Today, from bus number 36, the Pennsylvania Avenue Line Westbound on its way to Friendship Heights, I gazed up at the cemetery on the hill near my house. I remember seeing it from my ally the first time Laine and I walked from what is now my apartment gate. We saw the white crosses and simple headstones and both realized how they melted with the drizzly rain and gray skies to create the atmosphere that would soon be my neighborhood.

And I remember what Krista just wrote about settling into my home. She reminded me that we never see things the in same way that we do after we first move: things become too familiar and we miss their beauty.

I, too, am aware that each day jades me just one ounce more than I was the day before. I expect the curves and hills of Wisconsin Avenue and I count on the trumpet player on the corner of H and 18th.

But then I glance, as I have a dozen times over the last week, to see a corner slice of the OEOB, and my face lights up with excitement and disbelief.

I really am here.

Wow.