Category: DC sites

Ben Franklin on my Windshield

Yes, that’s a mini wooden statute of Ben Franklin reading a book, left mysteriously on my car’s windshield recently while my daughter and I were taking a stroll through Congressional Cemetery. Cemetery walking in DC is a THING, it’s normal and at Congressional it’s the best dog meetup in town, as the cemetery offers a membership for dog walkers. To us, it’s dog therapy, as the many fluff balls there on doggy recess will often approach, looking for a little extra love. We come here to gaze at the cherry trees that grace the well-worn rows of graves as well, far away from the hordes that descend on the tidal basin; and of course, for the history — if you really want to know this town, Congressional is one of the must- see, do learn places.

On this day though as we jumped back into “Red” as our Subaru is called, for her cherry-ish coloring, as I was about to put the key in the ignition, I naturally glanced out the front window and well, with me and my language, “What the hell” came out. We both hopped out of the car, and for nearly a minute just gazed at this little statue, resting so peacefully on the glass on this early spring day. Now, Congressional is not located on the best part of Capital Hill — it is a greatly improved area, but its patrons and permanent residents rest in the shadow of the D.C. jail — home to the notorious and temporary law breakers in the city. The neighborhood, glammed up rowhouses aside, does draw the notorious and temporary’s associates to the area, who do have “leave-behinds” that unflatteringly grace the sidewalks on occasion.

My first reaction to the statue: Do we still have any medical gloves in the car from early Pandemic gas getting? No, but we do have an old pair of winter gloves. But where to put Ben? Leave him on the cemetery stoop? Who would leave such a thing? Is it because of all the bookstore stickers on the car? Who is just walking down the road with a Ben to leave on someone’s car? Ben did find a resting place, thanks to a Congressional staffer (cemetery, not Hill) headed inside that offered to place him in the sun, near the office’s entry, but not before she too, asked: Why, who, huh?

This may seem like a long wind-up to sum-up this semester’s adventures in the world of publishing, but while reflection starts with a look-back, it most often leads to more questions. I have no idea who, what, why Ben was left on my car — but it sure is a great story. After a wonderful semester of interning (which still feels really odd at my age, can we think of a new term for this?) with an amazing organization, I can say here in late April, what I have is questions. I’ve written my writer’s contract with many specifics (and notes to add off-ramps and rewards from K.W. – thank you), and several clear directions. But I’ll admit, last night when reading of bell hooks’ work and the volume of volumes she created, I had that oh-so-familiar feeling that I’m spinning my wheels. It was also a long day of grading essays, which often leads to a certain amount of despair, but today I plan to greet the day anew…no more comparing my lack of volumes to anyone. The journey is just the journey, and some days aren’t going to be great when it comes to production, focus, or walking on the treadmill of life (hence off-ramps and rewards, thanks x two, K.W.).

My internship will continue into the summer (yeah), and I will be able to work again with my organization’s team as well as one of my treasured MFA mentors, write in the realm of spirituality, and perhaps board yet another train north to Philadelphia. Ben Franklin. Philadelphia. Ben Franklin. One book on my to-read list is Signs: The Secret Language of the Universe. As a person who thinks every blue bird is my grandmother visiting with a message, I am pretty convinced Ben’s appearance on my window is no coincidence. Philadelphia. Ben Franklin. Philadelphia. Ben Franklin. Books, books, books. Write, write, write — hello thesis year! Shall I dedicate it to Ben? One more question to ask, and answer.

Where are the writers in publishing? Look to the foundations.

Recently on one of my morning walks, I snapped this photo of early cherry blossoms near the WWI Memorial just off the Washington Mall. On the base on this marble memorial, that changes hue as the sun rises and sets, are the names of D.C. residents that lost their lives in the Great War. Often when I’m walking near by in the early morning, photography equipment graces the steps as soon-to-be brides and grooms or recent graduates in their flowing robes gaze dreamily into the distance –maybe thinking of the past, maybe thinking of the future — but I’m guessing not thinking of the names or memories upon which they stand. In this photo, I particularly enjoy how the memorial is graced with these new blossoms, but also partially hidden – but solid, and foundational as well to the blossoms’ new found existence and beauty.

