In the eye of the superpower

Electricity among the stacks

2011-09-08T21:32:00.000+01:00

Walking up the grand staircases of the Library of Congress, you see marble columns with gilt edging. Important statuary panels line the walls – I like especially the one of a carved angel – shall we say a seraphim? – holding an old fashioned telephone, the kind which you hold the cupped earpiece in one hand and the desktop mouthpiece in the other. That cherub is called the Electrician "with a star of electric rays shining on his brow.” There’s a special viewing window from which one can see the main reading room from on high. The readers below, like so many worker ants, pore over their documents. The library staff moving books around like worker bees – collecting them from the centralized conveyor belt, organizing them by reader onto the main counter, pushing carts around collecting books from the readers’ desks that encircle the circulation center. Then one’s eyes lift above to the profound sayings etched in gold beneath the splendid dome. “Beauty is truth, truth beauty.” Really? As I mull over the reports emerging from North Korea on people’s degrees of starvation. “The history of the world is biography of great men.” Here, the library shows its age – all the names and portraits memorialized in the library are men, the women are representations of the abstract (Truth, Beauty, Electricity). But then, for those toiling away, uncertain of their knowledge, querulous in their grasp of wisdom, there speaks from the walls the words of a cheerleader past, “ The chief glory of every people arises from its authors.” Carry on, then. (Main Reading Room, Thomas Jefferson Building, Library of Congress, Washington, DC)

Yenching is not just a restaurant at Harvard Square

2011-08-16T20:11:00.000+01:00

As a young student, I grew up reading in the Yenching Library, at 2 Divinity Avenue, in Cambridge. Its location on Divinity Avenue perhaps reminding us of the close connection between the early missionary zeal of American internationalists and the study of foreign regions. Yenching was always dusty, but as a college student, it seemed not dustier than usual film that covered the dorms, the dining halls, the ancient Yard itself, even. The reading room itself was quite workaday. A few long tables stretched out. Magazine stands lining the walls, newspapers in challenging scripts collected across them. And then to enter the stacks themselves, one passed through a small door into a back room, and perhaps down the stairs into the basement. The cornerstones of the Asian Studies literature were built here. (Asian Reading Room, Yenching Library, Harvard University, Cambridge, Massachusetts)

Cool books

2011-07-04T21:36:00.001+01:00

At the time of my fellowship in Beijing, air conditioning in the summer time was the exclusive privilege of high end shopping malls, luxury hotels, and haute restaurants. None of the rooms at the CASS American Studies department seemed to be air conditioned; fortunately, they were housed in traditional style courtyards where most offices had a window, and breezes could pass through the halls and corridors. However, in the high rise building of the one of the CASS institutes, there was a library reading room, tucked away on one of the middle floors. It was non-descript in off-white walls, fluorescent lamps, tables, chairs, magazines, but exceptional in its climate-controlled status. I used to visit regularly to partake of the air, not just of the breezes of scholarly concentration. It also housed a good selection of serious magazines, perfect for whiling away the time, imagining how my work could transform the academy, the city, the country, the world, if only the sweat would stop dripping from my brow. (Chinese Academy of Social Sciences, Beijing)

How to borrow a library

2011-06-13T09:30:00.001+01:00

Online I had seen that the Chinese University of Hong Kong had an excellent collection of the serials I was studying and some useful books referencing the field I was plunging into. What a good excuse to go to Hong Kong! I acquired from my professor the requisite letter of introduction to present to the librarian, to show I was indeed a student of good standing, and off I went. To get to CUHK one leaves behind the hustle of Hong Kong’s city streets and the bustle of its noodle shops and merchants. I hopped onto to the train, minding the gap, and headed into the mountains. The city falls away, trees appear. It was winter in Hong Kong, temperature mild by the standards I was used to, but humid. That combined with the general lack of central heating in many places, meant that a chill could creep past ones sweater into one’s bones. The librarian accepted my letter of introduction, I was issued a card, with not too bad a identification photo, and set about my work. (Chinese University of Hong Kong)

Excuse me, Ms. Curator

2011-06-07T21:37:00.000+01:00

During a lull in my government work, I noticed the National Gallery was organizing small public seminars at lunchtime. There were never more than a dozen “students,” mostly retired ladies interested or already enrolled in the museum’s docent programs. I suppose this makes me a candidate for such work later on in my years. Homework was involved. There was a reading assignment in advance, and on the two occasions I enrolled, they were always from art books with lots of beautiful pictures inside. I had a lingering memory from my college days of an art history class I took which involved studying the heads of emperors on Roman coins. I had never before nor since formally studied art history, and here I was taking instruction from an eminent visiting professor. She expected us to look at the coin books and coin slides before her lecture; she would discuss in class; then we were expected to examine the images afterward, as they would appear on the exam. As I was a student of texts, I normally visited the library once to do the reading, take notes, hear lecture, then review my notes. Furthermore, my notes were always words, never imagine that sketching an image would be useful. I arrived at my exam, where images were flashed on the screen. I was expected to recognize and discuss them from memory, pictures I had glanced at once for a few seconds, months ago. I was lucky not to flunk. Haunted by this shadow, I headed to the National Gallery’s library to do my homework several days in advance of my lunch seminar. The library is in the East Wing, an edifice of triangular perfection by I.M. Pei and the library reflected this underlying motif. A panel of windows soared from ground to the sky, looking out onto the green Mall. As I signed in with the guard, I could see I was about the second or third person from the public visiting that day. I had been asked to call in advance that I would arrive. I was met by a librarian who asked what book I required. It was available, but in the hands of one of the museum staff; it would be fetched. Dumbfounded, I imagined the scenario. Mr. Junior Bookrunner is sent from the library circulation desk to Ms. Eminent Curator. What could the problem be? A Member of the Public requests a viewing of the Big Beautiful Book which you are using to prepare the Next Blockbuster Exhibit; could you release it to us? Yes! The Member of the Public is so Important, we must release the Big Beautiful Book to her so she can learn about Art and be enlightened Forever. The book was delivered to me; in awe I tried my best to read it, and particularly to look at the pictures, and all in all it was a very satisfactory lunch. (Library, National Gallery of Art, Washington, DC)

Lobster on E

2011-06-02T01:56:00.002+01:00

Luke's Lobster just opened, and I can see that I will be a regular. The lobster roll is sweet with meat, toasty and buttered, with my favorite Ms. Vickie's chips and good root beer. At $17 the combo is not cheap, but the shrimp roll is also good, and a better buy at $10. It only means that I put aside for a moment my predilection for veggies and indulge in beachside picnic fare.

Crossing over, to the other side of the reading divide

2011-05-30T21:35:00.003+01:00

Last year toward the end of May, I wandered into the Georgetown Law Library. Actually, I had several dozen books due June 1st, and the library system had begun its annual campaign against me to show up with the real-life books, prove I had not lost them, and then perhaps grant me permission to renew them for another year. Returning to the original subject…entering into the building where the library was housed, is a bit like walking into a mausoleum. There is grey stone receiving area staffed by an alert guard, who will not let me pass until I spend several minutes fumbling through my wallet to discover my university ID – an ID, mind you, that I mostly use in the virtual sense – typing in the numbers to access journals online and read obscure newspaper articles. Once security is satisfied, you pass through to an equally colorless lobby with a high-ceiling and staircases rising into nowhere. Where are the books? The dust? The detritus of scholarly work? Clearly, we are here focused on the rule of law, perhaps with an emphasis on RULE. I find there is yet another set of doors to pass through to find the reading room, and the world is transformed. Rows of tables and chairs, desk lamps, cushioned carpets, dark wood and rich textiles. Yet, there is something unique in the air. The frisson of panic, of adrenaline quietly pumping through the laptops and book spines. It is the exam season and the haggard, bagged eyes, the unwashed hair, the distressed wardrobes of the law students are in full evidence. I back away, lest the anxiety be contagious, grateful that my exam taking days are done and I have crossed over (as we so often do in life, until that final crossing) into my exam giving (and, mind you, exam grading) days. (Georgetown Law Library, Washington, DC)

Great leaps forward

2011-04-27T16:57:00.002+01:00

We've leapt into summer without stopping for spring here in DC. My personal barometer is the yellow silk twinset which is not warm enough for winter but is too warm for Washington's summer humidity. I managed to wear it only once before the days turned to 80 degrees F, now I will put it away until the fall. The weather's also produced a string of heavy precipitation. My snapdragons on the balcony are bent over from taking the hail. Inevitably they spring back, the potential for destruction mixed with the elements of growth and creation.

Now on the mall - Coney Island Foot Longs

2011-04-16T16:54:00.000+01:00

Just a brief hot dog update. The cherry blossoms have arrived and tourists are now pouring in. The hot dog buffet once at the Natural History museum has disappeared, but several new choices are starring at the snack kiosk near the carousel in front of the Smithsonian Castle. I had the Coney Island Foot Long hot dog, a bargain at $5, which is also the cost of a regular sized hot dog. Never been to Coney Island, but have heard stories from my parents and seen it on TV. Which is sufficient to conjure up images of board walks, salt water taffy, rickety roller coasters and brusque New Yorkers getting you through the food line. All this (for $5!) while sitting next to the Castle rose garden, taking in the twinkly Strauss waltz that makes the merry-go-round go 'round.

