Tag: DC

Don’t Bug Me

Imagine the onshore breeze, the quiet whoosh of waves.

So after a week at the beach during which we set aside our usual trunk load of complaints, anxieties and issues, and concentrated on putting on enough sunscreen and minding our manners, I found myself applying a different definition to daily challenges: First World problem.

I don’t recall the first time I heard it, but I know that even in that first hearing no one had to explain the concept. When confronted by the inevitable minor vexations of ordinary life, more and more the phrase “First World problem” seems a just and clear-eyed assessment. If you run out of mayo for your tuna sandwich, that’s a First World problem. If you have no safe drinking water, that’s a Third World problem. If you have no toilet paper, that’s a First World problem. If you have no toilet…

This led me to wondering about the situation in the Second World, wherever that is. So I searched for it on the internet and found more than one “answer.” However, among the rants and raves I came across the One World Nations Online site, which seems to offer a fairly reasonable breakdown of the terminology. According to the site, the Second World was originally defined as all the countries inside the Soviet Bloc, or controlled by it. Obviously a lot has happened since the 1940s. Times change. Definitions shift with the tide of fortune.

On a beach vacation the problems of the Third World rarely intrude, unless it’s hurricane season. But here in D.C. one particular Third World menace has been gaining ground. When I was a kid in the region in the 50s and 60s, there were some mosquitoes. They mostly came out at night. You might get a bite or two if you lingered outside on a warm summer evening. But during the daytime the mosquitoes weren’t much in evidence. Now there’s a new mosquito in town.

Asian Tiger mosquitoes arrived in this country in the mid-80s in a load of tires. They are tiny but relentless. They bite in the daytime, and, to make matters much worse, they carry a whole bevy of diseases that the old garden variety biters didn’t. If you get bitten by an Asian Tiger mosquito, along with the painful, itching welt comes the threat of West Nile fever, dengue fever, yellow fever, two types of encephalitis, and something called chikungunya virus—it doesn’t kill you but makes you feel dead anyway, according to this article on Live Science .

As global trade and travel accelerates, we must be prepared to share the problems as well as the bounty of all the worlds within our shared world. Since these Asian tiger mosquitoes don’t like to fly at night, bats can’t help us on this one. Unless we can figure out a way to breed sun-loving bats. I’m betting that even now, in a garage laboratory in the hills of North Carolina some enterprising genius is working on it. I’d gladly contribute to his Kickstarter fund.

A Stranger Here Myself

It was actually William Blake who said this, but it's the perspective that counts at the Top of the Town.

When we first moved to Seattle seven years ago, we were full of enthusiasm and ignorance.

We knew nothing about the neighborhoods, the hip restaurants, the must-see sights, but we had umbrellas and good hiking boots. We spent a lot of our free time simply walking around the city.

The experience changed us. Up until then my husband and I had never taken many walks except when we were on vacation, even though we had lived for many years in the countryside of Virginia, a place where scenic walks and pleasant vistas abound. But back then we were usually either too busy or too tired to walk around just for the sake of walking around. Our activities were agenda-driven.

In Seattle, when we began to walk for the pleasure of it (and the peripheral health benefits) we came to see the world differently.

There’s no better way to really get to know a place than on foot. In Seattle we discovered all kinds of hidden treasure beyond the obvious parks and art and fascinating architecture. We explored the hidden stairways of Fremont, the pocket gardens of Ballard, the old growth forest in Seward Park, the pea patch gardens all over the city.

When we returned to the East Coast we chose to continue living in an urban environment, in part because, even though I still love the rural scene, at this point in my life I want to be in walking distance of more than the nearest meadow.

So here we are, returned to a city that was so familiar to us once upon a time. In the thirty years we were elsewhere a lot has changed, but the essential nature of the D.C. area remains the same. It’s still a city dominated by the presence of the federal government and the international diplomats who live here. Real life is a little unreal here. But on the ground, walking around the neighborhoods, it doesn’t feel any different from other major cities.

The biggest difference between Seattle and D.C. from a pedestrian vantage point is the tree canopy. The Pacific Northwest is famous for its mighty evergreens. And they are amazing. But much of Seattle was cleared of trees in its early pioneer days, which weren’t that long ago. By comparison, the District of Columbia has been planting street trees for several centuries, and some of these babies are enormous. That’s one reason last year’s powerful derecho (a storm with sustained hurricane force winds) was so devastating. When a small tree topples, maybe it wrecks a car or two. When a giant falls, it takes down power poles, destroys buildings.