So too, are writers in publishing. Writers are everywhere — they are the foundation upon which publishing rests and they are everyone that works within, near, adjacent to, and down the road from publishing. In my view, we often think of the real writers as the stars whose names grace book covers or magazine tables of contents; but writers are involved at every step of the way from the website copy of any journal to tweets to contract drafting. These behind-the-scenes writers that often don’t have bylines or signatures are no less creative that those whose books and articles we readers soak up with glee upon publication; these writers make writing happen — they are the foundation, the marble, often hidden, but right there in lockstep with the cherry blossoms. These writers often have not-so-apparent creative writing lives as well, that they work on in the after-hours, crafting away when our own ideas have gone to press (or web, or the myriad of other forms writing gets out into the world).

In my own publishing internship, writers are all around me as every staff person writes in a variety of capacities nearly each day whether for the organization’s blog, editing work of guest writers, composing reports or marketing materials or grant drafts– words are all around everyone, everyday. For me, I’ve had the chance to complete two byline pieces so far (publication pending in April) and will be beginning my next piece within the next several weeks. Writing is the foundation here, whether in front of the camera so to speak appearing in the magazine, or in all that makes the magazine happen (and there is much).

I’ve spent the last few days with friends, one of whom is a writer for a national architecture firm — he’s written books, more articles than I could count if I tried, served as an editor for an architecture magazine, and he’s done a little freelance work for the local PBS station as well. What ties his work all together is the idea that writing is everywhere — there is always a story to tell, though every story is not glamorous perhaps, it is worthy of telling because there are readers out there that need and want to know things about his firm’s projects, or architects or their clients. These reaffirm my own ideas that have taken shape this semester, combined with my own past experiences: writers are all around, within every corner of publishing, and there are a vast number of ways to be a writer.

Reflection: What’s New is Old, but Different

As I sat downtown DC over the weekend at my favorite corner (17th and Pennsylvania), I noticed this beautiful reflection as I drank Sunday morning coffee with my daughter. The new facade of the building directly in front of me awash in the blue of a mid-February blue sky; it’s expanse of glass reflecting the classical parapet-like structure of the white masonry building on my side of the street. The reflected image fit succinctly into the expanse of new glass; line to line, floor to floor, with the masonry taking on a ghostly note — floating against the moorings of glass just steps away.

So too are discoveries, or perhaps realizations this week. My internship places me back in the world of nonprofits — all the inner workings and intertwining of ideas, plans and strategies to bring the cloudy to solid life — not unlike this streetwise transition from masonry shadow to gleaming glass. When I left this (nonprofit) or first world as I think of it in relation to my career, I didn’t think I would ever feel the pull to return — but here I am, considering the road ahead and feeling pretty certain (though not yet saying aloud) that this is the direction I should head. I’m not sure if I am surprised by this realization, but I welcome it and in some ways I had a distinct hand, and interest in heading toward change. Even now, I hesitate to say I want to leave teaching though it’s been on my writer’s board since last semester to work toward a teaching adjacent day job. I think perhaps this idea of what’s old is new again is fostered by the soft landing — being able to intern within subject matter that I already have an affinity for — and by the graciousness of my interning hosts to welcome me into the fold.

Where this line of thinking will lead, I am not yet sure — but without the current leap I wouldn’t have come to this realization at all, so some organic gardening in respect to letting this realization rest in both camps for awhile, history and future, reflection and expanse is probably the best idea. A boss (Richard) long ago told me it’s always best to know what one doesn’t want, because that makes figuring our what one does want, so much easier. So, I’ll toast Richard from afar as he’s now decamped to Palm Springs — as I know what I don’t want, and I’ll figure out the steps to get what I do want, now that the vision grows clearer.

A River Runs Through It #morningview #RockCreekPark

Fall has come to Rock Creek, and each fall I hear Robert Redford’s voice as we hike the trails of this national park nestled in the middle of urban DC. A River Runs Through It (based on the book of the same title by Norman Maclean) one of the best outdoor movies of all time, is where Redford’s voice originates — the timbre of his voice and its slowly undulating storytelling phrasing, is that of fall — the story of autumn slowly unwinds from the lush green of summer to reveal hidden colors and valleys that summer masks with its humidity. Most everything I know of storytelling comes from Robert Redford voice — pacing, deeply descriptive language, emotion, painting — listening to his voice in River will have you ready to buy your first fishing pole and metronome (or hiking poles too) and head to the woods in wool trousers. For fall, I highly recommend watching, but mostly listening to River — and seeing where you feet on the dream of autumn will take you.

