The Roasted Boon
1018 Rhode Island Ave., N.W.
Sunday, Oct. 18, late afternoon
Conditions: Pleasant

I was on my way to an entirely different coffeeneuring destination when I reached the intersection of Q, Rhode Island, and 11th and realized this was where the new Eritrean coffee house in Shaw had opened. So I changed course and locked up the bike to place an order.

I can’t think of what had last been in that corner storefront, so it’s likely the building had stood empty for a while. It’s across from the skate park and where the nursery used to be and where a middle school is being built and just a couple blocks from the Shaw Library. And Shaw has several Eritrean and Ethiopian restaurants, so there’s a historical presence of the community in the area.

Inside, The Roasted Boon is a typical roaster set-up, with a nice mural and East African decorations on the walls. Outside, the tables were full. It was great to see the neighborhood had embraced the shop since they opened earlier this summer.

“Boon,” if you’re wondering about the name, is the Eritrean word for coffee and its related coffee-making ceremonies.

I ordered shahee, which is Eritrean tea. Their tea is black, with a pleasant combination of spices that makes it not unlike the base of a chai. The bakery case held both pumpkin cheesecake and pumpkin croissants, and my server recommended the former, saying it was his favorite. I appreciate enthusiasm for desserts.

There’s a pocket park a block and a half away dedicated to Carter Woodson, the renowned historian who came up with the concept of celebrating Black history in February back in 1926, who taught at Howard and who lived just around the corner. (His house is a museum I really need to visit once we do those kind of things again.) So I wheeled my bike over. It happened to be empty, so that was a good place to enjoy my snack and read my book in the sun.

This was my favorite stop yet, and I really look forward to returning. Both beverage and snack were delicious. They’re open until 8, which would have been great in the before-times, but which is unheard of in a coffee place now. And their patio is placed so as to offer sunny seating until dusk. I expect to make this a regular destination.

Total mileage: 3 miles

Olivia Macaron
3270 M St., N.W.
Saturday, Oct. 17, evening
Conditions: Clear and cool

Again, a later start than I’d hoped for meant I had to improvise a stop.

First stop was the garden, where I picked tomatoes and herbs and mourned the loss of the big pepper I’d been hoping would turn red. Possibly a four-legged marauder, but my bet would be on the two-legged variety.

Second stop was Bridge Street Books, D.C.’s oldest indie bookshop. I was looking for two books of poetry by local authors, and their selection tends to be the deepest. They had neither, so I ordered one and bought a book in translation (another of their specialties) that The New York Times described as “an oddball fairy tale.”

I took a jaunt up the Capital Crescent for a short way, but it was getting toward sundown and I didn’t want to be on the trail alone past dusk. So I turned around at the first connection to the C&O Canal Towpath and headed back to Georgetown.

I decided to finally visit Olivia Macaron, a specialty shop tucked into the side of the Georgetown mall next to what used to be Dean & Deluca. It’s been there seven years, but I’d never bothered to visit, because a) there are other macaron shops in D.C. I like and b) if I’m on M, there are usually baked good shops I’d rather visit. Welcome to pandemic times when everything good is closed and everything open has crazy lines.

I am pleased to report that should you be hankering for a macaron, Olivia’s is perfectly nice. I’d long assumed it was an outpost of a New York shop/chain, but it turns out that it’s an independent shop. (Check out their blog for adorable Halloween macaron hacks.) Because it was late, they had a limited supply of cookies left, so I took the recommendation of the clerk.

I had a cup of Earl Grey tea and a honey lavender macaron, which I consumed on a bench in front of a closed bike shop on a nearby street because there is no bike parking by the mall or on that busiest stretch of M Street. The cookie and tea were good, but there were too many passersby with poor mask skills, so I don’t think I’ll be back to Georgetown on a Saturday evening anytime soon.

My final stop of the night was an impromptu one. As I was biking home, I realized that the Kings of Rock Creek, a local band was performing an outdoor show in Rose Park. I’d heard their music wafting over to the garden sometimes in the summer and passed by some of their corner store concerts en route to other places, but this was the first time I really had nowhere else to be. So I needed to be there. It felt so … normal to be outside listening to a show (albeit in the chilly October air), and the two bands played a fun mix of their own songs and covers. They shared they have two more shows this month, so I now know where I’ll be the next two Saturday nights.

Mileage: 4.65 miles

Like everyone else, I’m tired of this pandemic. I am not unique in this, although I confess that my coping mechanisms feel a little frayed at this point and I am PMsing, so everything feels super urgent and extreme.

Some of the members of my volleyball team emailed today. Our league is starting up an outdoor Sunday afternoon series (with a deadline to sign up of tomorrow), and they proposed we join with the caveat that we, at least, wear masks (the official rules say you just have to wear them if you’re on the sideline) and that if it seemed like people were idiots we could just walk away.

I want to join them for this so badly. They were a big part of my social network prior to the pandemic, with a year’s worth of weekly games and nights at bars under our belts. Plus, I’m just not getting as much outside time or exercise as I should, and I’m suffering for it. And with Rudi gone at his mom’s for the foreseeable future, my bubble shrinks to one person who I see occasionally and that seems like a problem.

Plus, there’s the possibility that we have to move out and take care of his mom and then this becomes my last chance. (There is at least an equal chance that we stay here and find some alternative care situation out there, so take that as you will.)

However, I don’t think I should play. Cases in D.C. have doubled in the last month. (Honestly, I don’t know how much of that can be traced to federal leaders behaving irresponsibly or to an uptick in college students with off-campus housing returning to the area or to just normal increases with the cooling weather.) People exercising seem to be among the worst violators of the mask rule, and I don’t anticipate that volleyballers would be any better, particularly as it’s a segment of the population that skews younger.

I’m not at particular risk and I’ve been super careful up to this point — always wearing a mask, not traveling, keeping my indoor public time to a minimum — in part so that if our family, who are in higher risk categories, had sudden health issues I could get to them without feeling particularly worried I’d make things worse.

Plus, there’s the financial angle to consider. If we as a group or individually do decide that it’s not a good idea and it’s too much risk, then that’s a bunch of money essentially lost (urban team sports are a rip-off). And with only one income supporting us now in two cities, I simply can’t justify throwing money away. Signing up would be a luxury; if it’s one I’ll benefit from, then it’s worth it, otherwise it’s a waste.

So there you have it: want vs. should in a late-night incoherent rambling.

You know what helps improve your mood? Seeing the sunset over the river:

Know what else works? Getting to try the new fancy bakery in Georgetown. Rudi opted for the café con leche monthly special, while I had the chocolate peanut butter. We may also have a slice of coffee cake to split for elevenses tomorrow.

I can hear the whistle of a train.

This shouldn’t be especially noteworthy — I only live three miles from train tracks, after all, and sound carries, especially at night. However, since June we’ve had fans and/or the air conditioner running and I haven’t heard the late night train in months.

But there’s been a change in the air this week, and today I turned everything off and opened the window.

It’s nice to be reacquainted with the night again.

(Feel free to remind me of this when someone lights up a joint on the sidewalk outside our apartment.)