Monday, November 29, 2010

Political aftermath

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

Saturday, November 27, 2010

Cool Hotel Buzz

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

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

Monday, November 22, 2010

Gingko Green and Yellow

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

Thursday, November 18, 2010

The full breakfast

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

Tuesday, November 16, 2010

Pocket walking

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

Monday, October 25, 2010

Hope and Obey

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?

Thursday, October 7, 2010

Bethesda vs.

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.

Saturday, October 2, 2010

Couples at the fair

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!

Wednesday, September 29, 2010

False security

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?

Saturday, September 25, 2010

Truck Lunch

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.

Tuesday, September 21, 2010

Lessons from Verdi

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.

Sunday, September 19, 2010

Conference central

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.

Friday, September 17, 2010

A good day off

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.

Wednesday, August 25, 2010

Hot stairs

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.

Saturday, August 21, 2010

Good luck, bon voyage

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.

Tuesday, August 17, 2010

Ciggies no more

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.

Saturday, August 14, 2010

Lobbying, outside the lobby

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.

Sunday, August 8, 2010

Cones of shame, poles of dignity

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.

Friday, August 6, 2010

Summer's end at the National Gallery

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.

Tuesday, August 3, 2010

Ninth Street Garden

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.

Saturday, July 24, 2010

Saints who are near

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?

Thursday, July 22, 2010

On the passing of a bookshop

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

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."

Friday, July 9, 2010

All around athlete

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?

Tuesday, July 6, 2010

Segway City

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.

Friday, July 2, 2010

Fog on the brain

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.

Wednesday, June 30, 2010

Soccer Spanish

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.

Monday, June 28, 2010

Pigeon Paradiso

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.

Tuesday, June 22, 2010

Let there be light?

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.

Friday, June 18, 2010

50% great

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%.

Sunday, June 13, 2010

Working conditions

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.

Monday, June 7, 2010

Spa chick

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.

Thursday, June 3, 2010

Sit down and veg

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.

Monday, May 31, 2010

Asian American Chicken

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.

Friday, May 28, 2010

Stele this post

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?

Tuesday, May 25, 2010

Making a difference

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.

Saturday, May 22, 2010

Monkey well

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.

Wednesday, May 12, 2010

Errors rampant

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.

Saturday, May 1, 2010

An elegant bean

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.

Wednesday, April 28, 2010

Consensus and diversity

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.

Saturday, April 24, 2010

A Giver

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?

Wednesday, April 21, 2010

Senior spring

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.

Wednesday, April 14, 2010

Ketchup fight

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.

Saturday, April 10, 2010

Trading favors

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.

Monday, April 5, 2010

Blossom Guard

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?

Tuesday, March 30, 2010

Vincent, Happy


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.

Friday, March 26, 2010

Pigeons on the balcony

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.

Friday, March 19, 2010

Slowness

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.

Sunday, March 14, 2010

Habit formations

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.

Saturday, March 6, 2010

Martha's Table

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.

Sunday, February 28, 2010

Culture Vulture

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.

Saturday, February 20, 2010

My two old men

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.

Wednesday, February 17, 2010

Memo, repeat

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.

Saturday, February 13, 2010

Coffee Crema

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.

Tuesday, February 9, 2010

Season of Lost

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.

Friday, January 29, 2010

Cleared in

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.

Saturday, January 23, 2010

Obamania

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.

Monday, January 18, 2010

Ping Pong

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.

Friday, January 15, 2010

Triangulation

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.

Monday, January 11, 2010

Sticky fridge

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.

Tuesday, January 5, 2010

On sectarian lines

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.