Day 1 in DC

I had a pretty good day here in our fine country’s capital. Ilana and I spent a leisurely morning in her lovely Mt. Pleasant apartment. She has a little xmas tree with a short string of white lights and nothing else. She also has a collection of heart-shaped rocks pinned around one her front window. The place feels homey, and I was amazed how she does everything right. It’s probably bc she’s my sister – we figured out a lot of things together.

So, I finally got my butt in gear and decided to go see an exhibition on American Modernism at the Philips Museum. I walked there (DuPont Circle) from here. But once I got there, paid my admission, I realized there was a problem: I already saw this exhibition last summer in LA. And it wasn’t so interesting of an exhibit that I wanted to see it again (for another $10 when I’m living mostly off my savings and taking a trip for no reason).

But I’ve got this idea for a bicycle art exhibition, and I did see a painting with a bicycle. So, note to self: Braque’s The Shower, 1952.

Yeah, otherwise, I felt like a real turkey. Which leads me to something I was just talking about with my mother. I tend to blame myself for most everything that goes wrong: a stubbed toe, a burned cookie, when my sailing teacher takes out a boat with a broken spreader, the holocaust. I often do my best to hide this bc it would…. Well, just because. Meanwhile, the woman who lives downstairs from me apologizes for everything whenever I see her, and it makes me feel like she’s got serious confidence issues or that she’s a manipulator. Either way is bad. Anyway, there’s a balance, but sometimes finding that balance takes a lot of thought, not just about responsibility, and personal responsibility, but also about social objectives and the messages we put out into the world. I need to think not only about what my role was in something that went wrong, but also about what I can gain by taking, or not taking, responsibility for that mistake. Anyway, it’s complicated.

From there, I had a little time to kill. So, I strolled around the neighborhood and finished the Crispy Crème donuts I’d bought for my lunch. (Ilana offered me OJ with my breakfast, but I declined bc juice has too much sugar. I should have clarified that I like to be very selective about where my sugar comes from.) I then took the Metro to the massage appt that Ilana made for me.

She found this massage school where you can get one for a very reasonable price. She went last week, and I happened to speak with her bf and after her appt. The idea is that it’s hard to be single, without hugs and caresses day after day. (I burst into tears when a friend gave me a very empathic hug the other day, but then, that’s nothing unusual these days.) So, getting a regular massage not only keeps your body feeling good and relaxed, it also gives you human contact that we all so desperately need.

I had a sort of dream during my massage. There was a city made out of glass, and it was Paris. Except something happened, and it all shattered. The lights and colors and shimmering glass were still so beautiful, and we played in the broken glass, throwing it into the air, and it didn’t hurt us.

I glanced in the mirror after my massage, and the bags under my eyes were especially puffy. I had to rush to meet my old high-school friend Mitja at his office. He works at AARP, and he looked great. We went to a fancy restaurant, Zola, bc I said I wanted an experience special to DC. He had chowder and we shared some fries for a starter. The fries were good, but the exciting part was the mustardy mayonnaise they gave us to dip them. For our mains, I had the chicken which involved a fig sauce, a butternut squash puree over that, and then chicken breast covered with brussel sprouts and zucchini and cheese. Mitja had monk fish with some kind of asian sauce and spinach. Also tasty. Since Mitja had already tried the chocolate bomb they make, we had the chocolate fondue s’mores for dessert.

The air outside was freezing cold, but I convinced him to take me for turn on the Mall. Earlier in the day, when I was having trouble leaving Ilana’s, I felt a bit panicked that I would somehow miss seeing “DC”. I am less worried about that now I have strolled up to the well-lit White House (were there really people in all of those rooms with their lights on??) and then back towards the Washington Monument.

Of course, the conversation this whole time was lovely, and it was great to see him. He drove me home in his red Miata (inherited from his father, he assured me when I said “you’re joking, right?” in response to the car). You might have to know him to get the joke.

Now I’m back at Ilana’s, wading thru email for the first time in 2 days. I really need to buy my train ticket to Durham. Ugh.