jumpingfish

There was a regatta on the Potomac that day. College crews were unloading their sculls and warming up. Spectators were standing by the water’s edge. The Thompson Rowing Center clubhouse was busy, but there were bikes available to rent. We put on helmets and stashed the bike lock in our backpack. I left my driver’s license at the desk, and we set off to find Rock Creek trail.

With the Connecticut Avenue bridge above us, we locked our bikes to a rack at the foot of a steep, grassy hill and picked our steps thru blooming wildflowers back up into the hustle and bustle of Washington DC. Looking for a place to eat for lunch, we came to the National Zoo. We went in to see the pandas and ate overpriced sandwiches. We rested a bit and then returned to our bikes.

There were runners. There were walkers. There were people on bikes. There were kids. There were old folks. There were hipsters with white wires hanging from their ears. The creek was gurgling. The sun was shining. And we were grateful for the periodic shade and cool breeze as we followed the wide upward sloping road into the park.

There were Beech trees there—big Beech trees with trunks like elephant legs, silvery grey on the hills with spring leaves filtering the warm sun, enveloping us in a gentle green glow. And there were Dogwoods at the margins of the forest reaching out over the trail with bright white blossoms in full bloom.

We stopped at a picnic table beside the creek to snack and to rest. Runners and walkers and bikers passed us. Trudy lay down and was soon breathing deeply. But amid the Tulip trees and Elms and Oaks and Beeches and Dogwoods and trees unknown to a Texan, and amid the rushing water making its way to the Potomac across tumbled-down boulders, I could not close my eyes.

In what seemed an instant, hours had passed, and it was time to turn back even though we had barely just begun.

So here we are at 21st Street and Q.

The Phillips Collection, one man’s collection gathered in his mansion dedicated to displaying art in an intimate setting where the works are hung side by side in casual conversation.

1. In the Rothko Room. Four walls and four Rothko paintings glowing in dim light with a single sitting bench in the middle.

2. In a gallery amid four Cézannes with Renoir’s Luncheon of the Boating Party on the far wall. I will always prefer Cézanne.

3. In a room full of Bonnards, eight of them. I didn’t even know Bonnard, and here I am standing amid them with the frond of The Palm radiating green towards me.

4. Peering thru a doorway, looking at The Road Menders as Van Gogh’s gnarly trees reaching out from the other side of the far room.

5. Ok, and here we are again: Cézanne. I told you. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 of them. And what’s up with Seated Woman in Blue, something I might attribute to him, and Garden at Les Lauves, something abstract enough that I see no Cézanne in it, both done toward the end of his years?

6. In the music room. One Bracque. Two Picassos. And others. Picasso’s Woman with Green Hat is the best. They have concerts here on Sundays. How cool is that?

7. And now I sit on a bench scribbling in my notebook beneath Kandinsky’s Succession with tears in my eyes. I think the docent standing in the doorway is watching me. Kandinsky next to two Mondrians—words fail me, hence the tears. I gather my wits and turn around. Five Klees.

The walking tour is about to start. We have no more time. We have to go, and we were only getting started. We leave the gallery, walk back thru the music room, cross the bridge walkway to the main entrance and find the place where the curator is waiting to take us upstairs.

So we’re lying on the hotel king bed clicking from one station to the next. (Is this what we’re missing by not having a TV at home!?). Trudy’s phone rings. It’s Ben. He says Colin is in town and wants to give us a call.

Colin! Holy cow. Not only did we find out at the last minute that Ben was in DC that weekend, but now we find out that my cousin’s youngest son is too. We couldn’t have planned this better if we had tried.

Here’s what I imagine happened…

Ben is in the Ohio room with the 90 other students from Oberlin and all the other Ohioans. Colin is with the Michigan room with the Kalamazoo students and all the other Michiganders. But Colin he wants to see Daniel, a friend who goes to Oberlin, so he leaves the Michigan room and walks down the hall to Ohio.