D.C. is a city of tree tunnels.

Anyway, once the wreckage was cleared up you wouldn’t have known anything had happened, because there are still soooo many trees in this city.

But there are a few places which rise above the canopy. The National Cathedral sits on one of the best known high spots in the city. Another, less well known, high point is near  Tenley Circle, an area once known as “The Top of the Town.” It’s changed a bit since we lived nearby many years ago. They’ve put in tennis courts where the outdoor stage used to be. The high school has taken over a lot of the open fields. And a covered reservoir sits high above the city, offering a panoramic view to the west.

It’s a popular spot for dog walkers, kids skipping out for a break after class, and people like me. I like the wide open sky. It reminds me of the country, but with a city feel—that sense of a lot of people sharing a particular space and time, working, playing, growing, and getting along as best they can together. It’s not always perfect, and it’s not always pretty, but it’s always alive, and ready for what’s next.

From here to infinity. And beyond. It starts with a walk around the block.

Putting Perspective on the Past

The airy courtyard has been the setting for eighteen Inaugural balls.

Cities have lives of their own.

People come and go, trends change, history rolls on. Cities that last for more than a few centuries acquire a patina of age that can add to their charm or diminish it.

Washington, D.C., has weathered a bit of history since it first took shape as the nation’s capitol in 1790. Compared to many European cities, ours is still an upstart, a mere teenage town. Like most teenagers, D.C. manages to make a lot of noise and generate a lot of controversy.

But visitors who flock to the massive monuments, museums and government buildings which dominate the landscape downtown sometimes miss the softer, sweeter side of the city: the lush canopied neighborhoods, the quirky streets and hidden gardens that sustain District residents when the going gets sticky.

Well-known attractions such as Georgetown, Capitol Hill and the Dupont Circle area get their share of sightseers. But there’s always more to discover.

Last week I finally visited the National Building Museum. Housed in what used to be the Pension Building, this magnificent structure built in 1887 has some breathtaking features, including an exterior frieze of Civil War soldiers, massive columns, and an awesome courtyard. Like many buildings of that era, it was gradually used for other government offices and its future was uncertain until 1969 when it was listed on the National Register of Historical Places, which revived interest in the space. In 1980 it was reborn as the National Building Museum devoted to all aspects of architecture, including the impact of architecture on the quality of human life.

And if that’s not enough to spark your interest, they’ve also got mini-golf.

The seventh hole celebrates imagination.

The two nine-hole indoor courses were designed by architects and design firms to illustrate environmental and architectural problems and solutions. It’s a great way to get out of the heat and chill out with some quality putts.

I like a government building that offers inspiration and renewal all under one roof. At the National Building Museum it’s par for the course.

Armed With Truth and Beauty

The goddess Saraswati encourages all to grow wise in harmony.

For those of us unable to feel the electric buzz of religious faith that motivates some people to acts of kindness or terror, there are nonetheless times when we wish we could find something above and beyond the mundane demands of daily life to inspire us to be the best we can be without having to join a cult, or a militia, or a book club.

Recently the spiritual signature of the Dupont Circle neighborhood went up a notch thanks to a new artwork erected by the Indonesian Embassy. The stunning pure-white statue depicts Saraswati, the Hindu goddess of knowledge and art.

I had never heard of her before I happened on the statue gleaming above Massachusetts Avenue. I was fascinated by the exotic image, so markedly in contrast to the usual statues of men in suits that dominate the public venues in downtown D.C.

Because of this city’s history and the tendency to honor military and political leaders in general, there aren’t as many public statues celebrating the kinder, gentler side of humanity. True, there’s an eye-catching statue of Gandhi just a few blocks away from this new work. But Gandhi was a political figure too, worldly and powerful in spite of his humble aura.

The goddess Saraswati, by contrast, has the fantastic appearance of a creature of the imagination, far too radiant to be one of us. This probably has something to do with her appeal as a goddess. According to the explanatory plaque beside the statue, the objects which Saraswati carries in her four arms symbolize her areas of concern. There’s a book symbolizing knowledge, a mandolin representing art and culture, and a string of rosary-like beads for “unlimited knowledge.” In addition she rises above a lotus flower, symbol of holiness, and she is accompanied by a swan, another symbol of wisdom, according to the plaque.

Style and substance unite in a hopeful image.