Not Oakey-fenokee

2011-04-10T13:02:00.000+01:00

Dumbarton Oaks, just beautiful enough in memory to register every spring, just far enough out of the way that it had been over five years since I last visited. The beginning of warm means tulips, the advent of hot means roses. A friend and I visited last weekend, the yellow budded forsythia are out, the cherry blossoms were bursting forth, there was a romantic field of ground-close violet flowers, and the hope of azaleas to come. An added bonus is the pre-Colombian artifact exhibition in a series of glass cylindrical galleries so positioned that from the air would look like a perfect crystal daisy set in the garden's green hills. From the galleries, one is cleverly seeing the art within, the garden without, and being seen as if through a terrarium glass.

Model T's still on the road

2011-04-02T17:13:00.000+01:00

At the National Archives (where the Declaration of Independence) is kept, I had lunch with a fellow from Social Security. (In Washington, when we say this, we mean he works for Social Security, not that he's drawing social security...) He had colleagues who worked on mainframe computers running on Cobalt and C. He was new to the government and was shocked. Actually, in my office, I discovered a team of engineers working on a system written in Fortran. My mother learned Fortran when she was in graduate school. There is another system, that manages data I rely on, which is written in Pascal. I studied Pascal in high school. The Cobalt system seems stuck in the mud, no movement to change it up. The Pascal system is now in transition, soon to emerge into the 21st century. The Fortran system is now recently listed for updating. Fingers crossed.

Counterdosing the fashion ads

2011-03-30T16:45:00.003+01:00

Blue-smocked, riding a bicycle, Bill Cunningham is the guy I rely on for a counterdose of street fashion when I have been overly inundated with the sleek ad shots of the fashion houses in magazines. Most inspiring is the confidence of his subjects. Tall and short, fat and thin, elegant and nutty, hip and square, they all show off their outfits. Like my friend who pitched a book lately, it's not necessarily what you say (although maybe it shouldn't be discounted too much) but how you say it, with authority. Braver with style, courageous with color, I hope I am, but I still don't quite have the guts to cycle hellbent through Manhattan without a helmet. And, I'm not approaching 80 yet.

Sharks on Pennsylvania Avenue

2011-02-24T21:30:00.002Z

Typical was this morning's meeting at the Commerce Department. On the white board, the chair scrawled an agenda. The goal is to persuade a group of countries to agree to a set of principled actions. First, we had to agree amongst ourselves, US government agencies. Remember, that the units within my agency have yet to discuss and reach consensus. We plan on doing that tomorrow. But the interagency meeting was today. A little reverse engineering is in order, I suppose. At the table, we reached a plan on how to plan next. Cookies and chocolates greased the oily wheels of bureaucracy. And as I left, rounding the corner, balanced in mid-air, impaled on a steel shaft, the model of a hammerhead shark hangs at an entrance to the Hoover building, an homage to the aquarium which occupies the lower floor. Dali could not have made a better statement.

Shadows in the light

2011-02-17T22:30:00.000Z

The shadows in Grand Central Station #2 walk in the light. The yellow stone floor reflects the sun beaming through the windows. These, not the shadows of death. They, like in Haroun's Ocean of Notions, separate from the figures for which they provide perspective. Rolling along the glossy plane, elbows softened, footsteps muffled, tallness shrunk, sharpness smudged, what fear of darkness have we? When shadows are so bright?

(Grand Central Station #2 by Jim Campbell hangs on the third floor of the American Art Museum)

Computer literacy

2011-02-14T09:00:00.000Z

I learned SAS and then forgot it. Ditto for SPSS. My friend's data collection still runs on a TurboPascal, the programmer just retired after 40 years of service. I have Stata envy, will I every knuckle down and learn it? One friend of mine complained Matematica was far too complicated; another said it was his professional lifeblood. Maybe I should sign up for a Drupal class. And then twice last week I coached colleagues through how to do sums in Excel. Literacy, numeracy, computeracy.....

Street parlor

2011-02-10T05:25:00.001Z

The big woman and the small woman embraced at the corner where Starbucks stands. It's cold, but neither has a coat. One has on a sweatshirt, the other a double layer of old flannel. A suit walks by. Some pumps sway by. A woolly cap and scarf stroll by. The two cross the street. Talking loudly, as if in their own parlor, almost singing, almost dancing, in their old shoes. A trench rushes by. Leggings and flats saunter by. The gloves and earmuffs amble by. The two nearly trip stepping up to the curb, a dizzying five inches off the ground. The fat one sits down on the bench under the bus shelter. The small one, still swaying, chanting takes her leave. The sidewalk is front and center for them, their stage, their receiving hall.

Winter rhythms

2011-02-06T00:00:00.000Z

In the winter the sun falls quickly. Not too late in the afternoon, from the street you can see the office lights blink in the gloom and the street lamps switch on as the darkness rises. As I move along the sidewalk, the lamps keep rhythm like a double bass, punctuating space and time predictably, ever beautiful in regularity. Peeking through the intervals are the lit windows. This of the Castle. That of the Capitol. Dorothy Height’s pink turreted building along Pennsylvania. Then the shops, hotels, and restaurants. Tall and narrow, short and wide, square and round are the windows. And the things that cast shadows – the trees, the bushes, the newspaper boxes and trash cans, the parking sign posts that annoy the eye and soul during the day, become trills and turns, accessories to the melody, that decorate the beat of time passing, blink-blink, click-click, whoosh-swoosh into the spring.

B&P between U&V

2011-02-03T23:07:00.000Z

There’s no cure for middle age like heading to the hipsters’ hangout. Twice now I have journeyed (a few stops on the Green line) to Busboys and Poets – the branch along the U Street corridor, home to jazz clubs, night spots, and coolness all around. Once I went for the launch of a nifty new news channel on cable television. They wanted to demonstrate their stylish street cred and picked B&P to show it off. The second time I went to hear a friend play in a band. It sounds so groupie-ish, I know. But I am middle aged, and my friend – Music Minister by evening – is chief so-and-so of the inspector general’s office by day. Both times I arrived and there were lines out the door. The young people knew you had to arrive early (wear the right look, and so on) to get in. Twice I got turned away. Still, the chicken pizza there is good, even if you miss the TV show launch and the jazz session.

Snow song

2011-01-31T23:26:00.002Z

When the snow falls,
When the walks freeze,
When I'm feeling chilled,
I whip up some cocoa,
and roast some popcorn,
and then I don't feel so cold.

Hot cocoa recipe
4 spoons powdered chocolate, preferably Parisian
0.5 spoon cinnamon, Vietnamese is good
a dash of chili powder, Mexican is best
2 spoons honey, from bees who fly in clover
a dash of salt from the sea
2 cups of water, from a fresh spring

Dal in a Jar

2011-01-29T23:05:00.000Z

Dal Mahkhani, better known to as my favorite lentil dish, I think is largely vegetarian. Perhaps there is a good bit of cream or butter in the one I love at Rasika. That, rice, and perhaps some curried cauliflower make a complete meal. Last year’s new year’s resolution was to learn to cook lentils. I managed to cook them in water and douse them with the Makhani sauce marketed by Rasika in local groceries. It is tomato-based with herbs and spices. The bottle is far better than anything I can do on my own, but a mere shadow of the restaurant version.

Electrocuted in the elevator

2011-01-22T05:41:00.000Z

The number "6" had the life punched out of it. You could see the "6" hanging crooked, back to the circuit board, funny-colored wires sticking out like Medusa hairs. I work on floor 6. When I scan my security pass, I find my index finger can't index anything - fleetingly I fear electrocution. Hah! on the elevator on the way to work, what a way to go. My co-workers laugh and quickly hit "6" on the right hand panel of the elevator. Fortunately, that digit still sat courteously punchable in its proper spot on the wall. Watch out for some angry guy, they said, I stepped out into the hallway.

Look, look at the moving picture

2011-01-18T05:32:00.000Z

The talking portraits of Harry Potter's castle-cum-art gallery are one step closer to reality at the Sackler's exihibit, the Rise and Fall of Fiona Tan. Encased in picture frames, she's filmed her subjects - a nephew, a mother-in-law, a grocer and his son. We see their faces, the signifiers of their lives - bags of dry goods, toys, pieces of art collected on mantlepieces. The style is distinctive, sharp black and white video, a contemplative stillness while moving (how is that possible), the signature of the portraitist. They are on the verge of conversing with us, perhaps in the next genre.

Poste haste to Poste Brasserie

2011-01-15T05:37:00.000Z

French toast by now is almost old-fashioned - the coffee shops are full of granola and yogurt (in a plastic cup), or perhaps oatmeal (in a thermal bowl), or an egg sandwich (in a wax paper sack), or even the breakfast burrito (wrapped in alum foil). I guess it's the sit-down-with-a-knife-and-fork aspect of it that makes it seem particularly slow food. The best in the neighborhood is Poste Brasserie at the Hotel Monaco. They coffee good, the green tea is even better. For the toast, they use challah bread - doubling, tripling, nay quadrupling the eggy sweet goodness of it all. Life is better, poste haste.

