Friday, October 30, 2009

On the 32

Route 32 comes to my neighborhood from Capitol Hill, not far from the Supreme Court and the Library of Congress. It stops right in front of the National Archives where the Declaration of Independence is on display. In morning rush, it’s mostly full of working stiffs, the D.C. version of the office lades and office men. Salary men and salary women are on the metro. But, there is the lady in the black knit suit – the the St. John-kind, not the sweatsuit kind. With big gold jewelry and a rollie briefcase packed with something. Without seeing inside, it might be full of papers, but if it were full of peanut butter crackers, we would be none the wiser. We treat her like it is full of papers. There are mothers with small children, little girls with tight braids and beads, still half asleep, curled on the seat. There are high school students who have shed their sheltering parents, knowing, loudly, calling out teach other at the bus stop. "Getting pregnant is serious, I always use a condom. I like that bag of hers I wonder where she got it." Further down on the 32. Later in the morning, it becomes transport for the halt and the lame. The buses kneel like elephants, giving the elderly and others an easier climb up. Seats fold up and wheelchairs click into place. Walkers and their wielders have enough space to rotate around. Drivers wait until everyone is settled, seated, comfortable; they answer questions, give people the benefit of the doubt, the route’s got to be run anyway and it’s the public’s bus; Yodas of the city street, cab drivers seem like scalpers by comparison. We pass the President at the White House, glide by the World Bank which really isn’t a bank, and then slip into shopping Nirvana, the boutiques and small alleyways of Georgetown, and on to the prestige department stores of Chevy Chase. From the 32 you can take it all in – judiciary, legislature, to executive; business card to credit card; global to micro-local.

Monday, October 26, 2009

Before the time changes

Just when the days are shortening, before the time has changed, suddenly as the day darkens, it’s possible to peek into lit interiors. People in denial of the coming cold and dark have not yet drawn the shades. Clerks in offices move papers around. People arriving home unpack their briefcases. At the Hotel Monaco, the luxury of even the basement rooms is revealed, vacant as the economy sputters. The Capitol glows. Through the ring of glass windows that encircle the dome, you can see straight through to the grey-suit sky behind. The sun sets behind the Washington monument, as colorful as the fireworks from summertime. Congress is in session. November elections loom. And then, the holidays arrive

Thursday, October 22, 2009

Greens

Americans around the world are known as people who often eat too much. As one Greek friend of mine noted – he was referring to a portly businessman acquaintance – you see these quite often among Americans, but rarely among the Japanese. I joined volunteers at D.C.’s Central Kitchen where a new effort to bring nutritionally sounder meals to the city’s homeless and hungry is under way. Volunteers go out to cooperating farms after fields have been picked for market and glean the remainder for usable produce. The result the day I was at the kitchen was dozens of bags of collard greens, the mainstay of American soul food, fresh and smelling of earth, crisp as whips. We set about de-stemming and chiffonading the large leaves. I got my vitamins for the day just slicing and dicing. They put me in mind of a recent meal I had up in U Street, a hole-in-the-wall counter in Duke Ellington’s old neighborhood - mac and cheese, greens, and corn bread. At the bottom of my cup of greens was left the juicy pot licker, slightly acidic, salty from the bacon, sopped up with the sweet corn bread, my childhood lunches in the South came flooding back to me.

Monday, October 19, 2009

Mughal's greatest hits

An afternoon on the Mall, and at the Freer Gallery, Mughal miniatures are the occasion for a tour offered by a visiting professor. At this talk, nearly a hundred people squeeze themselves into the jewel-like galleries to peer at small paintings on paper, scenes surrounded by fabulously opulent borders. In the crowd, a couple of scruffy students – sandals, long hair, nearly unshaven – ask about the origins of Sufism, the connection between art and history. A woman in white hijab anxious to distinguish the tension between Sufism and orthodox Islam in India – relatively mildly spicy – and in the Middle East – five alarm spicy. Another woman in crowd reads for the group the poetry of Mir Ali in Farsi, the unexpected cadence filling the cool dark rooms of the museum. And outside hot dogs and soft drinks sold off a wheeled cart and a carousel whisks small children to the tunes of John Philip Souza.

Thursday, October 15, 2009

Yielding to the delegates

You, gentle reader, would have no idea of this, but every government has phalanxes of officials whose responsibility it is to figure out when and who gets to dig up what on city streets every day. No matter what the cause, the digging is always a mess, it disrupts traffic, is a hazard to pedestrians and, therefore, we governments are pretty much on a constant quest to find better ways of getting the job done. Surely, it was with this admirable goal in mind when Singapore asks this International Organization (henceforth, “IO”) to undertake a comparative study. Unfortunately, Singapore is only an Observer in this IO; the secretariat nods politely and moves on. What ho! France, who is a full Member, is also enthusiastic, raises his flag at the meeting, and supports the proposal. Again, a polite nod. Finally, an American businessman also expresses interest, but he is not even an Observer – just a ¼ nod will do for him. As the meeting draws to a close, memories of proposals I have quashed, budgets which I have shrunk, rebukes I have delivered flash before me. I raise the flag, note the comments of my colleagues and throw the project into a positive light. The Secretariat perks up, the item is on the work plan; and, a year later, the IO produces the report. A day’s work done.

Monday, October 12, 2009

Blingophobia

There will be a discreet license tag, anonymously DC city, a federal government car number, or a diplomatic tag, if appropriate. Rarely is there an entourage, no police escort. Those are for the outsiders who are only visiting or, occasionally, a simple bunch of tourists who want a little thrill. The real heavyweights are in the black four-doors. Yesterday, I saw a white stretch SUV ‘round the corner in Georgetown. Today, I spotted a stretch black limo slipping down Pennsylvania Avenue. Those are New Yorkers or Angelinos here for a holiday weekend, not the local honchos of the capitol.