That’s a heap of symbols to carry around, if you ask me. Yet Saraswati appears radiantly serene, as if, even though she knows the job of lifting up folks’ spirits and instilling them with knowledge and wisdom may be a bit of a challenge, she’s undaunted.

I like that in a goddess.

I imagine having four arms helps. I’ve often thought that if there were a goddess of housework a few extra sets of arms would come in handy. I can’t see anyone worshiping a goddess of cleanliness though.

Wisdom, on the other hand, has lofty appeal. So many of the world’s problems seem to stem from a woeful lack of wisdom. The seemingly endless conflicts between various religions hardly appear wise to me. But then, maybe I’m just not wise enough to see the Big Picture.

At any rate, I welcome the fresh new face near Dupont Circle, a neighborhood with a rich past of colorful characters and spirited protests.

Will She be able to lift the tenor of public discourse in this city of rumors and partisan feuding?

Goddess only knows.

Let An Umbrella Be Your Smile

Speak softly and carry a cool umbrella.

Rain brings out the best in some people.

In others it dampens not only the mood, but the entire outlook on life. Their loss.

Perhaps it’s the plant person in me, or the plant that I am, but I’m a big fan of rain. Even the kind they have in Seattle, which doesn’t quite measure up to my definition of rain most of the time, except for the undeniable wetness of it.

People who only visit Seattle in the summer during the annual raincation, when the sun hardly bothers to set for about twelve weeks, sometimes come away with the mistaken notion that Seattle’s reputation for rain is a bum rap. Not true. It is, in fact, a very accurate rap, for nine months of the year.

However, the kind of rain they have is subtle. For one thing, it barely makes a sound. There’s never thunder, far less the kind of drilling, thrashing gouts of monsoonish excess that make strong umbrellas wilt and weak ones blow away into the overflowing gutters.

In Seattle, where the weather forecasters have a hundred ways to describe rain, the typical rain doesn’t so much fall as sort of mist from cloud to ground, wetting everything in its path. Newbies sometimes think this means they can walk about in it without an umbrella, perhaps mislead by the way many Seattle natives eschew umbrellas out of a sense of regional pride. The true mossback needs no umbrella.

In my current Washington the weather makes quick work of such ridiculous attitudes. It’s raining? Grab an umbrella. Grab two. You know you’re going to leave one on the metro sooner or later.

The thing is, for all Seattle’s vaunted reputation for rainyness, D.C. has it beat six ways to Sunday in terms of quantity, dramatic special effects, and steam-heat inducing abandon.

I love it. I love the thunder, the sudden darkening of the skies, the puddles, the hiss of tires on the streets, the mad dash for cover when the clouds open up on a whim. Mother Nature can be such a tease.

One of my most memorable D.C. rain experiences took place many years ago when I was a carefree hippie. I didn’t own an umbrella at the time, in much the same way that I didn’t own a vacuum cleaner or a television. I was a free spirit, riding my bike to work in the rain, sans helmet. I feel lucky to have survived my own lunacy.

But I digress. The day I became the proud owner of an umbrella I had gone downtown with my girlfriends for some reason which escapes me now. We had Chinese food at some point. And I know we went in the now-vanished button store, which actually sold buttons and nothing but buttons, back in the days before mega-chains took over whole blocks. Anyway, as we were leaving the button store, or it could have been the Chinese food place—memory is sketchy on this detail—the weather took a sudden turn to the King Learish and the rain, of which there had been no hint two minutes before, came down like a wet velvet curtain. We darted in the first store we saw, which, as fate would have it, was an umbrella store. No lie. This store sold umbrellas and nothing but.

Well, sensing that destiny was at work, we each selected an umbrella to match our personalities at the time. You can read as much into this process as you like. Just wait until you are faced with the task: describe yourself as an umbrella.

We laughed and joked and tried on umbrellas and eventually left the store slightly poorer but three umbrellas richer.

I still have my umbrella from that happy rainy day, though I really couldn’t tell you why I chose a polka-dot one. I think I was going through a phase. My friends both lost their umbrellas as years went by, but they are still my friends, which are better than any umbrella anyway.

Rain or shine, a smile may not be an umbrella, but if you find someone who laughs at the same things you do, you’ll never mind a few raindrops on your head.

May The Circle Be Unbroken

Round and round we go.

When the apocalypse finally limps over the finish line and the power grid goes down for good, things will get a lot quieter for many people. But in the silence of that new day there will still be music. Quieter, indeed, but no less marvelous.