Now it just so happens that Ben and Daniel are friends. And so when Colin walks into the Ohio room, Ben sees him. I picture him standing up and shouting across a sea of chairs as Colin enters the room.

“Colin? You’re here, too!?”

We met Colin the next day in Chinatown for lunch. We ordered way too much food, and Trudy and I pushed back early, shamefully leaving much food uneaten. But you see, this was Colin. When he saw us push away, I swear I saw his eyes light up, and I know I heard him mutter something about peanut butter sandwiches. And within minutes, there was nothing left.

We talked about school. We talked about weather. We talked about the conference. And I remember so little of it, because I was just sitting there smiling, watching my cousin’s son talk.

This is so important to me. I’m the only one in my family west of the Mississippi, and we don’t get to see each other enough, and now the boys are grown up, anyway, so even if we could coordinate our schedules more often, the boys probably couldn’t make it. And so the risk of getting disconnected is so great. But here we are sitting in a tiny restaurant in Chinatown in DC eating and chatting and connecting.

It was time to go. Colin had to catch his Michigan bus. We were going to the Vietnam and Lincoln Memorials. So the three of us walked together for a while up K Street, and at 18th Street Colin turned north, and we turned south.

I turned to watch him walking away, long strides in the sun, backpack over his shoulders.

I wonder when we’ll see him again.

We were standing shoulder to shoulder in the orange line train. Trudy was behind me. A man in a suit was in front of me. He had a black nylon business case on his shoulder. It was embroidered with Deloitte. He was reading the Washington Post.

The train stopped and more people came in thru the doors. We all shuffled and moved to the back of the car. A woman now stood between me and the man. She was also in a suit and was talking on the phone with white ear buds in her ears. The man looked up at her periodically.

When she stopped talking, the man caught her eye and said, “Katherine, right?”

She smiled and nodded, and they started talking. Evidently she worked for Deloitte, too. They talked about job assignments. And they talked about their travels. And about politics at work. And when the train stopped, she said, “This is my stop,” and got off.

The man stayed on the train, and when it started moving he reached into his bag. First one compartment then another, shifting from one leg to the other as the train rocked back and forth, keeping his balance by leaning against a stainless steel pole.

He was looking for something and not finding it.

He reached into the main compartment of the bag and then into the compartments he had already searched. He took his folded up newspaper out and searched all over again, an increasingly frantic look on his face, pushing his hand into corners looking for something that clearly was not there.

A grim look came over his face, and he started checking his suit coat. First his outside pockets. Then the inside ones. Left then right and checking them all again. And now checking the bag again, now with panicked urgency.

When the train came to a stop at the next station, he lost his balance and almost fell down. The doors opened, and he rushed out onto the station platform.

This was the orange line to Vienna. I suspect he was about to go around and catch the other orange train back to New Carrollton. I hope he eventually found whatever he was looking for.

We were waiting at Dulles airport for the Metrobus. We had just dropped off a rental car and planned to take the bus to the first Metro stop and then take the Metro downtown. It was a multi-model transportation day.

A man in a suit with a suitcase walked up and asked us if this was the bus stop. We must have looked like we knew what we were doing. I joked that we hoped it was the stop, because that was what we were waiting for.  And then we introduced ourselves.

He was Mr. Rahman from Senegal. He had woken before dawn in Dakkar where a friend had driven him to the airport. Then he had flown to New York City and caught another plane to Washington, DC. His final destination was Philadelphia, but getting there was going to take some doing, yet. He had to find his way to Union Station and from there he had to catch the Amtrak to Philadelphia.

We took out a map. We showed him how he needed to take this bus to the Metro station at the end of the route. And I showed him the Metro route from there to Union Station. And we gave him our Metro map so that he might find his way.

“We can get another map,” Trudy said.

He thanked us. And soon the bus arrived, much to our collective relief.

We got off the bus at a Metro stop before Mr. Rahman’s.

“Bon fin de voyage,” I said, tapping him on the shoulder as we left.

“Ah, merci,” he said.

He had many miles to go, but in comparison to how far he had come, he was almost home.