Deciduous & Muddy #morningview #cherryblossoms #DCHistory

The history of DC’s cherry trees is fairly well known, but the story of how these trees must be protected and cared for, probably less so. To add to the complexity of preserving these aging trees, their micro-environment here at the Tidal Basin is fraught with peril. The land around the basin is slowly sinking while sea levels rise, and today it’s nearly equilibrium as sidewalks surrounding the basin as well as the soil to which these delicate trees cling, are often flooded. Add in the torrential storms that pass through the region, along with upper Potomac run-off that speeds toward the Atlantic from the Blue Ridge and suddenly using the word “peril” doesn’t seem extreme.

The beauty of the trees draws visitors from around the globe and I’ll be the first to admit, there is something about this natural display of pink cotton balls that has me on blossom watch too — and I too, like so many, feel drawn to be part of the festivities. It’s not only the natural explosion of color, it’s the participatory nature of the blooms — the cooperation, the friendliness, the seeing people from all walks join in conversation — all because of these blossoms. But then, the blossoms wither, and next thing I know, humidity is bursting onto the scene and we are left with the hordes of school groups that descend and no one seems to care much for the less than glorious green leaves of summer, or the deciduous scrawniness of fall. Or more importantly, the floods that leave walkers and runners clinging to the sides of the basin.

This is the real story of the tidal basin: we love it when we love it (much like any natural environment), but when we’re not in it, we cease to give it a second glance. So true is our approach to climate change, rising seas, and all that goes along with this perilous issues — our lack of a backward glance drives these changes. I would never propose to know the path forward, but I do know which paths become impassible without change — today, we’re in the mud, but to preserve beauty, simply moving to higher ground is no longer enough.

Grey Skies and Mist #morningview #REI #getoutside

When you wake up at the weather app says it’s only 59 degrees, it is a feeling of pure joy; just two weeks ago it was easily 89 with 100% humidity just after the sun rises. On this glorious day to come, it looks as if the sun may not ever peek through and after a blistering, sweltering summer it is absolute relief to be outside — in a raincoat — walking at a fast clip without streams of sweat rolling down our faces.

Just the day before we purchased new raincoats at REI (member sale weekend – wahoo!). The tag in these Rainier model coats, a coincidental prediction of weather to come boldly states, “Get outside like you’re from Seattle.” When we were standing in line to purchase these, we wondered aloud to each other — well, we are from Seattle originally, shouldn’t we get a extra discount? As a member my entire adult life, which I obtained at the original REI warehouse store on Seattle’s Capitol Hill, I do think I should probably be eligible for some sort of “extra” to celebrate my longevity and devotion. Those original wood plank floors and bins of wool hats and gloves with skis hanging from the rafters were an REI far from its look of today — the scrappiness is missing. Maybe I’m not scrappy anymore either, and maybe that should be okay (but it’s not, really).

There is great value in scrappy and grey — it is not the languish or morbidity of heat, nor the shock of freeze that can paralyze — scrappy and grey is movement. Movement toward something, away from something, into something — the breadth and depth of a fog that reveals, or a tidal bump that offers a nudge. Grey and scrappy is to set the mind free through an afternoon of sketching or reading; it is also the creative big that bites and leads to discovery.

Grey mist doesn’t slow one down, it just requires the right layers to move ahead: scrappy power.

New BFFs: Names TBD #morningview #nationalmall #nationalmalltrust

Recently completed, the new stables on The Mall for the Park Police horses is part of one of our regular morning routes. In the last couple of weeks, we’ve been able to view the horses hanging their heads outside their stable enclosures but on this day, the horses were outside in their paddock. While we don’t know their actual names (we need to get inside when the education center is open to find out these details), we’ve named them ourselves after the hosts of our most recent favorite show on PBS, People of the North: Arne, Frida and Stig — as stoic Norwegians with a glint in their eyes of humor that often only they (or other Nordics) understand, these names seem fitting for our new horse friends as their demeanor is just that, stoic, on these early morning meetups or they may slowly bat their eyelashes at us in recognition of our presence. But their presence, fully themselves, is that of quiet ponderance that they bear the heavy burden of protecting, but that their glee is hidden deep behind their voluminous chocolatey eyes.

I grew up with the Black Stallion and other horse fiction, but never became a horse girl — it was so far away from any possibility that I never dreamed of riding, visiting or owning such an animal ever in my life. I’ve known friends with horses, and I have a friend now that raises ponies in Maine far from the reaches of our city lights here in DC. Now that we are regularly visiting our new friends though I wonder — could I become a horse person at midlife? Is that possible? Their demeanor has an instant calming effect most certainly — they can hold a stare like no other animal I’ve met, and they seem to listen to my questions — though much like dogs, I don’t think they have any intention of answering me, or doing as I ask. But they listen, and stand, and look — sometimes casting their gaze away to swish away an annoyance, but then they look back and acknowledge that I’m still standing there waiting for their acknowledgement. Perhaps we can be stoic together.