Last weekend the 33rd annual Washington Folk Festival, blooming like a field of beloved wildflowers under the lofty trees at historic Glen Echo Park, Maryland, showcased the kind of music that has kept the human spirit alive for centuries.

A festival made in the shade.

Long before earbuds and iPods and virtual Clouds, there was music in the air all around the world, played by shepherds and troubadours, lovers and sailors, the lost and lonely, the hopeful and devout. Music was, and continues to be, a most potent magic.

One of the most precious things about folk music is that it belongs to all of us. Anyone can pick up an instrument, or raise a voice, and join in. It is the most democratic of genres, freely shared and lovingly passed on from generation to generation.

This reverence for the heirloom quality of folk music was clearly evident at the recent festival, where groups of younger musicians carried on the traditions of bluegrass, old-time country swing, gospel, blues and international folk music, showing reverence for the past while breathing new life and energy into the material.

Glen Echo Park is a perfect venue for such a vital process. While the much larger National Folk Festival down on the Mall attracts bigger crowds and more attention, as it should in the heart of the Nation’s Capitol, the more intimate and down-home Washington Folk Festival serves as a reminder of the heart and soul of the folk movement, which enjoys periodic revivals every generation or so, as new audiences discover its timeless charms.

The ride is gone, but the sentiment endures.

Glen Echo Park itself was begun in 1891 as an ambitious project to further the arts, and although the original effort failed, the site was reinvented in the early 20th century as an amusement park and enjoyed a long reign of popularity until it finally closed in 1968. Taken over by the National Parks system in 1971 and revived as a center of arts and amusement, Glen Echo now attracts a wide variety of visitors who come to dance in the  Spanish Ballroom, to take art classes, and to ride the beautifully restored circa 1921 Dentzel carousel.

At the recent festival the carefree music of the carousel wove in the air with the sounds of mandolins, bagpipes and Celtic harps. Outside the Cuddle-Up stage, where the New Old-Time String Band was playing a medley of gospel favorites, passersby sang along to “Will The Circle Be Unbroken?”

I’d like to think that even if the circle takes a beating from time to time, it will still keep rolling, and playing a joyful song or two along the way.

Play’s The Thing

A Dragon Boat team practices under the full moon along the Washington Channel.

Come out, come out, wherever you are.

It’s that time again, when a kindlier light shines upon the Earth and, although all is not right with the world and perhaps never will be, it’s wearing its happiest face and making the best of it. So should we all.

These golden days, when the sun lingers longer, when the winds blow softer, and the rains nourish new life, it’s enough to bring out the poet in the most savage soul. For those of us who feed on the thrill of simple sports, these are the days we’ve been waiting for all the long cold winter.

Here in D.C. the return of flip-flop weather has inspired a bumper crop of outdoor enthusiasts. The streets are a-swarm with hipsters and bicyclists. The volleyball teams are leaping and smashing on the fields near the Lincoln Memorial. The crack of bats and the thwock of gloves floats above the baseball fields in the shadow of the Martin Luther King Memorial, and all weekend long the cries of agony and shrieks of victory arise from the tennis courts at East Potomac Park, while the golfers on the adjacent course pursue their goals with quieter resolve.

It’s springtime in our Nation’s Capitol, and for this brief, blissful season politics is not the only game in town.

Plato, we’re told, once remarked that “Life must be lived as play.” Easy for him to say. In the modern world, as we slog or blog along at our daily chores, whether chained to desks or digging ditches, the concept of “play” can be elusive. The human penchant for nitpicking, score keeping, record seeking and trophy hunting sometimes obscures the purity of The Game. But, that’s not something we need concern ourselves with in this bright moment. Today we play.

Another fellow, Guy Lombardo, expressed the notion a bit more blithely in song: “Enjoy yourself, it’s later than you think.”

Good advice anytime.

In The Pink

Everyone's Invited to the Pink Party

Last week we planned to take a peek at the peak of the pink down at the National Cherry Blossom Festival.

We set off after dinner, figuring that the crowds would be diminished at the end of the day, on what had been widely predicted to be one of the last best days for viewing, since a petal-smashing storm front was expected by the end of the week.

When I was growing up in Falls Church, Virginia,  the Cherry Blossom Festival was a minor blip on the D.C. social calendar. The marketing machine hadn’t yet sunk its  teeth into the event. There was little publicity, no posters, no T-shirts, and no city-wide campaign to lure tourists from across the nation. The general attitude seemed to be that the city had enough tourists as it was. The Cherry Blossom Festival was a little hometown event.
Not anymore.

