Political aftermath

It happens, after elections. I once worked for a member of Congress. Before, I had been promised a trip abroad to learn foreign policy; after, no amount of phone calls could resuscitate that trip. A young friend, just out of school, fresh to DC for a few months, finds his boss's boss has lost his election. He is disappointed. Politics is tough, I say. Yes, he says, especially here. No, I thought, it isn't but today, for you it is. Hopefully, one adventure will just lead to another.

Cool Hotel Buzz

Thump, thump, thump.
La da dee dah, la da dee dah
rum-hum-strum, rum-hum-strum,
Check In Now?
Bags To Your Room?
Here's Your Key?

Voom, zoom, boom
Clicky clack, clicky clack
Rat-a-tat, rat-a-tat
Is This Seat Taken?
Tap Water All Right?
Today In Season?

Gingko Green and Yellow

There are two gingko trees in the Enid Haupt garden behind the Smithsonian castle, equal in height and grandeur. But like most twins they are still individuals. Fall has arrived when the gingko to the right of the great doors has turned a brilliant yellow, the color of tulips in the spring, egg yolks fried for breakfast, traffic lights at the intersection. But, the gingko to the left still ponders. Has fall yet arrived? Can we squeeze out just a few more days of summer? Shall we deny yet that Thanksgiving winks around the corner and pop overnight the Institution will pull out its holiday wardrobe?

The full breakfast

When in London, I love the full breakfast. Toast with butter. Sausages - possibly more than one variety. Grilled mushrooms and tomatoes. Eggs. Beans. The acid touch of orange juice and coffee as perfect complements. In New York, I first overheard the order - a full English breakfast, vegetarian. Minus beans, cooked in pork. Minus sausages. Minus eggs. Minus butter. Left with shrooms, 'matoes, dry toast. Add crushed parsley, it's practically a panini. Add a cappucino and fly to Italy.

Pocket walking

I always thought walking, hands in pockets, was somehow rude. Crossing G Street near Metro Center, a couple of blue suits, white shirts and red ties, potbellies spilling over leather belts tucked under, hands shoved in pockets. Then, I turn and see a couple of hipsters, he and she in jeans, khaki colored jackets, T-shirts, left hand in pocket and right hand on the backpack, carried one-sided. No wonder when I find myself paused at the corner, waiting for the light to turn, my hand is drawn to my pocket, even when I haven't one. No wonder it's hard to break the habit.