I rented a condo through Airbnb, and what a win, even though it is in a...shall we say...gentrifying neighborhood (which probably explains the rip-roaring motorcycle parade that goes swashbuckling past my seventh-floor window every few minutes tonight). My hostess is amazing - she actually drove out and picked me up from the Dulles airport at midnight last night, and hand-delivered me right to my front door. On top of that, I am a five-minute walk from Union Market, which is where I ate breakfast this morning.
It's terribly cliched; I feel like I've been to at least one of these spots in every city of respectable size I've visited, but I won't lie. I absolutely love them, and every time I go, I wish my neighborhood had one.
So, fueled with a slice of quiche lorraine, a kouign amann, (oh my gosh, if you ever see this on the menu-board of an even halfway respectable French bakery, ORDER IT. You'll thank me.) and a good cup of coffee, I took the Metro down to Arlington National Cemetery.
Sobering, isn't it? Every one of those white stones (and I didn't photograph but a small fraction of them) represents someone's life. As I walked the paths between row after row after row, as far as the eye could see, I thought over and over again about all of the human stories that lie buried there. Were they happy? Successful in business? Were they kind and gentle, or were they harsh and angry? Did they like to fix things? Make music? Were their wives and children as beloved as those tombstones would lead one to believe? Did those wives and children feel beloved while they were still alive, or was a flowery tombstone the first anybody knew about it?
One thing is certain; for every white stone in that ground, somebody ran out of chances. No matter where they came from, what they did, or what their intentions were, at some moment, their clock stopped, their story came to a close, and they stood in that one place that every man, woman and child who draws breath will stand - before the Great Creator who gave them life in the first place, and who demanded an accounting of every word and every choice that they made. All one can hope, looking at all of those stones, is that, please, some of those stories included meeting and loving that Creator while there was still yet time, so that the final reunion was a glorious one instead of one filled with terror and eternal judgment.
One other thing is certain - I, as I write this, and you, as you read this, our story hasn't ended yet. We still have time to get it right - to make absolutely sure that we say what we need to say and do what we need to do, and, most importantly of all... sitting here tonight, with the memory of all of those stones fresh on my mind, I can't stress it enough, most importantly of all, we still have time to look our Heavenly Father in the face, to grab ahold of His mighty hand and never let go, so that when it comes time for our own clocks to stop, we'll be ready to step into eternity and meet Him as a friend.
Anyway, as you can see, the experience definitely got me thinking. Of course, along with that, it was an absolutely beautiful day and I got to see all sorts of cool stuff from the history books - JFK's grave with the little flame burning, and the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, complete with its Honor Guard, and the famous statue of the flag-raising at Iwo Jima.
The changing of the guard at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier
This is officially the first time I have ever seen a crowd of noisy American tourists fall silent. It was kind of awe-inspiring, to be honest.
I rode over to the Pentagon for the heck of it, while I was on that side of town. The place is humongous, and very forbidding - there are police officers and warning signs all over the place; I worried that if I snapped any photos, I'd be shot by a sniper hidden somewhere. The 9-11 Memorial they have set up there is touching, though, and a little sad - some of the little reflecting pools still had flowers in them from the memorial ceremony a few days ago.
At this point, my feet hurt and I was dehydrated, so I decided to poke around in Georgetown and see if I could find some sustenance while I was at it.
If I could bottle the essence of this little neighborhood and bring it home with me...
Georgetown reminded me a lot of SoHo (and made me miss my little sister). Historic neighborhood, retrofitted to host every retailer who is anybody at all (recognize any of these guys?). My developer alter-ego can only salivate at the rents these guys are probably paying.
So I found some sustenance. Although, in my defense, I bought my slice of jumbleberry pie for tomorrow's breakfast. And I only bought two macarons. And I walked a lot today.
Peanut butter burger and S'Mores milkshake from a place called Ted's Bulletin - what an absolute blast of a place. I drew the line at the homemade Pop Tarts, although I wanted one really bad...
I also had a chance to wander some fantastic neighborhoods in the DuPont Circle area that served as a reminder that DC does have a few little claims to fame... It's not everywhere you walk past old brownstones, full of character with charming front stoops and fenced yards, and then you notice a flag out front and a little sign affixed to the side, and it would say something like "Nicaraguan Consulate" or "Embassy of Granada".
Apparently this ambassador doesn't pick up his newspapers very often...
And now I'm resting my tired feet and watching the motorcycles roar by, and tomorrow morning I have an early date with the Capitol (after I eat my jumbleberry pie, of course). Let the good times roll!
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