return

EARLY MORNING IN PARIS

I had it in my head that I should wake up in my tiny hotel room in Paris at 6:30, which would give me enough time to shower, do a final pack and walk over for the 7:30 train to the airport. I had been sent a message from Air France that everything must be charged or subject to confiscation, cameras and kindles included and so I was sure to top it all, just in case. And I gave myself time for the expected prolonged security check. The flight is the 11:05 to Washington D.C. -- even with added layers of waiting and long lines, I should have enough time for a coffee and a croissant at the airport.

That was the plan.

Here's the reality (it's going to be different than you think):

I woke up earlier. That's predictable. I always wake up earlier than I have to. Then I hear a ping on my computer. Email message. I want to ignore it. Probably junk.

Just thinking about whether to check that email wakes me up sufficiently so that it's pointless to try to sleep again.

The email, it turns out, is from Air France. Flight is delayed. But just an hour. At this point.

Damn. Could have slept more. 

All this means is that I go about everything in a more leisurely fashion. I stare out the window and think trivial thoughts. About whether Paris is more fun in the dead of winter or the height of summer, for example. It surely is wonderful to have light stream into the room just after 6 (as opposed to after 8 in wintertime). Even if there still is a moon up there in the morning sky.





Packed, ready to go. Suitcase has the addition of several books I picked up at the airport in Edinburgh. (Would you believe it -- childrens books! As if my grandchild, who is yet to be born, can follow the complicated story of the smart giant, as only the English can tell it!) Still should be within weight limit, but the suitcase is getting to be extremely stubby and fat.

Leisurely. Think leisurely. Okay, I'll walk through the Luxembourg Gardens. They're open now, though only the joggers' rhythmic stomp breaks the stillness at this hour. It's beautiful and empty and I am just in love with this early morning walk, just minutes after 7.






This will be my one glance at the Eiffel Tower...






But truly the star attractions are the chestnuts and the empty chairs and benches...






Satisfying. Very satisfying. A fitting ending to my short stay here. Sun is up. Time to get going. Just one last glance and I'll be on my way.






Done. I carry my lumpy suitcase down to the RER station. (The one fault of the Luxembourg stop is that there is no down escalator. Over the years, I've cursed every single purchase that bloated my suitcase and made my walk down these steps awkward. This time, I take it in stride. You get a lot less excited by trivial things when you get older.)

At the airport, they move the check in for the Washington DC flight to the (mostly) European terminal F (to ease the burden on the screening in terminal E, which has mostly intercontinental flights).  How will this work? It's the transatlantic flights that are doomed to have the additional layers of screening.

Well now, there are practically no lines at security. Even my (hard earned by frequent flying) fast pass is pointless -- it all moves quickly. And nothing extraordinary happens. No one asks me to power on any device. Most people don't even remove shoes. It just feels very normal. And fast.

And so now I have more than three hours at the airport. I'd say that's quite enough time for this breakfast.





FLIGHT

It is my first time on the new double decker Airbus 380 and after very complicated machinations, I find myself on the upper level (still sardine class, but fewer sardines up there).





It's a mighty big plane and I'll happily return to my lesser ones now that I sampled the flying giant. The downstairs section is too crowded and the upstairs sardines have to sit in the back, which is sort of like hanging onto a dolphin tail in the ocean: there's a lot more flipping and flopping back there when the air gets choppy.

Still, I had the only empty seat on the plane next to me and so I offer no complaints.


ON THE FARMETTE SIDE OF THE OCEAN


No sane person should ever pick connecting flights that arrive and leave from different airports. But what am I to do -- it's all I could get with my piddly miles. In D.C., I arrive in Dulles and leave from Regan (UPDATE: I'll leave that spelling for you, Regan, even though I ought to be a better proofer!).

Now, on the up side (or down side, depending on your spirit of adventure), I have a huge layover. Seven hours. Ed tells me -- go to the museums.  Tempting!

But the plan quickly develops rips and wrinkles. First -- the DC weather just doesn't jive with Europe's cooler temps. And I'm wearing my hiking shoes because they no longer fit in my wee suitcase. So that's a bummer.