We're just full of water

2011-01-13T04:43:00.000Z

Shopping at Friendship Heights, at Bloomingdales, actually, I stop for coffee. There's a banner light stuck vertically in the public square. In Times Square it would have lit up messages advertizing the latest play, the latest fashion. In LA, it would carry promotions for the latest movie, the latest sports news. But here, in the nation's capital, in this prime spot, there are letters slowly moving across the banner - "...most of your body is made of various waters, water lubricates and eases chemical reactions..." Would be more exciting to note that we need air to breathe, or that the grass should be green, or that fire is hot? Or shall I stop drinking the coffee?

Political aftermath

2010-11-29T02:32:00.000Z

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

2010-11-27T04:56:00.000Z

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

2010-11-22T00:53:00.002Z

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

2010-11-18T04:50:00.000Z

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

2010-11-16T04:38:00.002Z

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.

Hope and Obey

2010-10-25T04:39:00.003+01:00

At the American Art Museum, Shepherd Fairey's portrait of President Obama has returned to view. It is blue-black-red with "Hope" emblazoned across the bottom. Seen alone, it suggests Obama is the incarnation of hope. He has a slight smile on the face, as if in acceptance of the moniker. However, I wonder. Last year, I saw an exhibit of Fairey's work in Boston. There was a whole series of portraits in the same colors, with "Obey" where "Hope" is placed. "Obey" is a command. The portrait's subject commands the portrait's viewer to obey. Is Hope a command as well? Is that the true stance of the President to the People?

Bethesda vs.

2010-10-07T18:21:00.000+01:00

Not to sneer, but I'm in Bethesda now at 7:30 on a Sunday evening to see a play. Dark as a graveyard the place is. The shops are closed, the restaurants are quiet. Even the Starbucks is shut. Actually, in my Penn Quarter neighborhood, the Starbucks is shut, too. But the cupcakery still spreads its aromas; donuts are still dunkin'. There is a bolero in Jaleo, and Rosa Mexicano glitters bright. Once the show is over, I will will slip away from the dark, back into the light.

Couples at the fair

2010-10-02T22:14:00.000+01:00

At the book fair, they came in pairs. The author was a young New Yorker, colored button down shirt, jeans, a canvas version of boat shoes, dark curly hair and glasses. He was introduced by a book reviewer for the WPost, also in a button down short - blue, jeans, and real leather boat shoes; curly hair - gray - and glasses. The scientist/author wore an open neck neutral shirt, khakis, sport jacket; as did the presenter who introduced him, another reviewer. They both wore leather shoes with good support. Thank goodness for the fellow in the audience. He wore navy shorts with a shirt and jacket, the corduroy kind with patches on the elbows. Balding with glasses, he sported knee high maroon socks with white pirate skull heads and sandals. Hurrah for us! The readers! The real entertainment!

False security

2010-09-29T02:17:00.002+01:00

When I got in line, I saw a handbag open on the corner back table, contents spilled out, chair abandoned. A few moments later, security came by to ask if it belonged to any of us. No, it belonged to an older lady who was in the main room. She came in, relieved to find her bag, although it had been relieved of its cash. The shock was this was inside the polling booth for the District primary elections a couple of weeks ago. We were inside the secure area to have our voter registration checked and mark our ballots. Secure for what?

Truck Lunch

2010-09-25T06:09:00.002+01:00

Gourmet grilled sausages and sandwich made of red velvet cake slices held together with a schmear of sweet cream cheese - good stuff for a lunch off a truck. The truck is a joint venture between Zola, the upscale restaurant next to the Spy Museum and DC Central Kitchen, the local soup kitchen, a few blocks away. The truck sits on the corner of 7th and F St NW, at the corner of the Smithsonian American Art/Portrait Collection. There are two goals, I think. First, to raise the level of street food in DC and also to create job opportunities for the cooks trained at DC Central Kitchen. On Sunday, I didn't see the truck, I hope it returns soon.

Lessons from Verdi

2010-09-21T20:08:00.000+01:00

Now playing at the Washington National Opera, Un Ballo en Maschera. Lessons learned, which are mutually exclusive. (1) If you're going to pay the price of cheating on your partner, perhaps you should really cheat; downside, of course, is you would lose your tragic stature. (2) If you're angry, try not to kill anyone, because it's irreversible when you later regret your action; again, loss of tragic stature, but upside is the potential for romantic comedy. Rossini,anyone? (3) Witches' advice can't be trusted; corollary, witches' advice can't be trusted especially after you have insulted the witch. (4) Pages in chic grey suits can't be trusted, especially with your wardrobe secrets.

Conference central

2010-09-19T18:59:00.000+01:00

A clutch of hotels near the zoo where the gibbons sing and the pandas frolic - the Marriott, the Omni, and the Hilton - are conference ground zero in DC. 7000 political scientists converged there to discuss the bases, the distribution, the exercise of power, in theory, in reality, in narrative, and in numbers. Fortunately, or unfortunately, the weather was beautiful. Blasts of fresh air and sun hit us as we concentrated on hard times in the world. This week it's us, next week it's the fly biologists, the following week its the economists, the boilermakers, and on and on.

A good day off

2010-09-17T04:45:00.002+01:00

Crunchy shrimp toasts from Ping Pong. The Washington Ballet director creating a dance from a yawn and a dog walk. Banana pudding from Oya. An all-girl blues band singing - I don't wanna a cashmere coat, I don't wanna diamond mine, I just wanna man to love... City Dance running for the bus a la Paul Taylor, and elegantly baroque. Saffron fried rice balls from Bibiana. A good Arts on Foot, every September.

Hot stairs

2010-08-25T09:16:00.000+01:00

The sun heat turned the sidewalks into saunas. My shirt was soaked through, my morning do completely humidified. Walking down into the underpass, I saw a man - shrunken, grey, grasping a water bottle, bent over, descending the stairs. Every few steps he would sit, gather himself up, walk down a few more, and sit again. Persistent, but weakening, weakening. One shopkeeper selling socks by the stairs called out to him, another vendor from inside the tunnel came up to see him. Everyone frowned, this was not good.

Good luck, bon voyage

2010-08-21T09:12:00.002+01:00

Across the aisle, the child travels with a doll, pink-skinned plastic with painted on blue shoes. She has lost her dress already, but wears a small bracelet of good luck beads sold in souvenir shops everywhere around town, and a scarf around her head like the elegant ladies of the city. Myself, I was not wearing my newest sweater, but one washed so many times its rich color was fading, and my favorite cotton shirt which I bought before I had lost some weight and now, I realize, its cloth covered buttons are wearing thing. True talismans of good fortune and happiness, not shiny and new.

Ciggies no more

2010-08-17T03:00:00.000+01:00

On the third floor of the American Art museum there is a newly installed, old cigarette vending machine. I remember these from my childhood. In fact, there was one at a Greek restaurant Acropolis in the town where I grow up, which sold golden, crispy, flaky, triangular pastries stuffed with white cheesy goodness. But, I digress. These machines, you recollect, had funny knobs which, when pulled, released a pack of poison into the receptacle below. Now, this Artomatic machine in the museum drops packs of arts for just 5 bucks. I saw one person open a packet of small picture cards and a set of 3D glasses. Who knows what other treasures lie therein? Reminds me of the cheesy pastries.

Lobbying, outside the lobby

2010-08-14T03:14:00.000+01:00

Descending into the metro, the ads remind you, Weapons Incorporated, is working for the war fighter. Ascending from the metro, posters announce Titanic Tech company was once a start-up, the incubator of innovation which is the future of the country. On television, Pan-Petroleum corporation announces they are in favor of pollution-free wind energy. At the bus stop, Egomania the Country reminds the US that it has always supported a nuclear weapon-free world, especially now that it has fewer than its neighbors. C-span is on at the convenience store. Fox and CNN are on at the sports bar. Here, Politico is a print newspaper. Tourists, unused to walking, unmovingly clog the escalators at the metro, dressed up in protest gear - hats, signs, t-shirts. The sound, the sight, the taste-smell-touch of Washington.

Cones of shame, poles of dignity

2010-08-08T02:54:00.002+01:00

Recently on television, I saw an effort to save cute baby monk seals. Big eyes; furry fat bodies; flippers flapping around. To track them after they were rescued, scientists tagged them with antennae. These antennae are stalks stuck upon the heads of the baby seals. The height of the antennae, a full third of the seal's length. What are the social implications of such accoutrement for a baby seal? Is it like in the movie "Up" where dogs with "cones of shame" immediately fall from pack leader to outcast? Or will it have an elevating effect - the antennae of ascendancy - transforming the runt of the litter to alpha male. Maybe I want to be rescued and tagged, too. Perhaps, people telling tales of being studied by extraterrestrials are engaged in a kind of species karmic cycle. Us to them, them to us.

