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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.