Washington, D.C.
I arrived at Union Station, D.C., almost a full half hour early only to find that this once beautiful representation of the Beaux-Arts style is now like virtually any middle class mall anywhere in the country. Lower level was given over to several food courts and the upper was mainly clothes and luggage stores.
The gaggles of teenage girls with their obviously too loud whispers and unawareness of anyone outside of their immediate milieu could be from Hoboken or Halfmoon Bay; or anywhere in between. The vendors both inside and outside the door were vying with each other for the last tourist dollar before they were gone from the city.
The gaggles of teenage girls with their obviously too loud whispers and unawareness of anyone outside of their immediate milieu could be from Hoboken or Halfmoon Bay; or anywhere in between. The vendors both inside and outside the door were vying with each other for the last tourist dollar before they were gone from the city.
After disembarking I immediately headed outside for a smoke and as I rested on a low railing behind a 5 ft square column there came a late middle aged man in a wheelchair whose wheels were covered with some heavy translucent tape that showed how little rubber was left. He had a piece of rolling paper in his hand and was picking up discarded butts for their small remaining quantity of unburned tobacco, I offered him a cigarette, which he took while thanking me without looking up. I then offered him a light and he turned a surprised smile to me as if this were some amazing new concept he then rolled a short distance away to enjoy a whole cigarette.
The owner of an obviously well loved embroidery machine had her grandmotherly grip on the arm of a frustrated girl of about14 while on the other side her husband had his arm around the girl’s shoulder. Each of their shirts were covered in patches depicting farms and put up tomatoes and a pie with steam escaping from the vent hole.
Sitting outside I watched the bits and pieces of our shared DNA tango and twist around to as not to even brush by the “other”. Thousands in an hour and I know that I have seen every single one of them in every city I have ever been in, I know their faces to the point of not even being able to make up new stories about their lives – I simply sat and wondered which bit of DNA was our strongest commonality and which piece gave us the same eye color, or stride or tendency towards arthritis.
I sometimes look from face to face trying to understand why they are oblivious to the connective threads attached to them. How can they believe themselves to be apart from it all . . . deep in their hearts how can they not know their lots are cast along with the rest of ours’?
Union Station was certainly interesting but it is hard to kill more than an hour eating lunch and observing the architecture so much of which is hidden behind (hopefully, rather than destroyed) Sbarro’s and other ubiquitous food court signs.
Once on the train in the semi rural areas we barely see the boarded up factories and warehouses with their overgrown parking lots fly by, and all the rundown houses whose tenants can barely afford food, let alone paint or tools for repairs. How is that we only see these things in passing why aren’t they pinned to our minds and hearts?
La Porte appears to be an exception to the run down by the tracks scene; each building in better shape than the previous, even the parking lots seemed to sparkle! I wonder if they will ever share their secret for economic fecundity.
The national “New York Central” Museum is in Elkhart, IN . . . who knew?
The owner of an obviously well loved embroidery machine had her grandmotherly grip on the arm of a frustrated girl of about14 while on the other side her husband had his arm around the girl’s shoulder. Each of their shirts were covered in patches depicting farms and put up tomatoes and a pie with steam escaping from the vent hole.
Sitting outside I watched the bits and pieces of our shared DNA tango and twist around to as not to even brush by the “other”. Thousands in an hour and I know that I have seen every single one of them in every city I have ever been in, I know their faces to the point of not even being able to make up new stories about their lives – I simply sat and wondered which bit of DNA was our strongest commonality and which piece gave us the same eye color, or stride or tendency towards arthritis.
I sometimes look from face to face trying to understand why they are oblivious to the connective threads attached to them. How can they believe themselves to be apart from it all . . . deep in their hearts how can they not know their lots are cast along with the rest of ours’?
Union Station was certainly interesting but it is hard to kill more than an hour eating lunch and observing the architecture so much of which is hidden behind (hopefully, rather than destroyed) Sbarro’s and other ubiquitous food court signs.
Once on the train in the semi rural areas we barely see the boarded up factories and warehouses with their overgrown parking lots fly by, and all the rundown houses whose tenants can barely afford food, let alone paint or tools for repairs. How is that we only see these things in passing why aren’t they pinned to our minds and hearts?
La Porte appears to be an exception to the run down by the tracks scene; each building in better shape than the previous, even the parking lots seemed to sparkle! I wonder if they will ever share their secret for economic fecundity.
The national “New York Central” Museum is in Elkhart, IN . . . who knew?