Summer's end at the National Gallery

2010-08-06T00:57:00.003+01:00

As the summer surrenders to August, the Sunday 2 o'clock lectures at the National Gallery turn inward and the staff step forward to present their own work. Throughout the year, renowned experts take the podium - expounding on theories, explicating new critiques, pursuing ideas for their own sake. Then, the National Gallery staff, skilled at working with the public, turn their efforts to telling you something you might have a chance a remembering. How Dutch home portraits subtly show up the wealth and taste of the patron. How St. John may not be melancholia personified, but rather a young hunk of a man, a promise of the pleasures to come in paradise. Do not be deceived by the decorously dry titles. These can be the best tales of the year, plug-ins for the brain.

Ninth Street Garden

2010-08-03T04:59:00.003+01:00

Sandwiched between the downramp into a highway tunnel and the parking lot of the natural history museum, is the Butterfly Garden. It's a long, narrow corridor, full of daisies three feet tall and hostas with leaves the size of dinner plates. This year, the hotness of the season meant plants usually knee high are head high, creating a tunnel of blossoms and branches from Madison to Constitution. For just a few brief minutes, the madding crowd of tourists fades away. Petals flutter, branches swish, squirrels scurry. And, then, the rumble and roar of downtown traffic - cars plunging down the highway, buses sighing and stopping along the avenue. A waste space turned into a small oasis.

Saints who are near

2010-07-24T00:45:00.001+01:00

Somewhere in America, PBS produces History Detectives. Sometime on that show flashes a sign, "Missing Persons Office." Somehow I recognize it as something I walk by everyday! The sign marks where Clara Barton once collected information on the war injured and dead, then contacted family and friend with the final news. She went on to found the American Red Cross. I had no idea. I pass that sign every day. Today, when I ambled past, I pulled a flyer on saving the Missing Persons Office. Where would I be without my TV?

On the passing of a bookshop

2010-07-22T04:44:00.002+01:00

Sadly, a bookshop closed in my neighborhood - this time a branch of a big retail chain. Still, there will be one less spot to browse, to brood, to sip a beverage, to daydream. It is true, however, that I cannot remember ever buying anything there. At the closing sale, I bulked up on mystery novels - soap operas of the novel genre. Last weekend I was at Kramerbooks at Dupont Circle. No more than five minutes in the shop and I had in hand a collection of Hafiz poems. I've seen his poetry inscribed on painting, in books, on drawings. I heard you can visit his home in Iran. I've read little of Hafiz, my own book of Persian poetry is very slender indeed. I may, I think, go back to Kramers.

M Street Sweets

2010-07-22T04:41:00.002+01:00

Along M Street there is a terribly fashionable spot, the corner where Georgetown Cupcakery serves up frosting delivered on small cake, wrapped in ribbons and bows, perfectly accessorizing your cool summer outfit. People pile into the shop, curling in a line around the corner, blocking the pedestrian crossings and bringing vehicular traffic to a halt. There is a sign posted "No Turns on Red." Well, as my cabbie noted, it should also say..."No Turns on Green, Either."

All around athlete

2010-07-09T03:30:00.001+01:00

There's a new duck in my favorite garden fountain. She flies in, showing off her landing technique in the water, toddlers screeching in delight. She's easy to recognize because of her blue feathers on one wing, and she loves diving into the water. This means her tail sticks up and her orange, webbed feet paddle about, keeping her moving as she investigates the pennies and nickels tossed in. Or perhaps she is examining the plumbing of the fountain's six spouts. Or maybe not all ducks can remain inverted for so long and she is training for a triathalon - fly, swim, dive?

Segway City

2010-07-06T01:04:00.000+01:00

Cars, buses, even Harleys are common in DC, but lately troops of segways are rolling down the sidewalks. Riders stand upright, balancing themselves on a narrow platform between two large wheels, grasping a handle waist high. Inevitably, the troop leader has a sleek cycler's helmut, perforated for circulation; the others wear football helmuts without the chin grids. They zip around in pods, slightly terrifying the pedestrians - not so much by their size, which is small, or speed, which is slow, but by the inevitable teetering of the heavier set tourist perched on such a slender vehicle.

Fog on the brain

2010-07-02T03:11:00.002+01:00

A fog descends on the backside of my brain, filtering old writing and making it ever more obscure. The lilt of new writing vanishes through it. Fortunately, it's a familiar visitor - some combination of too much work, over concentration, lack of sleep, and snacking on foods of questionable nutritional value. However, today, I have visited both the gym and the swim pool, eaten my vegetables, paced my snacking, yet still the fog descends. Time perhaps for a fizzy soda, a good television mystery show, and dreams of life and the arts in the pink pages of the Financial Times. Already, see me write. Tomorrow the fog will lift.

Soccer Spanish

2010-06-30T02:47:00.000+01:00

I am not athletic or sporty, I exercise in the way I brush my teeth. It's important, so I do it, and pay some attention to the results. However, I watch the Olympics - curling was especially interesting in Vancouver this year - and I am following the World Cup. I have been watching the Univision evening re-broadcasts and am hopeful my Spanish will improve. "Gol" is just short for "golazo," which is a reference to the complete phrase, "goool, golaazo, GO-LAA-ZOO," in crescendo. I also know that "la pelota no rueda mas" means the end of a period. Above all, I find it fascinating that coaches range from well-coiffed and elegantly suited to round-tubbed spitting types. Check back soon to see if I've learned more.

Pigeon Paradiso

2010-06-28T03:26:00.002+01:00

One tried to build a nest in my pot of purple pansies, settling its rear in the center and knitting twigs around; I squawked and it flew away. Don't diss the pigeons, though, all the garbage they eat, they're saving the city millions in collection. When I walk to work, there are clans of them perched on the ledges of the Agriculture Department, threatening to poop on the commuters pouring out of the metro. Don't diss the pigeons, though, when it's late at night and a shifty character lurks behind, a pigeon fluttering can be the clue, the alert. The window cleaner hanging off the building by a thread, wipes clean the glass; no sooner, it is dirty again. Don't diss the pigeons, though, without their contributions, gardens the city over would be out thousands in fertilizer. The sleek, the chubby, the weak, the strong, we all belong.

Let there be light?

2010-06-22T03:20:00.002+01:00

A jazz band's natural habitat is a dark nightclub with a crowded floor, smoke in the air, glasses clinking, a hint of the illicit, a revolt against conformity, a resistance against the fixity of a score, an unscripted, unpredictable performance. Transplanted to a gallery space, the artifice clears - the rhythm is precise, the volume controlled, the silences are conscious, the musicians tightly coordinated. This is no chaos. Except, that under the bright lights, old habits are revealed. Random water bottles are scattered among the instruments. Electric cords wander like stray serpents across the stage. The drummer set down next to him two lumpy knapsacks. The hefty keyboardist - in the middle of a tune - turns his back to the audience and bends over to connect two instruments with a cord. Wet umbrellas in plastic wraps tumble in the corner. Hipsters of the dark, revealed in the light.

50% great

2010-06-18T04:09:00.001+01:00

The label said
when I bought the shirt
that it was made
50% with cotton grown
without the use of hazardous chemicals.
Which made me think
about the other 50%.

Working conditions

2010-06-13T04:46:00.003+01:00

Steam heat descended on DC early this year, turning many office buildings into human freezer boxes. Meetings, however, remain at tedious to moderate levels of excitement, making the coffee pots ever more alluring. They beckon, even though I do not really like coffee that much. Coffee makes me anxious and nervous when the sky is blue; the breeze is gentle; my family, happy; my friends, kind. A German business leader appeared in a newspaper, she is a mother of eight and author of several novels, slyly hinting that all her note taking at meetings might have little to do with the meetings themselves. Maybe I have found my coffee substitute.

Spa chick

2010-06-07T12:19:00.001+01:00

Late spring is just ducky in DC. A museum officer reportedly stopped traffic along a main thoroughfare to allow a mother and her chicks to cross the road, only later to scoop them into a duck bucket and move them to the nearest body of water. The city is dotted by water fountains, the condo-version of lakes and oceans. Artificialized ponds with running clear water, surrounded by a constant supply of chips and burger buns wheedled from the knapsacks of migrating tourists. No wonder there are six boy ducks in my favorite watering hole today. A fraternity, alternately preening and tossing, napping and flapping. The noisiest bunch, though are the tiny tawny birds that visit the Haupt Garden behind the Castle. Between the rose garden and the African Art museum, with a rippling cascade and of round gurgling basins at each planting corner, connected with channels of water. On purpose or not, they are the perfect bird baths. Once in, the big shove the small, there are cliques, there are loud mouths, there are lookouts. Dozens indulge at once, chattering away, flipping droplets all around, wary of intruding humans.