Fall Arrives #morningview #longbridge

The humidity snapped: we never think it will happen and then magically it does. Hoodies, sweaters, long sleeves and jeans all come popping out of the caverns these have been stuffed into. We walk outside and can actually breathe freely, not hesitatingly, not haltingly as we must through the exhaustion of constant heavy air — we can actually move in this air that does not wear us down and wear us out within minutes. The fall is when we begin to feel alive after the drudgery that is summer here: we can greet the day with some level of joy and yet still enjoy an iced coffee on the sidewalk (in our hoodies).

John Keats wrote “To Autumn” September 19, 1819 and the first stanza in particular speaks to all the glory that is this season — the best season.

To Autumn (first stanza here, link to complete poem)

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,

Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;

Conspiring with him how to load and bless

With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;

To bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees,

And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;

To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells

With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,

And still more, later flowers for the bees,

Until they think warm days will never cease,

For summer has o’er-brimm’d their clammy cells.

Name Changes, Patina Remains #morningview #15thStreetHistory

The 15th Street Historic District, located just steps from the White House and The Mall, is most likely overlooked by most that visit downtown DC. This corridor aligns and in some cases facades face, the historic Treasury building in Beaux Arts and Queen Anne styles. The photo here, the former National Savings and Trust Bank (now Truist), anchors the corner of 15th and Pennsylvania — its windows keeping solid watch in roundabout fashion toward the southwest and southeast, a day and night watch on an ever challenging streetscape.

Guarding this corner since 1888, it is hard to grasp the sheer number of people that have entered its doors, worked inside, and passed by on its sidewalks. Riots, protests, government shutdowns, pandemics; digging of Metro tunnels, motorcades, inaugurations and funeral processions — all have passed within site of these windows and those that look down to the streetscape from the comfort of being behind the glass. The stoner skateboarder kids clack and crack over the words of Walt Whitman, “Never, til the capital had cost the life of the beautiful and the brave of our land , did it become to the heart of the American citizen” and Frederick Douglass, “Washington has certainly an air of more magnificence than any other American town. It is mean in detail, but the outline has a certain grandeur about it.”

The windows see it all — and hold it all, the words, the clacks and cracks surrounded by a protective glaze of age– perhaps these windows are the heart of Washington: names (and allegiances change), while patina shines despite the rains and hardships that any window must endure.

Rails, Planes, Bridges #morningview #longbridge #neverforget

Since 1808 the area known as Long Bridge has connected the Virginia side of the Potomac to the D.C. side of the Potomac; historically, this area was part of the capital city but was ceded back to Virginia pre-Civil War. A quick Google will turn up facts such as the history of the foot bridge here where rates were different for foot-only, or person plus horse traffic, and sheep or pigs. Today, freight and commuter trains roll by while planes take off nearly every minute from National Airport (as a long-timer here I do not call this airport by its current name). This week on one of the first not excruciating days of September, the skies are blue and clear — no humidity haze hangs on our heads as we walk and watch the human and nature made transportation soar and roar past us.

This particular week of September always feels compressed: the weather is finally changing, the sky is clearing but there are memories and sadness that lead to the compressed feeling compared to the expansiveness that next week will bring with the seasonal changes. Twenty-two years ago, September mornings started much the same as this one – clear blue skies, beautiful temperatures to meet the sunrise – a fall day full of hope. And smoke. And jet fuel. And destruction. And words that still do not full express the trauma of living near, and with terror. Here on this path, in the shadow of the Pentagon and its breach, I always feel that we live in one of the safest places in the world — we know the sounds of various types of helicopters, to look for the signs — a silent sky is not a friendly sky. It’s hard to think of the losses that are ever-present in hearts and minds. On this day, there is peace on these banks. The seabirds fly, the squirrels frantically dart and the day goes on as any other early fall day might, except for the memories.

The Quiet Memorial #morningview

Memorial to Washington, DC residents that served in WWI

February 8

Just off to the side of the well-traversed pathways leading to and from the Lincoln Memorial, rests a memorial to those DC residents that lost their lives in World War I. Press cameras don’t set-up here, crowds don’t protest here but we’ve seen several weddings and numerous engagement photo shoots here over the last few months (including one with the wedding party dressed as super heroes).

