The Renegade

As the semester ends, the deconstruction begins. Random print-outs are tossed or tidied. Papers are filed. Library books are gathered and returned to Georgetown.

Since I live nowhere near Georgetown and haven't had class on campus all year (all via Zoom), this is a big deal. I was so proud of myself that I had dropped them off a few days before they were due, combining their return with a trip into D.C. on Saturday.

But yesterday, my bubble was burst. A stray had hidden itself underneath another book on my desk. Luckily, it can be returned ... by mail!

(This wasn't the renegade volume. I remembered to return this one — but only after I removed every sticky from every page.)

An Adventure

Today, to avoid traffic, I plan to drive 20 or 30 miles out of my way, to etch a trail up and over rather than down and across. To take a country road rather than an interstate. It sounds crazy, which is why I'm calling it an adventure.  

I wonder if anyone has studied the miles people drive to avoid sitting on highways. If not, I propose the Washington, D.C. metropolitan area as a prime location for research. With two states plus the District of Columbia, one river and too few bridges (once you're out of the city), our neck of the woods is filled with idling cars and fuming motorists.  

Tell us, please, what we can do about it ... apart from having "adventures," of course.   

(Evening rush hour on I-66)                                                                                                                                               

Table for Four

When I drove there Saturday in the pouring rain, it seemed as if the place was an extension of Washington's Rock Creek Park. And in a way it is. Hillwood, the home of Marjorie Merriweather Post, is perched on a hilltop in the Forest Hills section of northwest D.C. It might as well be in England or France, though, with the formal gardens and the extensive collection of European art, furnishings and tapestries. 

By the time my friend and I finished lunch, the rain had stopped, the sky was blue and the just-dowsed hyacinths scented the walk we took around the garden. Inside the house were treasures from Post's collection, including Faberge eggs and a large collection of Russian art. 

And then there was this breakfast room. Post's table was always set for four, even if she dined alone. It's a big waste of plates and silverware, of course, but I kind of like the idea. 

The Beauty

I've lost track of how many times I've trekked around the Tidal Basin to see Washington, D.C.'s cherry trees in bloom. More times than I can count, for sure. I've seen the trees with toddlers in tow, with Mom long ago, but for the last many years, I've seen the blossoms alone, usually before or after work.

Yesterday I went down early, as if it were still a workday for me, wanting to beat the crowds. I snapped photos of people, not just blossoms, because it's the people I notice year after year. Old and young, nimble and slow-moving. The amateur photographers and the serious, long-lensed people, too. 

There was a woman in a strapless dress with a pink parasol. She made a lovely focal point for this amateur photographer, but she must have been cold. I was wearing three layers. 

If you look closely at her, you'll notice the water lapping nearly at her feet. Some parts of the path were completely submerged and pedestrians had to detour up a little hill until the trail reappeared. There have been articles lately about the peril the blossoms face with rising sea levels and early blooms. 

But when I saw the trees again, I wasn't thinking about the peril—just appreciating the beauty. 

Black and White and Blue

A winter walk is monochromatic, color drained by sun and shadow, leaving only form and contrast behind. 

This was evident on my stroll yesterday through D.C., from Metro Center to Chinatown, then down Seventh to the Sculpture Garden, where I watched ice skaters fly by. They were a study in black and white, too.

From there I made my way to the Mall and the Monument, where I finally found color ... in the sky. It seemed like an afterthought, though, as if it were crayoned onto an already printed page. 

Tropical D.C.

Most people who live in or near Washington, D.C., avoid humidity whenever possible, knowing that in time it will find them. After all, the District was built on a swamp, and it  has the miasmic air to prove it. 

This usually appears in the summer, however. Winters tend to be bright, dry and clear. They're the only time when you might actually seek a steamy environment. 

Which is what we did yesterday, strolling through the tropical plant display in the U.S. Botanical Gardens. There were banana trees, palm fronds, poinsettias in their (semi) natural state. There was air so thick you practically had to push it aside, a heavy curtain on a breezeless August afternoon. 

On frigid winter days, the place is  a welcome antidote, but yesterday it was 60 degrees outside and the tropics were ... a  little too close for comfort. 

City Walks

We still have a few days, but New Year's resolutions are beginning to coalesce. Or at least one of them is. 

Yesterday, I drove Celia and Matt into D.C. to save them a Metro trip. I was surprised by how excited I was to see the city spread out  beyond the river, first the Washington Monument swinging into focus and, a second or two later, the Capitol behind it. 