Sit down and veg

2010-06-03T11:11:00.001+01:00

Should you ever need to take load off, Room 305b at the Hirshhorn is a good place to start. The Hirsh is the Smithsonian’s contemporary art museum. Experimental and current in a city of beige trench coats and blue shirt/khaki pants combos. The Hirsh has no First Ladies’ Gowns or Hope Diamond, which translates to more galleries than visitors. You can’t miss it when you walk by. It’s round, basically tubular in form. Observed from the Mall it appears to be wearing a space-age visor – 3D on the landscape. That visor is precisely Room 305b, dedicated to the memory of Abraham Lerner. From in looking out, there is the Mall Panorama. On the left, the Castle, the Washington Monument, the Postal Building clock tower, the Natural History (here resides the Hope Diamond), the National Archives (here resides the Declaration of Independence), the National Gallery (here resides Ginevra, Mona Lisa’s first cousin), the Capitol Building (you know who resides here). And there, for your comfort, is a ring of low slung couches, creased and loungy, grey/black and clubby, dissolute as much as it is possible for furniture to be in a pristine white gallery smack in the middle of monumentality.

Asian American Chicken

2010-05-31T16:14:00.001+01:00

Chinese and Southerners alike love their fried chicken, not surprisingly, then, I keep a list of the best. In the under $20 set, definitely the Chicken Bento at Teaism ranks high. As my friend Rene said, it’s a better class of chicken nugget, and so if the moment finds you daunted by the nutritional wallop packed by fried chicken, the Chicken Bento is the more healthful choice. The chicken meat is good, not skimpy, the breading crispy and flavorful, not greasy. The saltiness of the main compliments the stickiness of the white rice with seaweed sprinkles, the tang of the vinegary cucumber saucy, and the honeyed sweet potato salad. Where is Asia, where is America? Joined here in the Chicken Bento Box.

Stele this post

2010-05-28T14:46:00.002+01:00

There is in the National Gallery a blank brown metal slab called Stele. Pigeons have pooped upon it. In Harvard Yard in Cambridge there are also steles – these are stone tablets sitting atop tortoises. From my college years I remember these as blank. Years ago, I visited China, somewhere in the countryside of Xian I recollect visiting a stele of Empress Wu. Unlike other emperors who had scrupulously recorded their achievements, she had left hers blank. Others had filled it in. Still others had scratched out the text and filled in more. “Stele, revised” as it turned out was more visited than “Stele, preserved as a pickle.” I was at the Brooklyn Museum at a fashion exhibit recently, every dress had an extensive write up. At the companion exhibit at the Met, not only were there labels, but there was film documentation of the dresses worn, and an audio guide with color reporting on context, design, and status. Then, I recalled the rows of mummy sarcophagi at the Cairo Museum in Egypt. They each were covered in meaning, glyphs of different colors, images and design, matched by a short paper label, typed, leaving the modern mystified. Who knows really?

Making a difference

2010-05-25T12:14:00.001+01:00

A man standing by the fare machine spoke to us rushers-by. Can anyone spare 20 cents? Another who had walked past, paused, digging into the bottom of his old leather satchel, full of the day’s work and tomorrow’s tasks. I admired him for it as I slid past into the train. An hour later, I returned from my errand, and the first man was still there. In his red shirt and black cap, asking for more from others, fulfilling for the time being his job of presenting us with the opportunity to give, to be generous, to offer of ourselves even in the hope of making a difference which is slim to none.

Monkey well

2010-05-22T18:35:00.000+01:00

In a city that rewards climbing ever higher, the sculpture of Xu Bing draws you downward, sinking further into the earth, layer by layer, into the quiet treasure rooms of the Sackler Gallery. Strung from the skylit ceiling, the steel monkeys link arm-by-arm, tail-by-tail in a column of text, down into the well. Each is the word monkey, in a different script – Chinese, Persian, Arabic. Monkey refers to chaos, to the disregard of human rules, to freedom from courtesy and politeness, but with intelligence and cleverness, loudly, raucously, in the quietest of all the Mall’s museums, the one most self-conscious of religion and identity, conflict and war, the long breaths of history. In the cacophony of this verticalized troupe, I hear the morning calls of the howlers at the National Zoo at dawn, the monkey who led Buddha on his journey, the organ grinder’s companion, the chap who made away with my sunglasses in Bali, or stole my sandwich in Gibralter. Deepening into the light. Laughing into the quiet.

Errors rampant

2010-05-12T04:59:00.000+01:00

We’ve found the cure for the common cold – that these two pills and you will be well by morning. Every once in awhile such a claim will cross my desk; in this case it was repeated in my chief’s speeches and his chief’s speeches, and then by the chiefs of other division chiefs, and other countries’ chiefs… like a bad rumor, news of the panacea spread. I had a look at the underlying numbers and my gut wrenched. An old canard in new guise. Now we must walk it back, never speak of the numbers again, retreat to the general principle – washing your hands is good for preventing colds – but it is always hard to retrieve a rumor than to let it loose.

An elegant bean

2010-05-01T00:40:00.000+01:00

Ellsworth Kelly’s portrait of a beanstalk is composed of single lines of pencil. The stalk hangs in mid-space, suspended in garden fresh air. The leaves are thick at the ground, thinner at the top. Each leaf is just a slip of vegetation, triangular, pulled both by gravity downward the earth and upward the sun. The figure is simultaneously monumental – stretching past my own tallness to the ceiling – and light – transparent, unladen with shadow or shading or color.

Consensus and diversity

2010-04-28T05:10:00.001+01:00

A herd of high schoolers in leggings and printed T’s, with white baseball caps -- marked black and worn askew -- walk toward the Castle in the evening. Crossing the Mall in common uniform, a troop of senior ladies in solid-colored wind breakers, blue jeans, and white sneakers, hair curled, leather pocketbooks slung across their shoulders march to American History.

A Giver

2010-04-24T00:24:00.001+01:00

I sit at a sidewalk table and he comes by, holding a handful of pansies plucked from the landscaping. He offers one to a lady, she smiles and accepts. There is a dignity in giving rather than begging. He offers one to me and I decline. We are neighbors, really. I know pansies are not sold in bouquets at the flower shop. Other neighbors of mine grow them, although they are as faceless as a name plate on a building. What is right? What is kind? What matters, really?

Senior spring

2010-04-21T04:05:00.001+01:00

A sky blue VW Beetle with the white top down. A pintuck suit with bright bow tie. A posey of roses tied to the dash. Going 70 in the city never was so good.

Ketchup fight

2010-04-14T01:46:00.001+01:00

At luncheon, I carry my tray of salad, chicken fingers, ice water and root beer to the condiments table. Pulling a toggle squirts ketchup, mustard or mayo into mini cups. As I dispensed both yellow and red sauce, a small girl ran up beside me. Ringlet hair pulled back, clad in a sweater jumper, matching tights and Mary Janes, she stretched out her short arms between the tall glasses of water and root beer. May I have some? pointing to the ketchup. Myself a veteran of many spilled glasses, I quickly pulled my tray back and away. . . let me make this easy for you. As I turned, the cashier grinned at me. He and I both knew, had there been a tussle, no one would have sympathized with me. The kid had all the charm, and now she had her condiments.

Trading favors

2010-04-10T02:53:00.001+01:00

International organizations (IO) are endless warrens of subcommittees. Between heads of state, the US-UK relationship is all warmth and richness. Both affinities and tensions, however, play out deep in the bureaucracy. The UK approached at the top of the meeting. Would I support him regarding two agenda items inexpertly handled by the IO? Yes, my home capital had also been annoyed. On a third item, I stood alone in my objection, arguing too much interference in national affairs. At the coffee, the UK expressed regret that my agency head had cancelled at the very last minute an important conference by London. The cancellation had been too late to avoid hotel and airline charges. All I could do was apologize. No wonder I was alone on the third. Until at a side meeting, the UK joins on the third item, quietly. On Day 2, item 2 is up. UK and I guess France may be with us. Turns out France has not read the paper, has no idea of what is going on. When the meeting opens, after a few friendly interventions, I against, then the UK against, and then, France against, just. In the evening, I approach Japan and Korea and encourage them to contribute to provide balance to the European-centered discussion. The US, both a Pacific as well as an Atlantic power.

Blossom Guard

2010-04-05T06:06:00.001+01:00

Bombs explode in the Moscow subway. In DC, guards appear in the metro system. Outside the Smithsonian station stands a burly officer, all muscle and navy uniform, shades and stocking cap. Cherry blossom tourists crowd around him. He has POLICE stitched in yellow across his chest. Which museum has the First Ladies’ gowns? Tattoos curl up his forearm and biceps. Where’s the nearest bathroom? His belt is encircled in pockets. I imagine them full of backup grenades. Where can we get a candy bar?

Vincent, Happy

2010-03-30T04:24:00.002+01:00

Roy Lichtenstein’s Room in Arles is gentrified Van Gogh. The floor is scrubbed a bright green, the towel hanging on the wall is neatly folded. His and hers portraits hang normally over the bed. The window has a clear view. The red claustrophobia dissipates in the color hatching interspersed with happy white. The picture of cool water sits ready. The clothes on hangers are prepared for the day to come. Sunshine in Provence.