Then there is the matter of the suitcase. Did you know that even if you send your suitcase through to your final destination, if you have different connecting airports you have to lug it from one to the other yourself? Well you do. And wishing to save money, I take public buses and metros. During rush hour. Whisky is heavy. As are the slabs of slate I picked up on the beach. And don't forget the chutney. So all this presents new and fresh challenges.

And one last little glitch in the "I'm going to have a fun few hours in DC" plan:  my Paris flight comes in late. Going through customs, catching that bus, connecting to the metro -- it takes forever. So by the time I drop off my suitcase at Regan Airport, my seven hour layover has just been whittled down to 2.5 hours -- not enough to motivate me to go back into town.

So here I am, sitting at Regan spewing off all these tedious travel details which would put anyone to sleep. Without even a photo from D.C. to add color to the post. Well, one: of the Capitol, as seen from the airport. Because it really is quite beautiful, even at a distance.





I'll be in Madison late tonight. I expect to do just one thing before crawling into a comfortable bed in the quiet of the farmhouse summer night: check to see if the bottles survived their long and complicated journey.

end of D.C. days

We’re watching the Oscars. As usual, I sleep for a whole chunk in the middle, only to wake up for the major awards. Most people actually sleep when you think them to be sleeping. I have some little spirit standing on guard, ready to shake me free and get me going again when the need arises.

We’re both tired this evening. It is the second day of our mega walk through Washington. And we’ve been eating well – brunch, dinner and somewhere in between – a cupcake break in Georgetown.





As always, every Sunday I am here it is like this. Eggs and grits at noon, a walk toward the Washington monument, and then a cut to the other side – away from the Mall, past the World War II Memorial, past the cherry trees, the Jefferson Memorial, and along the river to Georgetown.

















The sun is brilliant – it is their first day of total spring here. I have a jacket, but more out of habit than need.





There is a feeling of total contentment (aided by an early call from a cab driver who found my daughter’s iPhone). Job well done. Adventure finished. This is a final glance, a long goodbye, but not to her, to the city that was her home.







That same little spirit who kept watch over the Oscars for me, now shakes me free of sleep again. Even early in the morning, I have never needed an alarm clock. He’s there, pushing me out, telling me it’s time to get going – I have a flight to catch. My girl is still asleep when I tell her – see you back in the Midwest. I slip out the door and wheel my suitcase to the metro.

I get off the Blue line at the airport and pass through the ticket gate. A woman in an army uniform is studying the Metro fares. Here, I tell her. Take my ticket. It has some dollars on it. I don’t plan on every using it again. Are you sure? – she asks. I’m sure.

D.C. scrambles

You hate it when your daughter says “oh-oh.” And you kick yourself for being relieved that it’s only a matter of a lost phone. Especially when it sinks in that a lost phone is a huge headache and a not insignificant expense. So you volunteer to retrace your steps for the evening – so that you can be the gallant one who, at the end of the day, reemerges with the lost phone and makes things right again.

How many times in their lives have you wanted to make things right again for them?! And how many times – as in this case – did you know that you probably would fail?


I reenter the bar where we had spent time earlier that day. The Passenger.









We had sat at the counter at a time that is apparently early in the life of a bar – between 6 and 8. And so we could sit and talk, and, as it is a place where you tell the bartender your dream tastes and she concocts a drink to suit your fancies, I could pour out my wishes and she poured them into a glass that had elements of fruit, but not sweetness, alcohol, but not gin, and a splash of color with homemade Grenadine. Or, was it home made pomegranate juice? No matter. Drinks should not be that tasty. Because it leads you to order a second.





Now , closer to midnight, the Passenger is so crowded that it’s not clear how anyone can spell out their dream beverage and be heard over the raucously told stories of fellow bar hoppers. The gentle voices may as well stay in the off mode.

Oh, and by the way, have you found an iPhone? No?

I move on to the restaurant – Central – a wonderful place with everything from gougeres to fried chicken. I had eaten a most wonderfully modern shrimp remoulade earlier...





Now, there is a late night hush. A few strands of conversation, the clatter of collected plates... No, no phone left by the table. None in the bathroom, none under the feet of the couple who had replaced us at our spot in the corner.

