Love Letter to Atlanta

For the past few months, I've spent several hours a week running the streets of Atlanta in preparation for the ING Georgia Marathon.  I usually stick close to home, but this weekend, I decided to do my long run on a large portion of the marathon course, which winds its way through some of the city's most storied neighborhoods.

I started my run in Midtown, and as I followed the course through town, I was surprised to find myself treading familiar ground.

From the joyous eccentricity of Inman Park to the funky chic of Candler Park to the cozy charm of Virginia Highland, these are roads I've traveled before--on foot, in memory, in spirit.  From 3am greasy hangover eats at the Majestic to Saturday morning biscuits from the Flying Biscuit, to my very first run in Piedmont Park to the grueling hills of the aptly named Druid Hills that brutally hot summer I trained for my first Peachree Road Race, to countless conversations and communion over food and drink at landmarks like Murphy's, Watershed, San Francisco Coffee, Fontaine's, Park Tavern--the course is a moving postcard, celebrating all that makes Atlanta home and reminding me why I love it so much.

Why?  Because it combines big city pace with small time charm.  Because it's the place where you know every farmer and chef by name and vice versa.  Because the local gas station attendant remembers how many miles you run each week and taunts you for running "only" ten.  Because you can make new friends at the coffee shop, the grocery store, the dog park, the sidewalk.  Because it snows one weekend and is a balmy 70 degrees the next.  Because the green room at the morning news show feels like a family reunion.  Because if that person you just met isn't family, she soon will be.  Because it's home.

My Journey from Food Phobe to Foodie

City Mouse, Country Mouse

I love Aesop's popular fable, City Mouse-Country Mouse. It's been told a thousand times in a thousand different ways, but the fact remains that we all have very different ideas of what's home. As a former "country mouse" (or at least a "small Southern town mouse"), I now live in a wanna-be "city." If I didn't hate cold weather and were independently wealthy, I'd move to New York City in, well, a New York minute. I love the grit, the energy, the community of urban living. I love masses of people of all generations, affiliations and persuasions living on top of one another, eating and living and moving together and tripping over one another in the streets.

One of my favorite memories of city life is from a trip to Madrid, when I was strolling down a street near a park early in the evening, and I watched elderly couples in elegant suits walking hand in hand, doting parents ushering uniformed children home from school, young boys engaged in a boisterous game of soccer, tourists looking befuddled at city maps, all mingling and enjoying the same summer air, then coming together later for fellowship over food and wine and post-dinner gelato. To me, there's something so powerful and rich and alive about being one of many, of living and breathing and mingling in such proximity to neighbors and strangers alike.


While it's unlikely that I will leave Atlanta and even less likely Atlanta will ever grow up and evolve into a real city, I still long for the day when I won't need a car, when I can wake up in my aparment upstairs and wander downstairs to my storefront office to work, breaking occasionally to purchase fresh produce from the local market, snatch up that cute dress from my neighborhood boutique or share a good meal with a friend at our favorite local restaurant, while stopping to chat with shop owners and neighbors along the way. I'll end my day with a long run in the park with my husband and our dog, then watch the sun set over the orange-kissed skyline of this beautiful city I call home.