Pigeons on the balcony

2010-03-26T01:06:00.001Z

Lately, a couple of pigeons have appeared on my balcony. There’s just enough room for my folding chair and TV tray to place a cup of tea. I have a set of bookshelves out there on which I cultivate a number of potted plants. Maybe it was this semblance of a cultivated city garden which attracted them. My feelings are mixed. It’s early spring and they are looking to nest. My balcony faces south, it is sheltered from the wind, and it was undisturbed for a week when I was in France. But now I am back and I want to plant some herbs, sit out there on weekend mornings with a newspaper. There’s not enough room for the three of us. If they were there, I could not leave my tasty snacks unattended. If they had a chick in their nest, no right-minded pigeon parent would leave it while I quaffed tea and gathered herbs. So far, several days of assertive disturbance seem to have off the pigeons. As of yet, I haven’t resorted to a fake "scare" owl. Whether or not those work, I wonder.

Slowness

2010-03-19T01:57:00.001Z

Last month, people just didn’t come, said my acupuncturist, herself preparing for a long holiday back in China. Can you spare me something for a sandwich? my corner newspaper guy asks; I had seen him working hard, standing in all weather, unable to shift his goods. I thought I had more friends, said an economist – the work they said would come never did, the foreign work turns out more promising. Ten years ago, I sat in a borrowed office at the US Consul in Hong Kong. I was scheduled to visit local officials, gathering news about their policy intentions. The Australian fellow, formerly in politics, a surfer, still young, representing one of the more aggressively entrepreneurial companies in the industry presented his case. They needed a couple of fair shakes from the Hong Kong regulator. Who in HK could make this happen? He sits back, the Chief Secretary. I’m not seeing the Chief Secretary, I say. We both know I’m good, but not that good. He slips back and I realize, he is asking me to help him keep his job. Either this, or it’s back to the beaches of Australia, pleasant but a backwater from the teeming cosmopolitan center of Hong Kong.

Habit formations

2010-03-14T00:10:00.001Z

Recently, in Paris I again stayed in the 7th near the church of St. Germain de Pres where, in the evening, there is a man in a cart who sells crepes. The first time I lined up for one of his crepes, the customer before me left the beverage he had paid for. I took it, ran after him, and delivered. When I returned this trip, the cart was still there. I like the Nutella crepes – the sticky, sweet, hazelnut cream. Nutella + Grand Marnier is good too. At Christmastime, the crepes cart man also sold hot spiced red wine. I tried a similar treat at the Champs Elysee, the old crepes cart man’s was still the best. Yesterday, back in DC, what appeared in the chilly cold? A crepes shack outside the Gallery Place movie theater. Nutella is on the menu! And authentic, too. Now, I just have to wait for the hot spiced wine.

Martha's Table

2010-03-06T04:43:00.001Z

The majority formed two queues. One for the hot soup, the other for a combo of sandwiches and doughnuts. I was in charge of the sweets. A few had requests – some wanted the chocolate doughnuts; others wanted cookies.

At one point my sandwich buddy – a tall lawyer in the government’s federal service – paused and asked out land – has anyone here not been served at least once yet? The customers were taking a share and returning to the end of the queue. His remark halted the circulating line. The men all paused thoughtfully. Not a single one wasn’t bigger than me.

I still had a tray full of pastries, so I motioned to the man in front. A black man with a baseball cap, grey beard, in T-shirt and long pants. At the pause, he had stepped back respectfully, waiting for other to step up if need be. His patience imprinted on my mind. I motioned to him to step forward, no one had not yet been served. Better to get on with the business of distribution.

Culture Vulture

2010-02-28T03:34:00.001Z

I seem to have developed an addition to arts and music – no, perhaps an addiction is too strong a word – a sort of cultural habit. It’s easy in Washington, with its plethora of free events at the Smithsonian, the National Gallery, and every day at the Kennedy Center. I can get half-price tickets at TicketPlace. I know which seats in which theaters have excellent views for a bargain – the back row seats at the Lansburgh, for example, and parterre at the KC Symphony Hall. I see two to three programs a week – an art exhibit, theater, a music concert, a lecture. Is hit a sign of underemployment, I wonder? But I hold a full-time job. I published a book last year. I hold positions in community organizations. Is it the sort of habit, like drinking, that when one does it alone one sips too quickly and too often? But, I thought it was a social activity, the opportunity for a chance encounter, or even the observation to fill my notebooks.

My two old men

2010-02-20T05:19:00.001Z

Lars a full head of white hair, straight back, dapperly dressed. Always on time, which I am not. Always alert, I admit to the occasional doze. Today he was in chipper mood, greeting by smile and nod, fully pulled together. Bob, also a full head of gray hair, but also with a beard, a bit straggly. Also, nearly always on time, he looks like he lives on the street, but it is always clean, always singing with the hymns, always shaking hands during the Peace. Today at the Lord’s Prayer he crossed the aisle to link hands with mine, I alone in my pew. At the end of service he invited me to have a snack at the coffee hour. Today, when I though I would have no one to talk to, I had Lars and Bob.

Memo, repeat

2010-02-17T05:15:00.001Z

Michael Mussa, an economist around town, known to you in the field of international economics, once said that the job of the academic was to provoke while the job of the government official was to repeat the same truths over and over again, so long as they remain true. The public has got into its head that some of the numbers I have occasion to crunch are a useless pack of lies. Sometimes, this is indeed the case, but in this instance, the reason many people don’t like these numbers because they are not particularly flattering. It’s the scale that must be off, I can’t imagine where those extra ten pounds came from. Never mind that I’m clearly bursting at the seams.

So, once again, a senior official who has heard from the public that the figures are a pack of lies has turned to us staff to explain then anew. I have about a half-dozen old memos, a recent powerpoint presentation, and a handful of emails, all addressing this singular subject. I look back at my files, a memo in October of last year, in July twice, three times in June, and again in May. The previous year, I have notes on the subject in October, twice in September, and once in July. The file stretches back further, but let me not impose my tedium on you. Truth to power sometimes is tested in the crucible of crisis. Oftener it is simply the long suffering grind.

Coffee Crema

2010-02-13T03:39:00.002Z

A man marches in with an armful of cook books, color-tagged with post it notes. A dinner party? A talk with a publisher? A food photographer? On my left, a bespectacled redhead urgently working on a paper full of footnotes. If it had been going well, he wouldn't be here now. Across from me another fellow, greying, a huge development report printed out. 200 pages he goes through in the space of a coffee. And then there is me. Needing my breakfast and tea, chewing over a Sunday Times abandoned by a crimson-tied patron, noting those around me.

Season of Lost

2010-02-09T02:23:00.002Z

A brown hat at the bottom of the stair. A child's glove along the garden sidewalk. An umbrella dropped in a hallway. A scarf fallen, retrieved, and tied to a fence. A missent note for a neighbor. An email disappeared into the ether. A package with no one to sign. A friend who fades round the curb of memory.

Cleared in

2010-01-29T03:30:00.001Z

The worst is really the Office of Management and Budget. To get into the building for a meeting, you have to telephone in your identifying information within the 24 hours prior. It can’t be 2 or 3 days prior, either. Twice I’ve been denied entry because I failed to use the satellite phone on an airplane the day before to send in my clearance information. At the World Bank, they take your photo and print it out on a paper name tag for you to wear. Very high tech. At the State Department, even if you have sent your information in properly, it’s not likely to be available to the receptionist when you arrive. This happens frequently. The saving grace is that the desk staff is most diplomatic. They don’t blame you, they don’t blame the meeting organizers, they don’t blame the system. The fingers just fly, the calls are placed, the directories shaken down; if you have legitimate business at the State Department they will let you through. Curiously, non-official Washington apes the practice. My apartment building accepts cleared lists of guests and checks ID’s. I’ve known doctor’s offices building to do the same – say goodbye to the anonymous nose job. Even the Vice President’s hair plugs were outed to the press.

Obamania

2010-01-23T05:27:00.000Z

Last year in early January, near my home a small shop opened up with signs proudly announcing it was the official store of the 2009 Presidential inauguration. Honestly, I didn’t’ really believe it. Having survived many a presidential inaugurations in DC, a bone of perfect skepticism is lodged in my skull for precisely such claims. As the inauguration week arrived, many otherwise empty storefronts filled up with inaugural souvenirs. As the crowds thickened, I caught the contagion and went into the stores to see for myself. I purchased numerous buttons, post cards and book marks in the day before the inauguration in defiance of my expert knowledge that the exact same knickknacks would go on sale for half off the day after the festivities closed. Predictably, the fun ended and in the ensuing weeks I reached the conclusion I had purchased too many bits. I started giving them away, left and right, to surprised acquaintances barely more than strangers. After a few months had passed, the visage of the previous President recently erased from our collective mind. The other day I was at a crowded lecture at the Smithsonian when the speaker invited people to unleash their frustrations of the moment. “If I see another picture of Obama, I think I’ll scream,” said one woman. We locals know what she means. He is everywhere – on the Internet, On TV, in the paper. Some inaugural shops remaining, the big souvenir trucks scattered around the capital are still capitalizing on this image. And we who live in the city cannot escape... All we can hope for is the visit of a celebrity to supplant briefly Obama and give our vision a break – how about a Prince William from England, or maybe a Brad Pitt from LA – I vote for Jackie Chan from Hong Kong. I’d even settle for Julia Roberts promoting a movie.