Outside, I realize that I had flown out of the house without my coat. One of those gestures born of haste and greatly regretted. I hail a taxi and give myself a good moment of tears. Failure is never pleasant and not especially at the end of a day, where you wanted to lull your child, even though she is not really a child, but you can pretend, to sleep with sweet thoughts of beautiful scenes from a day well spent.  

Mom, it’s only a phone, for God’s sake.



It had been a day well spent. And for once, the often fickle weather of a DC March played along.

Waking up, I looked out on clear skies. Warm enough to allow these two to take their break on the rooftop.




We walk up to St Ex on 14th, past this guy, setting up pansies for you to take home. So tempting, Only my home is not here and in any case, it’s probably too early for pansies in Wisconsin.





We sit at the counter by the window and eat eggs over cheddar grits. Why are grits so perfect here?





Fortified now. Off we go. And it is a long long walk, one that makes the leg muscles pleasantly ache at the end of it all. But we have so many places to recall and remember!

...from the Washington Monument, piercing and wonderful against the blue skies...





...up the Mall, past museums, were families pause for the warm sun. Or snacks. Or maybe both.





...to the Capitol, yes that one, that place of gridlock and scandal and occasionally something more palatable, but now blissfully quiet on this week-end day where surely everyone must be enjoying the peace and quiet of a perfect spring day.





...round to the back, past the Supreme Court. My daughter says - did I tell you? I went to hear an oral argument last week. Yes, she wore her gold bracelets and hoop earnings, and asked lots of questions. But today, only a sole fellow goes up the steps, up to the top and back again, as if this climb put him closer to the truth, or maybe just closer to a good view of the Capitol across the street.





... and onto the Capitol Hill blocks of older homes, made beautiful now, especially now when the first spring branches are getting ready to explode and the crocuses win the race for the speediest and the freshest flowers of the season.









We finish at her newest favorite – a place where she comes on trivia night, right here on H Street, in the Atlas district. In ten years, when I come back to D.C. to visit, this will be completely different, she muses.





Abandoned houses and storefronts even now are being gutted and taken over by enterprising types. A sandwich shop there, a coffee house across the street...

We pause over an espresso and hot cocoa. We call her sister up in Boston. Same time zone. It makes her seem that much closer.





Leaving this new for me neighborhood...





...we return to the familiar. Union Station, the edge of Chinatown, and home again. Home for a little while. Just a few more weeks of D.C. life for her. And one more day for me. One last scramble to create a final D.C. moment.

sentimental journeys

If you look at the Ocean destinations of the past five years, you’ll notice that right up there in numbers, after excursions within Wisconsin, there is Washington D.C. And what’s remarkable is that had I blogged the five years prior, there would have been a zero next to the city.

But in these last years, I’ve had one daughter, sometimes two, spending time there. And so I went.

This week, my oldest, the one who has been in DC continuously for the past three years, accepted a job offer in Madison and so she’ll be moving back to her home town this summer.

And so I am on my last D.C. trip. Last one. Last chance to spend time in the place that I’ve grown to love, if only because my girls turned older here.

Oh, it’s been a good set of travels! In D.C., the metro is easy, the winters are (typically) gentle, the food is fantastic, the museums are free.

And so I fly the well traveled connection through Detroit, I run to catch the known metro line, I walk the familiar walk to P street. And now I have  before me DC. For two days.

For two days, I’m turning my back on this:





...and having my fill of this:













Ah, oldest girl of mine, I can't wait to have you back in the Midwest! Now, what foods should we eat tonight?

passing through

We are in DC for less than a day. With a long drive ahead of us on Sunday, we shouldn’t linger.

But we do. It’s a sunny, warm Sunday, a holiday for families. If beaches are at their best when empty, DC is best when the vast green common spaces are filled with families.

Ed and I leave an apartment full of still sleeping people, pick up a latte at a café (where, too, people watching is completely satisfying...)





…and proceed toward the Mall.

