The ants were thrilled with the news and soon, the entire colony was chattering about the upcoming visit.

“One of the princes will be visiting our bivouac! Members of the royal family have not tread into this portion of the hill for several generations!”

Though all the ants were descendants of the Queen, few had actually seen their mother after their births. Flattering photographs of her poised within ornate gold frames were stationed in the various foyers of the bivouac, reminding the workers of the gratitude they should feel towards the Queen mother; however, that was the closest they ever got to her. Even the princes rarely stepped into these pedestrian portions of the hill; the workers believed that the princes spent their time squabbling over the princesses—who would make her into a queen?—or fighting over the choice pieces of wasp or beetle.

Though the modest bivouac was already well maintained—the Queen had high standards—all the members of the colony put forth their efforts in making the hill immaculate. The chambers were emptied of pebbles and remnants of the grub feast from last week. The hallways were swept clean and the ceilings were trimmed so that they were all of uniform height. New tunnels were added to link the various rooms to each other and numerous sentries were sent out to gather food to fill the pantries to maximum capacity. The adolescents were ordered to clean up their rooms and, for crying out loud, get on with molting so that they looked decent for the prince. The entrance to the hill was soon adorned with clover and dandelion petals.

At the appointed time, the prince arrived with his entourage of workers. He said nothing as he tread quickly between the column of anxious ants, hardly noticing the smooth, marbled surfaces of the floor or the dustless walls.

“Welcome to our hill,” greeted the ant foreman. “Would you like a tour?”

“Sure,” the prince flatly replied. He directed his compound eyes at his flashy watch and said, “I have about three minutes.”

The foreman directed the prince and his bevy of bodyguards through the hill.

“… and here is the art gallery*, featuring some pieces from our most talented workers,” he proudly remarked, sweeping a foot across the wall. Etchings of scenes that the workers had seen on their travels outside of the bivouac were evenly spaced against the wall. The small skylights above provided a soft glow into the space, illuminating illustrations of battles with large insects, incursions into cracks in sidewalks, and conquests of picnic baskets.

The workers anxiously awaited the prince’s response; it was uncommon for someone of such high status to see the work of the hoi polloi.

After an uncomfortable silence, the prince simply remarked, “Those look like the work of larvae.”

The workers were stunned.

“Does he know that he just put all six feet of his into his mouth?” one worker whispered to another. The foreman hit him across the thorax with a foot.

“Well, I must be going; there are other bivouacs I must visit,” the prince sniffed. “What is the quickest way out?”

The foreman bowed his head and directed the prince and his coterie of consultants back out of the hill. As the prince did not say “thank you”, the foreman had no reason to say “you’re welcome” or “please come back again”.

The hill was in an uproar after the prince’s departure.

“What was that all about?” the workers demanded. “He didn’t even spend ten minutes here. He just wandered in with his important ants and then left—he didn’t even talk to us!”

“Except for that remark about our art looking like that of larvae,” an ant dryly remarked. “At least he said something about us.”

“What a jerk—I can’t believe he’s a prince. His entire colony is gonna be composed of hellacious hymenoptera.”

“Yeah—why does he get to be prince? He probably doesn’t even remember how to capture wasps or defend bivouacs! He’s off living a cushy life while we all slavishly support him and his stupid royalty!”

Soon, the grumbling of the workers filled all the tunnels.

“Stop—stop!” the foreman shouted. “Just stop! This won’t help us. The prince is the prince and that is just how it is. Maybe he’s just having a bad day; maybe he’s just got other things on his mind. I’m sorry that he wasn’t nicer… but, let’s just get back to work, okay?”

A few days passed. The dust again collected on the walls and the entrails of a grasshopper somehow appeared in the foyer. The art gallery, though still decorated, was empty and silent.

“You know why the prince was such a jerk?” the foreman muttered to another senior worker over lunch. “I learned that he never had any intention of visiting our bivouac. He had actually just left a fundraising lunch at the south hill—you know, the one with the gates, near the park—and was on his way to another fundraising dinner at one of the north hills—probably the one near the waterfront. That’s why he was in such a rush; he was apparently running behind schedule. The elections are happening soon and, you know, he’s got to raise money for the Queen’s empire. The Queen just asked him to make a brief appearance here for publicity purposes; this hill was never on his itinerary.”

* Ants are actually nearly blind. And I don’t think ants have photographs of the queen ant hanging on the walls of their bivouacs. This is called “suspending your disbelief”.

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Breakfast in Sacramento.

On the corner of 28th Street and Capitol Avenue is a bland colored building that features large windows. The patio area is filled with simple chairs and small tables, above which is a red neon sign that reads, in all capital letters, “Monkey Bar”.

Immediately next door to the bar of primates is Cafe Bernado, whose sign lacks the ostentatiousness of Monkey Bar. Inside the well lit cafe are numerous tables and chairs, along with some booths that feature dark green vinyl on the seats. Patrons can see the cooks preparing the food over the low counter: the clipped sound of eggs cracking, the repetitive thuds of knife blades hitting the cutting boards, the hissing sounds of fresh food making contact with heated oil. Even if one cannot see the cooks working, the blossoming fragrances of cooked food extend their invisible tendrils throughout the open space.