Ping Pong

2010-01-18T19:25:00.002Z

The other day I went to Ping Pong on 7th Street; I have relatives visiting soon and wanted to know if this really was a Chinese restaurant or just masquerading as one. In fact, the dim sum itself is very good. The selection is narrow, but the tables and restrooms are clean, and the service is charming. However, as I sat there, listening to the two young lawyers at the neighboring table reveal the drama that they both had been arrested and convicted as felons in their youth (i.e. their childhood, practically), that I realized that the restaurant lacked a certain element of chaos which is the hallmark of an authentic Cantonese dim sum market. With standard size parties starting at 10, food carts pushed by sellers yelling out their wares, a real dim sum restaurant is a place to which you could bring a screaming infant and fully expect to not be noticed. Such is progress.

Triangulation

2010-01-15T04:51:00.001Z

The East Wing of the National Gallery of Art is a big triangle. The stairs rise at an angle. The elevators are at an angle. Even some of the bathrooms come in a triangular parallelogram space. The atrium raises a flat triangle to the sunroof ceiling, pointy with pyramids. The giant Calder mobile is triangular in structure, the moving forms in three-sided harmony. The underpass between the East and West wings includes a cafeteria, unremarkably functional, but the skylight windows point into triangles. The fountain cascades vertically down triangular stone ridges, to the delight of children passing by. The triangular ridges in shiny metal across the low ceiling bounce light across trays of burgers, pizza, and salad by the ounce. In a world full of circles that harmonize and squares that ground, the triangle sends us hurtling forward, back and sideways.

Sticky fridge

2010-01-11T03:35:00.002Z

In the chill of New Year’s Eve, I greet a man standing at the CVS corner, asking for change. Briefly, he reminds me of Charlie whom I hadn’t seen for awhile. Charlie was in charge of keeping our office section clean. He’d come round every morning and check the shared kitchen. I knew him well enough by sight, but it was late summer when we bonded over the stinky fridge. The communal refrigerator, repository of home-packed lunches and other delicacies, is a great convenience. But, as it turns July and August, people take their vacations, forgetting the epicurean morsels left in the icebox. An odor developed, it was a health risk to all of us not on holiday, and I raised the alarm. Charlie came to the rescue and together we conquered the fridge. We were friendly after that. I went on academic leave for awhile, when I returned, there was a new fellow on the floor. I assumed Charlie had retired. The other day, I saw the same man at CVS and, again I thought, it’s not Charlie.

On sectarian lines

2010-01-05T04:56:00.003Z

As an undergraduate, I stuck around Harvard Yard and various corners of Hilles Library at the old Quad dormitories of Radcliffe, the women’s campus. Radcliffe has since effervesced into a research institute, a small blow to the egos of some Harvard women like me. I still preen that Radcliffe students took classes from Harvard professors from beginning, an Ivy League education for women decades before any of the other universities. Yalies, take that. On the subject of establishmentarian tribes, I recollect Harvard Law as a dingy patch of scorched earth. The grass was nonexistent, the buildings were dimly lit. The College, while full of nicked furniture and untidy students still learning laundry, at least inherited the grace of old buildings. The B-School, full of finance and capital, was on the other side of the river, essentially, the other side of the planet. Its lawns were so lush they must have been on performance enhancing drugs. Horticultural steroids were priced out of the budget of the college and the law school. We should have loosed some environmental activists on those MBA’ers. To draw further distinctions, I recall a recent rainy reunion. I passed by the event of a few classes behind me. Poor schlobs. They had hot dogs and burgers, maybe bags of chips. At least we had barbecued meats and veggies as we chowed down at benches under tents, accessible only after slogging through the mud. Ah, but by accident I wandered into the presence of more senior alums. They were inside an actual building – a gymnasium – no mud there. A pang of desire ripped through my heart. I recollect Virginia Woolf wishing for a room of her own. My own repast seemed as a bare cold supper in a drafty garret room, as compared to the sumptuous roasts and wines enjoyed by the college masters. You see, you might have though we were all alike, haughty Harvard. But, you are mistaken. Even on the inside, we manage to be on the outside.

Boom rat-a-tat

2009-12-31T20:40:00.001Z

boom BOOM rat-a-tat tat. The drummer hits his tubs. The tourists gawk at sights. The plastic feet in the Crime Museum, that’s fake. The hulking structure of the FBI building. That’s real. Rat-a-tat-tat. BOOM boom BOOM rat-tat. Clip boards stop people. Care about the environment do you? Answer these questions? Where to eat ‘round here? Where’s metro ‘round here? Rat-tat Rat-tat BOOM BOOM. Kim won his seat last week. Mallahan is on board. Senate confirmed Regis. Street vendors sell hot dogs. Bags of chips strung on rope. Back in DC I’m home.

Watergates

2009-12-23T19:19:00.003Z

The burbling water fountain in my condo – oddly placed in a canyon of a complex. Then I realized I can hear the waterfall from my window way up high; it muffles the noise of the city – the beeping back up trucks, the shouting of sports fans, the hum of the subway, all these rhythms slip under the glissando of that trickle. I was once deaf, but now I hear. At the National Gallery’s sculpture garden, my favorite is a fountain circle with a half-dozen spouts shooting from the edge to the center. The arcs surge and sigh, seemingly to the beat of the music playing in the park. You can soak your feet in the cool pool and, in the proper season, the local ducks wade, stopping by to invite themselves to your snacks. In the American Art Museum there is a water fountain masquerading as modern chic. Sheets of water pour over a rectangle of black flooring – only barely separated from the rest of the floor by a subtle crack. This you can walk across, the liquid puddles around your shoes as if you were wading a stream. A sleekness ideal for stomping and kicking, investigated by many a toddler in depth.

Newt and me

2009-12-18T22:17:00.002Z

I first encountered Newt Gingrich when he shut down the government. Republicans had climbed into power. Over a budget dispute, Congress refused to give money to the government to keep operating, so it closed. The city went quiet. Shortly thereafter, I joined the federal service. My colleagues griped. Not only had they been told not to work, they had been prohibited from volunteering their time to the government. It was the paper flow equivalent of a backed up sewer. Later, Newt left for AEI a think tank, and I no longer had to think about him. But, I heard he had been treated for anxiety, and felt sorry for him then. Later, I read he was seen with Condoleeza Rice at an opera at the Kennedy Center. I like opera. I kept my eyes peeled. Surely, I spotted him one evening – Marriage of Figaro. He was with a woman whose blonde-dyed hair looked like a steel helmut. Oh well, we all have our hair moments. That evening I had some challenges with my own dress as well. Neither Newt nor companion looked too comfortable or happy – despite the impending light spot of Mozartian fun. But, it’s true that the wait service was particularly poor that evening. You may have your Tom Cruise, we have our Newt.

On Duckness

2009-12-14T22:40:00.001Z

Once at a big industry confab, hundreds of people – seekers and the sought after – I met a Congressman. Unusually, he seemed willing to talk to me. I was eager, it would be a professional advance for me to say I had established a common substantive issue relationship with a member of Congress. Toward the end it became apparent he was a former Congressman, now turned consultant. I turned heel and left.

Years ago, I was a staff on the Hill, schooled in foreign policy, but not that well-traveled, a prerequisite for credibility in this field. A friend of my boss said he knew an outfit that was putting together a trip to India, would I be interested, I would be a perfect addition to the delegation. Thrilled, I was helpfully, I kept in touch. Then November came, my boss lost his seat. I called, no return call. I called again, I didn’t exist.

A few weeks ago, some colleagues were briefing one of our senior officials whose term ahs expired and is biding time while someone can be appointed to fill her place. We had always enjoyed working with her and my colleagues’ natural reaction in this instance was to be helpful as possible But bosses more senior than us had other instructions. We could not help her at all. She could prepare with her own personal staff only. The doors slam shut and the ducks waddle off into the sunset.

Delacroix's Divan

2009-12-11T07:36:00.001Z

In the 6th arrondissement of Paris, the Musee Eugene Delacroix preserves his last apartment where he lived while he worked on a commission for the nearby St. Sulpice church. The apartment rooms themselves are small and unremarkable. I walked right by the entrance three times; only a small brass plaque distinguishes it from the neighboring florist and fine textiles trader across the street. Delacroix was a painter and it is his studio which is worth seeing. Two perhaps three stories high, it is situated in a back garden. A large window stretching from table height to the ceiling gives a view of a green garden and the wall of a facing building covered in leafy vines and plants. Sitting in the studio, there is not only light, but the illusion of sitting in a verdant cover, absolutely quiet, none of the sound, smell or sight of the business of the city life steps away. Here Delacroix could pursue his work, which I think of as the action-thriller movie of his time – battles, deaths, desire, and madness. A bit melodramatic for me, but capturing the turning point in action and sentiment.

