“You Have to Try Ethiopian Food”- Six Words That Led to PTSD

It all started with a few simple words: “You have to try Ethiopian food”. Most of my friends had eaten Ethiopian food and they kept making references to this “spongey bread” that is served with the food. They made it sound so delectable that I too wanted to share in the experience, I too wanted to eat "spongey bread". I was new to DC and I wanted to get more acclimated with the culture, and since there is an Ethiopian restaurant in every major area of DC and since almost everyone I knew had tried it…I did not want to feel left out.

I soon found myself on a mission that was made impossible by the fact that my friends were somehow always busy on days I suggested eating Ethiopian food and all of a sudden they all had commitment issues when it came to making set plans. At the time, I (naively) did not give much consideration to their lack of enthusiasm.

After 6 months of living in DC, the opportunity finally presented itself in the form of my two unsuspecting best friends who came to DC for a visit. I had done a great job as a tour guide, taking them to the most popular attractions, the best places to eat and drink. At that time I earned a lot of credibility, so convincing them to eat Ethiopian was not that difficult.

It was the last day of their visit and it suddenly occurred to me that I had taken my friends everywhere, except Adams Morgan (with good reason). So I thought if we went there during the day, the chances of getting shot, raped or mugged would be a lot slimmer. Completely famished and desperately looking for a place to eat, we unexpectedly came across a sketchy looking Ethiopian restaurant, which I convinced my friends (and even myself) probably had “good, authentic Ethiopian food”.

Our waitress, who had a mustache and the most bitter expression on her face finally brought out the food in a round, communal dish. The "spongey bread" covered the entire plate and had different types of mushy food on top of it. It did not look too appetizing, but ethnic food rarely does and besides at that point we were starving. (Apparently the "spongey bread" is called “injera” and it is used as a utensil to scoop up food).

Injera in hand, I scooped up what appeared to be some meat and potato mush and I went in for the first bite. It was odd… but I thought I would try the next mushy dish… then the same thing. With every single bite, the food got worse and worse. I had no idea what I was eating and everything tasted the same. Everything tasted like paprika and I was not even sure about the type of meat I was consuming. It tasted like what I would imagine donkey tastes like. And that “injera” everyone seems so enamored by… absolutely horrific. It was sour, chewey and … spongey. To make things worse, the injera made every single dish taste sour. I felt like I was at war with my taste buds. The spongey bread felt like it was growing and expanding in my stomach. We kept eating because we were so hungry and we convinced ourselves that we could grow to like it. However, every bite was a painful reminder of how I had failed my friends and how I brought this disastrous experience upon us.

After our meal we sat there traumatized and expressionless. For 20 tense minutes, very few words were exchanged. When we finally mustered enough strength to leave the restaurant, I felt like I had left a war zone, battle wounds and all.

To this day, I try to avoid riding a DC cab (most friendly cab drivers I have encountered have been Ethiopian). If someone mentions Ethiopian food … I curl up on the floor in the fetal position. Whenever we drive by Adams Morgan and I see that restaurant, I have flashbacks and the taste of paprika inundates my mouth. In retrospect, I understand why it was so difficult to get my friends to join me. And that one “friend” who said “you have to try Ethiopian food”, lets just say she is out of the picture for good.

Redline: The End of an Era

In a moment of spontaneity, I came to DC , not knowing anything about the city, not knowing a single soul. I came here and decided that I would not hold myself back from anything and that I would enjoy every moment of this new experience and I was determined to make the best of this amazing opportunity. I would do things that I would never do back home…and that included using public transportation. This was a big adjustment that I had to make- from driving a convertible on my way to beach to riding a metro to Chinatown.

I tried to avoid the metro as long as I could (flashbacks of NY metro and vomit stains), but alas it was time. In reality my roommate forced me. I remember that day like it was yesterday. It was a bitter and cold winter day. The weather channel said it was 20 degrees but really with the wind, it felt like -13. I awoke that Saturday morning excited about the adventures in shopping that awaited at the mall. What I did not know then was that my roommate had a devious plan, and it involved tricking me into using the metro.

We came to the top of the escalator and I fearlessly walked the entire three miles down to the bottom of this escalator of death, past the crazy wind tunnel, (which on several other occasions has almost caused me Marilyn Monroe moments ) and went through the gate, barely escaping the jaws of death.

What I saw next completely shocked me. All around me, in every direction stood normal looking people. There were no poor homeless bums or gangbangers. In fact, I was greeted with approving nods, embracing gestures and warm smiles. I was part of a club now; I was a DC Metro Rider.

