jumpingfish

And rain? We’re filling the rain barrels with tap water.

Oh, our tomatoes and cucumbers and squash. There’s one cucumber on the two remaining plants. The squash are blooming, but there’s not much sign of any fruit.

You don’t believe me. I know you don’t believe me when I say that we’ve had no rain forever.

For the past year, that is since June 2010 (see City of Austin), here are the days where we had more than one inch of rainfall.

Folks. This is for the past 365 days.

A taxi honked at some poor soul waiting at a stoplight just a little too long. The brakes of a metrobus squealed as it rolled slowly along the street. Two men at the table at the other end of the sidewalk patio spoke to each other in Vietnamese as we ate our Phở.

A lady’s dog across the street snarled at a poodle walking by. A man at the Moroccan restaurant nearby stood proudly in his doorway anticipating the dinner rush. And as we sat there our shadows grew long, stretching across the table onto a planter of petunias and onto the sidewalk along P Street.

It wasn’t a bad way to end our trip, not a bad way at all.

I would have taken a picture of you sitting by the fountain in Dupont Circle among all the other people enjoying the evening.

I would have taken a picture of you under the blue sky in the cool breeze with green trees standing far down P Street across the Potomac.

I would have taken a picture of you, if only I had changed the camera battery the night before, but I didn’t, and so I couldn’t, and as a result, we have … this.

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.