On loving your country

2009-12-07T05:54:00.001Z

An Australian colleague reacted with surprise that our senior American delegation had agreed to a bilateral meeting with Brunei. Brunei is a nation of 300,000 people in Southeast Asia, with tropical rainforests honey sweet with truly fresh air. A Russian friend recently told me she was shocked when many of her American friends had asserted that the US-Russia relationship was no longer central to American foreign policy, implying that Russia’s significance had declined since the times of the Cold War. She felt quite the contrary. A Chinese friend of mine whose express purpose in studying in the US was to learn about the openness of the media, asked me why the US media could not be asked to self-censor when reporting on Tibet in the interest of keeping good US-China relations. She was offended particularly by the many mistakes of American reporting on Tibet and consequently was disinclined to believe other reporting as well. Another Chinese friend of mine, a Hong Konger who had heard similar questions from his friends, was ready to throw up his hands at China’s lack of sophistication in dealing with media. A Japanese diplomat casually over lunch mentioned to me that among his friends they agreed it was impossible to get good service in the U.S. He sounded like an American friend of mine complaining about service in France. Did I mistakenly leave the Australian with the impression it was as important as Brunei? What can I say to reassure my Russian friend? With my mainland Chinese friends, how do I avoid getting categorized with the British in the Opium Wars? And, to France, I apologize directly.

I've got a deal for you

2009-12-04T04:16:00.000Z

Nice suit, said my friend Ewan. Where did you get it? It was red silk. The jacket with Chinese frog buttons, the material artfully crumpled, wrinkled on purpose. In Virginia, I said. Oh, then you paid too much for it. I could show you where to get it half price. Ewan was not wearing a red silk suit. In fact, his outfit was so non-descript I have no recollection of it whatsoever. What does he know about the niceties of women’s fashion? Does he know, for example, that this season, straps with buckles across the foot are very important for boots. That sunny yellow is in, and fluorescent turquoise is so out it must be expunged from the wardrobe. And, he hasn’t shut up about it yet. In China, I know the markets where to go, blah, blah, blah. Ewan is not Chinese, mind you. Nevertheless, he later offers the tip that the best way to get to Budapest is to fly into Vienna and take a river cruise down the Danube. For that tidbit, all is forgiven.

The man in the red shoes

2009-11-27T03:07:00.001Z

A friend of mine, the gentlemanly half of an old married couple, recently surprised me by saying he feared the rising wave of Mexican and other Hispanic immigrants because if Roman Catholics dominated the U.S., the Pope would take over. We are Episcopalian, I should make clear, so the liturgical differences are relatively small, it is the power structure which governs us that distinguishes from our fellow Ro-Cath’s. My friend’s view, among my circle, is an unusual sentiment to express, especially out loud. With a roll of her eyes, it is also apparent that the lady half of this couple, disagrees with him entirely. She pipes up as a third friend of mine, who is of the Catholic faith and cheerfully reminds us that the Pope is not God but has his frailties like other men, with a “you tell him!” nod. In large numbers this ant-Papist sentiment would be alarming and no doubt in some circles it is. But as I encountered it, it seemed slightly tragic. To be fearful of a Pope in Red Shoes seems an unnecessary burden and anxiety to be carrying. What other visions, altered and redirected might also lighten our being?

Post-boomerism

2009-11-24T05:49:00.000Z

Thursday evening at the theater and the gray hairs have it. The usher, a nice young strapping man with dark curly hair, his main duty is to lend a chivalrous arm to the supra-eighty ladies stepping out for the evening. I see him trodding the same path up and down the main aisle thrice in the quarter hour before curtain. Indeed, the starring role tonight is played by a senior. These are his groupies. The personal finance television shows are obsessed with retirement. I still have thirty years to think about, any advice in the meantime? Very little, as it turns out. My apartment, recently constructed, has been designed with doors accommodating arthritic hands, a bathroom wide enough for a zimmer walker to circle around in, and a thermostat within reach from a sitting wheel chair position. The front door is accessorized with a big blue button that automatically opens it; the modern-day butler certain. This is useful to me when I wheel in a cart of groceries. And the sidewalk ramps keep my eggs from cracking. I am old before my time.

Plaid spotted

2009-11-20T03:51:00.001Z

Black with large white polka-dots is my umbrella. On the train, I spot another woman with like umbrella, black with small polka-dots. Just opposite, a girl with a large animal print bag, cream with black spots, and a belt, white with tawny blots. On the bus, just passing Barney’s on M Street, the big plate glass window declares, “We are Mad for Plaid.” Check back later to see if we are sad or glad.

Marching saints

2009-11-17T01:49:00.001Z

In endless rounds, with air-trombones, parading away, my sister and I learned to sing, "When the saints go marching in." Only later did I learn to associate the song with New Orleans jazz. The first class I ever taught - English as a second language to high school age refugees from Vietnam – I used a Louis Armstrong recording to illustrate the sound and swing of American jazz. Here in Washington, D.C., the home of Duke Ellington, I heard it again recently – played at a local festival to honor New Orleans. The Marshall Keyes band played it slowly, elegiac, a remembrance of all the saints who have gone marching in, and our longing to be – someday – one of their number.

When I was about 25

2009-11-13T01:17:00.000Z

When I was about 25, I went to my first international government meeting, one where Seniority Counts. All I aimed to do was listen, make a few friends, and break bread with as many delegations as possible, I thoroughly enjoyed the meeting and as the meeting closed I looked looking forward to being able to report that the affairs were collegial, our relationship with other countries good. Then, we reached the final session of the plenary meeting, convening all delegates for a last goodbye. As we got started, a mid-level official, at least twenty years older than me, quietly approached. There was to be a seminar held in his country, he had been organizing all the necessary approvals and wanted it announced at the final session. My agency had supported the seminar but had little to do with its preparation, yet he wanted to me to make the report. I demurred, should not he, the leading official of the host country undertaking all the work, break the good news and invite everyone to a rollicking good time? No, he pointed out. If the

U.S.

makes the report, he said, then everyone will listen. I did it. His seminar was a success. But, had my week been?

Old silk

2009-11-09T13:30:00.001Z

The economy is falling apart and although I am no poorer today than I was three weeks ago, I have thought about cutting back in spending. I had a conference to attend today, one where casual dress was more than enough formal. I threw on jeans and an old pink silk blouse with flowers and a tie neck, at least a decade old. It’s traveled the world with me, this blouse. It washes well in hotel sinks and emerges from luggage relatively wrinkle free. Despite being silk, it’s been hard wearing, nary a hole, a rip, not faded as afar as I can tell. But, I stopped at a store on the way home. Silk shirts, hand washable, in beautiful prints on sale and discounted further today. As I tried on a new one – orange and brown, paisley prints are in this season (or the last, as the case may be), I realized how old the old standby is. It’s from another era and marks me as such. The recent compliments I had on it, I realize, bust be from those who also fondly remember that era; and a sadness, sweet and light, like a blanket of snow, beautiful in its poignancy but harbinger of an unavoidable fresh season envelopes me in the dressing room.

Daily graces

2009-11-06T02:11:00.000Z

“How y’all doing this morning?” said the gentleman as he walked into the elevator. “Fine, thank you” the chorus and me responded, on cue, in unison. Smiles, nods all around. As the doors re-open, I step out and the gents follow. Make no mistake, this requires a certain consciousness. In Asia, where I travel often, the men get out first and I have to hold back. In the Southernness that DC still has, I pay attention and step out quickly. Otherwise, everyone else’s exist is delayed while one dawdles. Such courtesies are luxuries. I remember as a student in Boston, visiting DC and enjoying these graces I had grown up as a child of the South. As I returned to Yankeeland, doors slammed in front of me, left behind in the stampeded out the elevator doors. Graces matter sometimes.

An ancient pain

2009-11-02T13:32:00.001Z

An ancient pain resurfaced when I attended Sunday service at Washington National Cathedral. It is not my parish church, I am an infrequent visitor, and I had forgotten that they celebrate the liturgy with a men and boys choir in the old tradition. As a small child, no more than 7 or 8 years old, I was musically gifted but with only an average voice. Good enough to be in a choir, not good enough to be a soloist. The best children’s choir in town, however, was a boys’ choir. They gave the best concerts, had the coolest gowns, sang with orchestras, and had all the pomp that flows from long tradition. There was a mixed children’s choir to which I belonged, but it did not have all the trappings of the other. It was my first encounter as a young child that I had been born in to a boys’ world and there were to be many injustices to come. I cried at the time; and at Washington National Cathedral, those tears returned. The preacher Peter Gomes repeated a message I had heard from him times before. The wealthy should feed the poor and clothe the naked. The knowledgeable, he said, do not know all and cannot imagine the plight of others. And so, although the dinner speaker may be a little dull, and the food may be indifferent, I will go to my board dinner next week because I am nearly the only woman fellow. Ironic, indeed, to be called a fellow. A young student or colleague just getting started, may need to see that I am there, at the head table, with the directors, chatting with the chairman.