth.

I’ve known about the sale since September, when Andrew accepted the job as director of youth ministries. I vowed to clean out the unfinished part of our basement, piled to the ceiling with stuff, and deliver a carload of donations to this worthy cause. I’d kill two birds with one stone: make my storage area less hazardous, and support Andrew’s ministry. What could be better?

I have to deliver the goods today. Am I ready? No.

I did take a stab a couple months ago when I needed the box of Easter decorations. So much junk was shoved in front of the metal shelves holding the box that I couldn’t reach it. I did the easy cleanup -- discarding empty boxes that had accumulated. Gene took a load to the recycling center. The rest are still stacked neatly in the rec room. (Sigh.)

Friends remark on how organized I am. That’s because they see only the parts of the house that show. If they stepped into my basement, they’d start hyperventilating.

Why do I keep all this stuff? Cartons of my sons’ preschool artwork. Generations of suitcases dating from the 1950s. Shopping bags from stores that shuttered years ago. Original boxes for small appliances -- hair dryers, vacuum cleaners, food processors, mixers -- in case I ever need to send them back for warranted repairs. Halloween costumes from the 1980s on. My daring disco dress from 1978. Games no one’s played in eons and never liked in the first place. Gifts I’ve bought with loved ones in mind, then put away for the future and forgot. It’s ridiculous.

It’s got to be some kind of illness.

Years ago, a disgruntled water heater repairman shook his head as he wedged himself sideways to gain access to the unit. I’d tried to clear a path, but it was hard! He said if the unit ever failed and flooded the room, I’d have a real mess on my hands.

Like I didn’t have one already.

I save stuff because I have grand fantasies that someday I’ll organize it all and then it will have value. At least it will have sentimental value -- which has to be the most overrated concept ever.

The inability to part with things carries over to other areas of my life. My mother and my cousin both commented the other day that their e-mails bounced back with a notice that my inbox was full. That means I had 1,000 active e-mails sitting in my AOL account (not counting all the others in my 46 saved-mail folders). Who needs to hold onto 1,000 e-mails?? Do I think I’m going to read them all again? What my mother and cousin don’t know is I also have a gmail account with 601 messages. And lots of threads going in my Facebook inbox.

I used to save IMs. Do you know how hard those things are to read after the moment?

This IS a sickness.

It’s just too easy to close the basement door or turn off the computer and ignore it all, especially when there are so many other things I’d rather be doing. Sorting and tossing is boring! And it requires so many decisions, it makes my head hurt.

But today I will make the effort. I will fit as much as I can into the car and take it to church. (Darn! Gene left the van for me instead of the Prius.) I will get the ball rolling, accepting that this is a process I can continue next year.

I will do it -- as soon as I finish blogging …

Seeing the world from a new point of view

Every year about this time, I start pining for New York.

When spring warms the air, I yearn to get outside and walk. What better place to walk than the streets of Manhattan, jam-packed with tourists jostling shopping bags, taxis careering into crosswalks, diners spilling out of restaurants onto sidewalk tables, concert-goers heading to the parks, apartment dwellers hanging at their favorite Starbucks, and saxophonists and violinists crooning on the corner?

New York City is always alive, but never moreso than in the spring.

I lived in Manhattan such a short time, but my addiction to urban buzz remained. As a girl coming of age in Upstate New York, I dreamed of one day living in The City. When that day came, it was everything I’d imagined, and more.

It’s hard to justify my decision 30 years ago to move to Washington, D.C., a city I’d never liked. First of all, it was so clean. Second, where were the skyscrapers? Third, where could you shop? Hecht’s, Garfinkel’s and Woodward & Lothrop department stores just didn’t cut it. Fourth, in a city full of bureaucrats, the streets emptied at 5 p.m. Where was the nightlife? Fifth, Washington had no style, and worse, it didn‘t care.

Those were five of my top 10 reasons to hate D.C.

Don’t get me wrong. Life has gone well for me here. Northern Virginia is a wonderful place to raise children. We have terrific friends. But it isn't New York.

Many years ago, in the midst of a got-to-move-back-to-NYC fit, I was contacted by a psychic. Kathy -- who lived in Chelsea -- was the cousin of a close friend and felt prompted to interpret a dream I’d had. She asked my friend to deliver this message: “You won’t move back to New York, at least not right away. But New York will come to you.”

I took some comfort in Kathy’s prediction.

In the years since, New York has come to me in little ways. At first, it was the expansion of the subway (which for years I refused to call “Metro”). A few of my favorite NYC vendors discovered D.C.: Macy’s. Saks. Tiffany’s. Balducci’s. Barnes & Noble. Later I found my job at the Loudoun Times-Mirror with its editorial staff of transplanted New Yorkers. People who spoke the same language.

Meanwhile, 20-story buildings began erupting from a vast woods in the heart of Reston, within walking distance of my house. My view was changing.

Technically, mid-town Manhattan spawned Reston. In 1961, Robert E. Simon, a native New Yorker, took some money from his family’s sale of Carnegie Hall and bought 6,750 acres in western Fairfax County for a new kind of town. The planned pièce de résistance was Reston Town Center, a walkable urban core rising like Venus from a suburban sea.

Within that core today are towering office buildings on top of retail, sidewalk cafés and fine dining establishments, trendy boutiques, outdoor performance venues and high-rise condos with doormen. Traffic has accumulated so that inching along Reston Parkway in the early evening mimicks a bumper-to-bumper crawl down Park Avenue. While many residents decry the “Manhattanization” of Reston, I’m ecstatic. Bring it on!

Saul Steinberg’s 1976 poster, “The New Yorker: The USA as Viewed from 9th Avenue,“ above, hangs over my family room sofa. (Over the fireplace is a painting of One Gramercy Park, from my old neighborhood.) I was looking at that classic poster the other day. I realized it looks an awful lot like Reston.

A few quick changes and the deed is done. Ninth Avenue morphs into Presidents Street and 10th Avenue to Library Avenue. The Hudson becomes Herndon, and Jersey is replaced by Loudoun. The rest of the illustration stays exactly the same, even the westward orientation.

That photo up there, on the right? That's Reston.

It may not be New York, but it might be the next best thing.