The Amaretto French Toast is comprised of two large, elliptically-shaped slices of French bread dipped in eggy batter. The slices are lightly fried such that the outer surfaces are pleasantly crisp—it is satisfying to hear the bread lightly crackle between one’s teeth—and the light and fluffy bread within remains chewy and soft. The entire plate is adorned with a dusting of powdered sugar, which dares not pill on the bread, and coarsely chopped almonds. Although delightful alone—the palette can easily discern the mingling flavors of the mildly bitter almonds, confectioner’s sugar, and faint, evaporated alcohol—the dish is nicely enhanced with maple syrup at a window-side table on a crisp, sunny morning.

Lunch in Berkeley.

The throngs of people sitting on the front lawn of the southern branch of the Berkeley Public Library is more curious than disconcerting. They are mostly young people, reflecting the diversity of university students in California: There are the preppy women, wearing low-waisted, boot-cut jeans and flowered tops, their straight blonde hair falling just past their shoulders; here be the tall men with long sideburns, overgrown curly hair, faded tee-shirts with obscure logos, dark green tattered shorts, and bare feet in Birkenstocks; see the clean cut, studious types in unwrinkled polo shirts with understated stripes, clean jeans that resemble slacks, and frameless glasses that, from a distance, seem to hover upon their faces.

Then there are the people that fondly remind me of some of the young people in Seattle: The multicolored mohawks, the ornate tattoos that weave along the entire length of an arm, the skin-tight jeans that are rolled up to reveal boldly striped socks and tired Converse shoes, the multiple piercings (eyebrow, tongue, nose).

It’s known as the Thai temple brunch (at Wat Mongkolratanaram). Behind the whitewashed temple gilded with gold and sporting red highlights is a large concrete patio, where numerous people of Thai descent stir large vats with big spoons, toss rice and noodle dishes with chopsticks in their nimble fingers, and ladle steaming soup into mismatched plastic bowls. They will not handle any money; all food is purchased with silver tokens.

There are numerous lines: Over there is the line to exchange currency into the play tokens. Over there is the line for the Thai iced tea, whose warm, orange hue is reminiscent of burning incense or the robes of Buddhist monks. Over there is the line for soup, and there, for pad thai. There are several lines for the rice and curry dishes, as well as lines for dessert (mangos and black sticky rice or fried coconut milk topped with chopped green onion). Near the food stations the lines coalesce into shapeless mobs of people, though the lines eventually distinguish themselves as they trail out of the patio, onto the lawn, along the curb, and into the street.

There are hundreds of people eating Thai food in and around the temple. The clinking of silver tokens hitting plastic containers eventually fades into the background.

Dinner in Seattle.

There is significantly less traffic—both in cars and on foot—on 15th Avenue East than on Broadway Avenue, though these two streets are known for their eats in the neighborhood of Capitol Hill. Palermo quietly occupies the corner of 15th Avenue East and East Thomas Street. The windows are decorated with artificial vines, wine bottles, and red and green lights.

It’s not really a “nice” restaurant; it is fairly informal with its simple wooden and metal tables and chairs, though the napkins are cloth and the silverware are uniform in size and design. The pizzas are freshly made, topped with a variety of options, and baked in a wood oven.

The sandwiches, however, are underrated. The loaves, though toasted, are not flaky, and maintain their structural integrity, despite the fact that they are overstuffed. They arrive hot at the table and ooze flavor and good taste—but not a lot of oil or meat or veggie trickles. The “half” sandwiches are large and could constitute a meal in of themselves. The “Rustic Mediterranean” is an excellent option for those who desire a vegetable sandwich; the filling consists of broiled eggplant, artichoke hearts, tomatoes, goat and mozzarella cheeses, and garlic, all drizzled with Italian dressing. Be warned, however, that the sandwich features a liberal amount of garlic; do not be surprised to wake up the next morning and both taste and smell a reminder from this delectable sandwich.

I strongly dislike testifying in court.

The dual agency inherent in providing testimony (whether for or against) in a court hearing that involves your patient is highly anxiety provoking and nauseating.

At least for me. (That sound is my pen scratching “forensic psychiatry” off of my list of Possible Things to Do.) I don’t know how some psychiatrists do this as a routine part of their jobs. I guess they just habituate to the weirdness and antagonism of it all.

The adversarial relationships in the courtroom seem to run counter to the ethos of collaboration espoused (even if in theory only) in medicine.

I cannot fully express the relief I felt when, after the hearing, my patient greeted me warmly (despite my condemning, though truthful, testimony), gave his opinions about the experience, and then settled comfortably back into our pre-hearing relationship, as if it was an old shoe that still held plenty of soul (pun intended).

(The writing rut continues; the storyteller within me is apparently hibernating for the winter. I did, however, find these videos (via Kottke.org) of Ira Glass pontificating about the art of storytelling amusing, truthful, and helpful.)