As we inched through the strangled traffic heading anywhere close to the Tidal Basin, we heard on the radio that the Nationals’ game was experiencing a delay because the umpires were stuck in traffic. The announcers, forced to adlib for an unexpected fifteen minutes, seemed to find it hard to believe that the traffic could be that bad. Trust me. It was.

So bad, in fact that we punted on the expedition after we arrived at the intersection leading to the shuttle parking and discovered that both lanes were blocked by a broken down shuttle bus.

It might seem odd that a city famous for its power players and political agendas can lose its head over a few hundred blossoming trees. And yet, there it is. It’s a pink thing.

The Jefferson Memorial floats in a floral frame.

I went back the next morning on the metro, determined to get my pink on. The soft sunlight filtered through the fluttering trees cast a glow on every face. People of all ages ambled around snapping photos and smiling like children at a lavish birthday party.

There’s a lot of history behind the National Cherry Blossom Festival, which celebrated its 100th anniversary last year. Those with an interest in history may see it through that lens. But for most of us, it’s enough to see it in all its fragile, fleeting glory, a living poem that blooms and then disappears overnight.

Let a thousand cameras bloom.

A Coy Uncertain Season

Spring hides in the gleam of a robin's eye.

Spring makes no promises. We make them for her.

We who cling to romantic ideas believe the sun-kissed air will heal all wounds and renew all hopes.

Spring! The very word suggests a leaping up, a gamboling frolic, a free pass to let go of grim propriety and wear flowers in our hair, if we still have hair.

Yet Spring is nothing if not capricious. The first official day of the sweet season is March 21st, but that means little to Spring, who comes when she will and often leaves before we’ve grown weary of her charms.

Last year, as some may recall, Spring burst upon the D.C. area with such a flourish in late winter that by the time the National Cherry Blossom Festival began the trees had already been there, done that in early March.

This year, Spring seems to be feeling more flirtatious. A few balmy hours here, a few melting sun breaks there, then back to the cool gray noirish mood, with a brisk wind-chill chaser.

Fine. I can wait. Anticipation is so often the best part of anything. I’ve got a lot of projects in the works to keep me from watching the clock or the thermometer: a couple of ebooks on the way, including a new, restored version of my first fantasy novel, Alice and the Green Man, which includes material left out of the first edition. Also the first volume of The Greening trilogy is nearing completion.

And, here in the real world, I’ve broken ground on a new garden—perhaps the most satisfying way to enjoy the blooming celebration that is Spring’s calling card.

Spring flirts with flowers in the air.

So, go ahead, blow you old Winter winds for a few more weeks if you must. Go ahead, shake some more feeble snow on the sidewalk. I don’t believe in you anymore.

There’s a new sheriff coming to town. Her name is Spring.

Suspended is Belief

The scene is set for dreaming.

Like dewdrops caught in a silken net, thousands of crystal droplets shimmer in the slightest breeze above a secluded parterre in Dumbarton Oaks.

For the last year, this unexpected confection of light and space has enchanted visitors to the historic garden at the north end of Georgetown. The work of the Cao-Perrot Studio of Los Angeles and Paris, the “Cloud Terrace” was supposed to have been dismantled last November, but it has proven to be so popular that the garden directors decided to leave it up all winter. It’s now expected to be gone at the end of March. We’ll see.

In the meantime, the quiet shimmering beauty of the work continues to draw crowds who attempt to capture its mysterious allure with cameras great and small.

Cameras click like castanets, trying to catch pixie dust.

I was lucky the first time I went to see it. Perhaps because it was a weekday, and a rare sunny day between windy storms, there were few people there. I could sit and savor the way the hand-tied Swarovski crystals catch and throw the light.

Such a distinctive temporary art installation seems all the more striking in Beatrix Farrand’s classical garden setting, where little has changed in decades.

Even the most meticulously designed garden is subject to the relentless tide of time. Blooms come and go. Trees age and die. The entire composition of a garden is in a continual state of flux. You could say that every garden is a temporary work of art. Many gardens vanish when the gardeners who created them pass on. Luckily, when the great gardens of the past are championed and sustained by successive generations of garden lovers, our lives continue to be enriched by these dynamic works of living art.

I don’t know what Beatrix Farrand would have thought of the “Cloud Terrace,” but it’s clear as crystal that modern crowds can’t get enough of it.