At the Museum of American History, he gets lost in the exhibits. It is at once sweet and frustrating to be with him in these places. The classic cereal box reader should not be let loose in rooms full of informational tableaus. But I find that of all the museums here, this one is such a perfect match to what’s outside. Washington is the one city in America that, in my mind, wears its past openly, at every turn. A tumultuous past, sad and thrilling, all in one fell swoop. And so I am again looking at meticulously put together exhibits that churn through communities, inventions, presidents, inaugurations – like packed pages of a thick, bold, colorful magazine.


Outside, the day is equally dazzling. We do a shortened stroll past my favorites – up the hill with the Washington Monument, down to the Monument to the Second World War, and finally, along the Reflecting Pool toward Mr Lincoln. All the while watching Mother’s Day unfold on this magnificent spring day.






















We meet my daughter and her visiting friends for brunch – a late, long, wonderful brunch which cannot end because when it does, Ed and I have to find our truck, pack it up and head north.

One more minute, just one more story from across the table, one more bite, a swallow, a glance her way…





… and off we go. Six hours later, we unload in Danbury, Connecticut. We’re here for just one night, so that we can go back to Brewster and look through Ed’s family’s storage unit again. The old truck is holding up well. It’s time to load it up and slowly meander back toward the Midwest.

DC ramble

I don’t really mind the cold and damp. It’s not what I associate with DC, but at this time of the year, that kind of stuff happens. And the benefit is that it leads to a more relaxed approach to the day.

My daughter lives downtown and so the city sprawls in every direction right out her door. But we are stuck to a pattern. Almost always we choose to walk down to the White House, crossing in front of the WWII Memorial, toward the Basin with the cherries (budding now!) and along the Potomac to Georgetown.

Today, the rain never stopped, not for a minute. Undeterred, we huddled under her pink umbrella and followed this most splendid route.









Oh sure, fortified by grits and eggs before the hike and at the end, warmed by coffee (yes yes, tea for her) and cupcakes.











She is at work now. It never fully lets up for her. I am at her apartment soaking in her life in this space that is so quintessentially hers. We’ll head out to dinner soon and tomorrow before dawn, she is off to New York to do work there and, ironically, I am off to New York as well, though on a later train.

We’ll keep on being in each others space, but it wont be the same. She’ll be in one of those glass buildings with countless offices, I’ll be taking a train out of the city, searching for Ed and his truck somewhere not too far from the Hudson River Valley.

Have I mentioned how much I dislike putting distance between my daughters and myself?

snapshots

When you spend time with your adult kids, isn’t it natural that you should reflect on where they’re at and what role you played in the process of getting them there? And I don’t mean necessarily the benefits you conferred. It could be that you look at them and worry that maybe you'd been careless or obtuse or distracted, and thus, you missed a point or two along the way, so that now they fret too much or sleep too little and really, it's kind of your fault...

I don’t normally think of this much because I think it’s indulgent and perhaps without value. You’re done, parent, step aside. You were who you were and they are who they are and btw, aren’t they absolutely the best and it’s not much your doing anyway, so please, just step aside.

Still, snapshots of your adult kids, taken on these infrequent (by my standards) visits do make you think back to the day when you urged your kid be one way or another without really knowing or understanding if this was a good idea or a bad idea or good for them or bad for them.

…Leading you to wonder for the millionth time what it is that you wanted for your kids when they popped out and had just one hour under their belt.

Looking back, I remember my buzz thoughts then. I was, initially, most focused on instilling in them trust and fostering accomplishment (broadly defined). Over time, I worried more about their assertiveness and confidence (I have daughters, after all). In the end, I thought mostly about their health and happiness.



It was a cool and rainy day and so we postponed our hike in the hills of Virginia. Maybe tomorrow, maybe...

But, all retro thoughts on parenting not withstanding, it was a wonderful day. We ate our favorite brunch foods, we walked under my daughter’s wee umbrella, we looked at budding trees, and when it was too cold to do more outside, we went indoors and ate cupcakes and drank good coffee (tea in her case). After, we went to the movies. We finished the day at a noisy wonderful U Street bistro.




















But now I am home and she is sleeping and my other one is or should be sleeping as well and I wonder --- did I do enough to allow them to feel great about their space on this planet? Maybe. But really, who can tell.