Boom rat-a-tat

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.