It was chilly enough to feel like winter but without the biting cold of recent days. Sidewalks were clogged with holiday visitors. There was a celebratory feeling in the air. 

I found a convenient spot to pull over and drop them off, and even more remarkably, was able to make a (perhaps illegal) U-turn at 12th to head home. But I couldn't help looking for parking places on Constitution on the return trip. Wouldn't it be nice to walk in the city instead of the suburbs? 

I didn't do it yesterday, but a new year beckons. It's only a matter of time. 

Urban Campfire

It's been a while since I sat around a campfire, but I did last night ... in the middle of D.C. That it was part of a professional association meeting, that it was around a fire pit, that the occasional helicopter chugged overhead, didn't seem to matter.

We were outside, the food was terrific, and the darkness and the crackling wood invited, if not ghost stories, at least some tales of journalistic hijinks and derring-do.

When I returned last evening I kept smelling something familiar, something comforting. It was the aroma of wood smoke in my hair. 

My Town?

Yesterday, I took an impromptu walk down the Mount Vernon Trail, starting at Gravelly Point. Planes were swooping in low to land, so low that the wind from their passing ruffled the leaves of trees in their path. An enthusiastic group of plane-spotters lined up at the end of the park, practically on the runway, to wave and cheer as the 737s soared above them.

The magic of the walk was in the mingling of the low-tech — the quiet lap of river water against the shore — with the high — the roar of jet engines making their final approach to National.

And then there was the beauty of the path and the District viewed at three miles per hour. The red maples still flaming, a graceful weeping willow, geese sluicing into river water before landing in a puddle under the I-395 overpass.

I hated to leave the scene: the Washington Monument rising ethereal on the other bank, the graceful arch of the Memorial Bridge, and, in the distance, the spires of Georgetown's Healy Hall. It's my town, if I want — and walk — it to be.

Many Worlds

Yesterday there was a drive and some errands that reminded me how many worlds exist inside this one world we call home. 

There was a body shop with country music blaring and an American flag flying and a mechanic named JJ who pronounced the bill — "that will be nine thousand dollars" — before grinning and saying he was just kidding. 

There was a hole-in-the-wall eatery with goat meat and fou-fou and a woman wearing a colorful West African print in bright yellow. 

And in between these places were parkways of green, the home of our first president, and the Potomac River flashing bright outside the car window, its bridges arching gracefully over the waves.

It's a big world out there. How good it is to be reminded of it. 

Memorial Day x 2

Today, Memorial Day falls on Memorial Day — May 30, that is. Perhaps it is doubly Memorial Day, then, Memorial Day x 2. 

I looked for photos of Washington, D.C., to celebrate the occasion and came up with these from a nighttime visit to the monuments with work colleagues in October of 2018. 

Notice how the emblems of our democracy shine out as darkness surrounds them. Perhaps a fitting metaphor for this day, this year. 

A Trip to D.C.

A few days ago I met a friend for lunch in D.C. I parked in the Union Station garage and made my way past the old neighborhood: New Jersey and 1st Avenue, along E Street to the National Building Museum, where I stole a glance at those stunning columns. 

From there to Chinatown, bustling again, though with way too many boarded-up stores. The restaurant we chose was still in business, though, and lively, to boot.

After that, a stroll down the Mall and over to the Botanic Garden and a cool outdoor exhibit/structure made of brush, a human-sized nest that kids were running in and out of. 

I love the views of the Capitol you get from the Garden. It humanizes and softens the building, makes it seem more a part of the landscape. Which, of course, it certainly is.

The Place To Be

I've visited Washington, D.C.'s cherry blossoms a couple dozen times through the years, but this is the first time I've seen them through the lens of a good camera.

Though I am a novice photographer, I'm an expert blossom-navigator. I can slip through crowds, skip over puddles and keep moving through the inevitable hordes of tourists.

Yesterday the Tidal Basin gave back with picture-perfect weather, peak-bloom blossoms, and the picnickers, strollers and flower-lovers that made this the place to be in the DMV.

They're Calling

The cherry trees are calling ... and I'd like to answer them in person. It's been three years since they were open for business — a funny way to describe them but true since the trees that encircle the Tidal Basin can be (and were) cordoned off.

It's different when you have a perishable to-do in mind, something that won't stay put if you wait too long. The cherry trees are a perfect example. They're in peak bloom now, but all it will take is a hard rain or a brisk breeze and they will be but a shadow of their current selves. And even without those, there's only so long they will last.

Unlike other things I mean to do then, visiting the cherry blossoms has an all-too-real expiration date. 

So I'm looking at my schedule and hurrying up my homework ... and with any luck I'll visit soon.