The first experience of riding the metro by yourself is so magical, so rewarding, there are no words that can capture the right emotion as you figure your way through the system and get to the right destination. I formed a bond with the red line; it was the Mecca of all the lines in DC. Things were going great… I was so genuinely happy.

Then something happened that changed the red line forever with consequences that are still felt today. June 23,2009- there was a major crash on the redline that killed nine people and injured dozens more. People lost their loved ones and so many were effected by this tragic event, including myself ( I just did not know it yet).

In no way am I trying to make a mockery of what happened … but that crash really changed the redline. It changed my relationship… I don’t recognize the redline anymore. They say tragedy has a way of bringing things together… but that was not the case here.

The honeymoon period was over. Gone were the days of fast rides and short lines. Instead I was faced with long unexpected delays and slower rides. The thrill and excitement was gone. And it even got worse after that. There were so many red flag warnings that I experienced on the redline. I lost my beloved pair of black heels. I lost my best friend Sherry when she came to visit me, when the metro door closed on me, leaving her on the metro car, by herself, not knowing where to go. And I nearly lost a hand when I pried the metro door open in order to not miss the first metro in over an hour of waiting.

Just when I was beginning to accept this new life, things just started to get even worse. Several suicides on the redline added more to the stress of the redline. This used to be a place that people came to for comfort and now it turned into a place people turned to take their own lives. With all of these tragedies came even more sad news… the redline would now be operating manually, as opposed to automatically. It is then that I knew… it was over. That the redline I knew and loved would never be the same, I would never get back what I had…it was over.


I still take the redline everyday to work because I have no option. I am not fully healed, I'm not sure if I ever will be. Sometimes I think about all the great memories I shared with the redline and where we would be if fate had not so ruthlessly pulled us apart. But in the end, I know it was meant to be and that there is a better line out there, I just have not found it yet.

Kickball And Beer: The Reason I am Here

After 4 months of living in DC, I discovered this new phenomenon... Kickball. At first, I was not very impressed, but then I was told there would be lots of beer.. so naturally, I signed up right away.

To be honest, I was a little nervous about flipcup. Although I went to my fair share of frat parties during my college days, I completely missed out on flipcup. I confided in my co-worker, who with only a little judgment agreed to help me improve my flipping skills. I was determined not to let my team down , so I would practice at work during breaks ( I kept a red plastic cup in my desk drawer).

The day had finally arrived. I put on my shorts, and a cute pair of green knee socks and I neatly put my hair in pigtails ( with a green bow in my hair to compliment the socks, of course) and I anxiously made my way to the National Mall.

I was greeted by my teammates ,a sea of colorful shirts and containers that (discretely) hid the alcohol that was to be consumed. A short tutorial by a fellow teammate and a few rounds of kicking the ball... and I was ready to go out there.

The moment had finally arrived. The moment that I had been dreading for the past 20 minutes: it was my turn to kick the ball. That day I learned how to get everyone on the field to laugh at you, including your own team and I am pretty sure some tourists walking by. If you want to embarrass yourself, guarantee public humiliation and get everyone to laugh at you hysterically, then please follow these steps:
1) Kick the ball and just run
2) Run past first
3)When you get to second, run past it as well, don't stop at the base
4) Then, in an act of confusion, make a run for third base, where you will no doubt get hit in the back by the ball... thus having to leave the field , and making the walk of shame back to your team.

The night took a turn for the better and I learned how one can redeem themselves from such failures and disgrace, or at least how one can forget about such failures and disgrace. Its called being able to drink copious amounts of beer, in a short time, meanwhile flipping a cup and shaking your hips to some great music.
I learned a very valuable lesson that night, but for some strange reason I can't remember what that was.

Grievances Against Loafers

It might be that I am from Southern California and so I do not completely understand the concept of loafers.There have been so many red- flag, loafer sightings recently ... its madness!!

What ever happened to the good, old- fashioned Rainbow sandals? They are super comfortable, they match everything and they say"laid back " , unlike loafers that scream " uptight and douchey".

Dc men and other East Coasters- I am not hating, I am simply trying to be of assistance. First impressions are very important and when the first impression a girl gets is " TOOL!!!", then we have a problem... don't we? So... please, please stop wearing the loafers with the tucked in shirt, (collar up). Instead lets take a page from the California look , I mean... there is a reason California guys are so desirable, and believe me...its not their amazing personalities or sharp wit.

So next time you are getting dressed and gazing at yourself in the mirror... please remember to leave the loafers and the popped up collars at home.