Perhaps it’s the quiet of this spot, wedged in between protest alley and the windy speeds on Independence Avenue from Hill workers roaring by, that draws the newly in-love and those ready to commit. Perhaps it’s the aura of honor and dedication that radiates from the patinaed dome to the glow that emanates from within as the sun bounces off the well-worn marble. Perhaps it’s just logistics — it is resounding beauty in a beloved city, with easy parking across the street at the MLK, where one can celebrate for a few moments without a crush of other humans from places near and far.

Iceberg Ahead! #morningview

February 4

These seagulls found the last remaining ice floating on the Tidal Basin for a rest and some fishing. It may be tough to see but one of our gull friends had just plucked a live catfish out for breakfast — only to find the gulls from each side of the iceberg jumping onto his part of the berg, casting the whole flotilla to begin drifting precariously toward the sea wall. While we didn’t wait for the crash, we did observe that these squawking friends appeared unconcerned even though their perch was about to slam into a decaying concrete wall. Their eyes only see the sky above, when their beaks are not pecking frenetically into their subdued prey. Within weeks, this scene will burst with a frenzy of pink blossoms; but grey washes out all color — grey sky, grey water, grey birds.

The Jefferson in the Mist #morningview

Late last fall I began posting photos on Instagram with the tag #morning view. Every morning we head out for a hike or long walk to start the day with clear minds, and check-in on the characters that we’ve grown accustomed to on these treks.

But at some point over the last month, as I struggle to write anything but lesson plans it occurred to me that my material was obvious: #morningview needed a plan too. Since we’ve been unable to travel during the Pandemic, our roaming has and continues to be much closer to home than usual — but the amount of material within 50 miles of home is immense. So I thought to myself maybe I should write what I see everyday, instead of waiting for those bigger trips; it’s rare a day goes by that I don’t take at least one photo so here we go. For now, I’ll start where we are and work backward to the beginning of the year. Fingers crossed, this project will have a bigger purpose soon.

Jefferson in the Mist: February 3. Freezing fog, ice on the Tidal Basin.

Cold and damp to the bone day, but hovering around freezing as we head out for this trek. Some days we have a particular route we want to take on these outings, or a particular goal. For this day, it was all about capturing the fog as best we could as it hovered on top of the monuments. It’s easy to see the the swirling and shifting patterns in the ice – that moment, or many moments over the last few weeks where time stood still and this usually fluctuating basin for the Potomac and snapped it into place. For weeks on end the water moves with the tides that roar up and down the Potomac; but for now time is suspended while the sheet of ice captures all that moves.

Dense fog encircled the Jefferson on this day and I think back to a few times I’ve been stuck in airports due to freezing fog like this — because it’s hard to hear the usual soaring upward roar of jets taking off from nearby National Airport (I will always use the original name). Jets may well be taking off for that sunshine above the clouds, but silence reigns on this day. Our usual helicopter friends from Marine One to Eagle One and news choppers are also silent – no whirring, thwap thwap just above the tree-line, as visibility is below zero. On this day, silence is omnipresent – except for our shrieking at the awesomeness of the ice (wishing we had some sticks to poke it) and witnessing the suspension of time.

Season of Rebirth: Burning Man Temple and Calatrava’s Oculus

On the the blessings of living in the megalopolis of the DC to NYC corridor is the possibility of visiting beautiful sites mere hours of days apart. On Christmas, the opportunity presented to visit Calatrava’s Oculuson the World Trade Center site and just days later, the Best’s Temple for Burning Man at the Renwick. While I didn’t seek out each site for any sort of spiritual experience, both left me with pause given we are working through the season of rebirth, renewal — and new beginnings.

The Temple as well as the Oculus honor those that we mourn and desire and the eyes are naturally drawn skyward — which for the Oculus brings a rush and multitude of layered memory. Calatrava’s soaring design is meant to embody just that — a bird flying from the hand of a child. The innocence of that image is felt — and the color in the evening, resembles the sky on that day most of us remember clearly — a day that started like most other fall days. The bird metaphor embodied in the design, one can hope is that the spirits of those lost are now free and while evil struck, a return to innocence is possible.

For the Temple, the fresh and fragrant smell of balsa wood also elludes to hope, while reverent lighting provides a moment of heavenly breath. Visitors’ messages to loved ones link the Temple to the site of the Oculus where messages were left for days and months after the fall of the Towers — perhaps it is the written word that provides a moment of renewal in our belief that those we love are not truly gone from our grasp — that memories are closer than we think.

