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.