Lenten Rose

A walk through Georgetown before class last evening renewed my hankering for Lenten roses. What creamy beauties they are, how full-bodied compared with their early spring cousins the snowdrop and winter aconite. I've wanted to plant Lenten roses (also known as hellebores) for years, but now I'm on a mission. 

Of course, last night I was being swayed by the excellent company the plants were keeping, by the environment in which I spotted them. A late winter afternoon, sun slanting low over cobblestones, grand houses standing guard over a neighborhood I could walk through for hours and never tire of.

Even a dandelion would look good in that setting. 

Mall By Myself

Yesterday, I was a walker in the city, not the suburbs. I began at 18th and L, deep in the business district. But that's not where I stayed.

The Mall was my destination, heading toward the Capitol and my former walking route, site of numerous lunchtime strolls.

The monuments were there, glinting in a warm winter sun. The White House, the Washington Monument, the Smithsonian's Arts and Industries building.

What was missing, what always seems to be missing these days, was the people. Empty thoroughfares make good straightaways, but what I would give if this scene were clogged with tourists and pickup soccer games and pale office workers out for a noontime jog.

Georgetown Gazetteer

Tomorrow, my humanities class moves from online to in-person, so I'll drive to Georgetown again, as I was doing last fall.  I'm looking forward to meeting classmates in person, though of course there will be the nervousness of any new venture. 

I took a trial run of sorts on Friday when I visited campus for a required Covid test. That was accomplished in minutes, which left plenty of time for a stroll around campus and through the neighborhood.

Flurries were flying as I walked the brick sidewalks and dreamed myself into the Federal townhouses. There was the buff pink with dark green shutters, a stately corner manse, a teal-shuttered beauty with the view of Georgetown Visitation. 

It's a tough choice ... but I'll take one of those mansions on Prospect, one with a river view, please. 

The Concert

It had been a while since I sat in a concert hall. There was Wolftrap last summer, always fun, but open-air, even when you have seats. 

Last night was the whole experience: the Kennedy Center itself, the approach and the entry, picking up the tickets, walking down the long hall, and then, in the hall, the chandeliers above and instruments tuning below. There were the black ties and tails, a hush when the lights went down. 

And then, there was this young man with a clarinet, swaying with it, bending with it, reminding me of James Galway on the flute, that same elfin charm.

The clarinetist, Lin Ma, played the Mozart Clarinet Concerto as if he was born to do it, so softly in parts of the Adagio that I felt myself lean toward the stage in order to hear it better. When he finished, the audience leapt to their feet.

Last night's concert was not only all Mozart; it was all late-vintage Mozart, every piece written in 1791, the last year of the composer's short life. And it ended with this: bliss. 

Immersed in Van Gogh

"I am not an adventurer by choice but by fate."

Vincent Van Gogh

The Van Gogh immersive experience begins as soon as you walk in the door and are greeted with a wall of sunflowers, or, I should say, a larger-than-life Van Gogh-like depiction of them. A few steps away is a bust of the painter that morphs from black and gray shadows to the swirled blues and lavenders of his flowers.

You pass a re-creation of the room at Arles, complete down to the washstand and window and hat hanging from a peg on the wall. Take a photo of the room and you've created a masterpiece.

There are videos on the artist's life, his hospitalization, self-mutilation and eventual suicide. And there is music: Vivaldi's Four Seasons, something by Debussy, others I couldn't place, all soaring and emotive.

But the best is saved for last, when you walk into the final gallery and find yourself a part of the paintings. You stand or sit or recline on the floor while the art comes alive around you, pages slide off easels, stars explode in the night, and a hundred sunflowers bloom against a lapis lazuli sky. 

Exorcist Stairs

Even watching the trailer sends chills down my spine, so I will probably not be watching "The Exorcist" this Halloween. But tonight I will be attending class right next to the "Exorcist Stairs," the Washington, D.C. landmark where the movie's final scene was filmed. 

In this scene, Father Miller, who's attempting to rid the 12-year-old Regan of the demon, falls from Regan's window down these narrow steps to his death. According to Culture Trip, the stuntman assigned this task had to fall down the stairs twice to perfect the scene. 

I found the stairs a couple weeks ago after walking past them earlier in my rush to get to class. But once a classmate told me where they were, I made a point to walk them the next week. 

I'm happy to say that I did not fall. But I did huff and puff a little. And I definitely felt a sinister vibe. The stairs are steep and creepy, just as billed, and apparently, if you try to count them, you'll never come up with the same number twice.