While the Temple is set to come down on January 5, there are still a few days left to experience the installation but the Oculus offers a permanent destination for reflection.

Out with 19 in with 20

 

Growing up, I heard repeatedly that whatever you were doing at midnight on December 31st would set your path for the year. When added to the fact that I was born on January 1st, the amount of pressure auto-built into those two days was immense, literally from day one. Then I decided to get married on December 31 as well (it seemed celebratory at the time), and it’s a complete pressure cooker. Not to mention, most of my favorite restaurants are closed on New Year’s Day.

Now that I am solidly in middle age, I still feel this trifecta of the holiday squeeze. We’ve tried to move any celebration, minimal as it is, of our anniversary away from the end of the year landmark which is a step. For New Year’s Day, it’s best to focus on what is available — though since we no longer imbibe, and sobriety is now for the cool kids, it does seem a tad ridiculous that there is such a long list of closures on the first day of the year.

Taking all this into account, my truisms for ending this past year should serve me well into this new year as well.

  1. Rely on Asian restaurants – always. Chinese, Thai, Indian — have several favorites and one is bound to be open on January 1 (much like Christmas). This year, City Lights of China in Dupont Circle opened right on time at 11:30 am — just in time for brunch with friends. Next, rely on tried and true institutions — there will always be a museum open, somewhere close by. This year time at the Renwick Gallery, the Smithsonian’s American Art Museum — and the piece above reminds me of my own olden days of New Years gone by on the town (Karen LaMonte’s Reclining Dress).
  2. Stick to the basics when it comes to activities — what do you really love? What is the one place that offers solace? For me, it’s the East Potomac Golf Course. It’s where I met my husband, played endless rounds with friends in my 20’s and it’s where my kiddo had her first golf lesson. It’s no country club, but it is gold. We really should’ve gotten married here.
  3. Midnight — well that’s all bonk. On the years I’ve been fast asleep it didn’t predestine me to great sleep the following year; the years I’ve been out late champagne-ing with friends didn’t necessarily predict a year filled with bubbles. Now we hygge on the last night of the year — carpet camp-out, appetizers from Trader Joe’s and possibly too much pie. This year, I did forget to light our TJ cedar candles; and don’t think I don’t miss black dresses, stockings with runs and the champagne — because I really do and I hope this kind of celebration circles back. But for now, it’s hygge.
  4. I am not too old. For all of us at midlife, squeezed between generations, career changes and concerns over college savings it is completely daunting most days to figure out how to get all the laundry done and ponder anything new. My own vow (not resolution, I don’t believe in those) is to remember every day that I am not too old to have what I truly want whether it’s a PhD or a book deal — it’s all about the focus and most importantly, eliminating obstacles. A fresh decade awaits – as Oprah famously mentioned several years ago — we’re going to be 50 (or any other age) regardless.

 

 

August: Heat, Humidity, Escape

Summer in the DC area can be described in one word: stifling. It is hot, but more importantly incredibly humid. Nearly every day you can look to the horizon and see the pillar-like clouds begin to form sometime in the late afternoon — which means it’s nearly certain that a storm will race through at some point, and we’ll have to watch the sky carefully if we really want to head to the pool. On this particular August scorcher, the sky is completely covered, thunder is beginning to roll in the background and the columns of spiky storm clouds are gathered — it’s like the DC-summer storm trifecta. img_20190815_153952

The only thing you can do, should you be trapped in or near the city during the summer is seek out those spots that have some sort of breeze or some sort of tree cover. The gardens at Dumbarton Oaks in Georgetown provides just such a respite — lush gardens with plenty of trees, nooks and crannies to hide out in for awhile and a FREE museum that is filled with Byzantine and Pre-Columbian treasures in a remarkably well-cooled and designed space. My suggestion is to visit the garden first, sweat, and then head inside to enjoy the chilled air so that you can brace yourself for a quick run to the bus on Wisconsin Avenue before the late afternoon storm cracks its first lightening strike.

The heat may be unrelenting when walking the gardens (and picnics are prohibited), but the garden will draw you in from the Orangery (with orange trees) upon entry to the garden-of-delight swimming pool and surrounding grounds that make you wonder just whom you know that is going to have a party here that you can attend. With this beautiful thought foremost in your mind, you’ll be ready to wander down the short staircase to visually melt into the sunflower gardens — that appear at once wild, yet English in the neat rows but overgrown in a completely French manner.

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Escape to the flowers, even with unbearable humidity that bears down on your skin with its weight and oppression — the flowers remain hopeful. Fall is coming.