Excuse me, Ms. Curator

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.