The Protest...

Yesterday evening I went into DC for the first time since the Metro crash. Partial service had been restored on the Red Line, and I was tired of sitting in my hovel. I had heard about an Iran protest march that had been organized, and I wondered what it would be like. So I went.

The march began at 2209 Wisconsin Avenue, the location of the Iranian Interests Section of the Embassy of Pakistan (the U.S. and Iran have no formal diplomatic relations), and proceeded into the heart of Georgetown, then turned left on P Street ,and, eventually, on to Dupont Circle. When I caught up with them, I immediately felt more like an observer than a participant, and I decided to keep it that way. I was merely curious. These people were committed, passionate. I watched.

I have never seen a protest conducted with such dignity. In long lines, they followed sidewalks, and walked calmly, slowly. Police cars blocked intersections as they passed. Organizers drove ahead with cases of water, and stopped to distribute bottles to marchers as they passed. The evening was warm and the march long.

They chanted slogans as they went: Democracy in Iran. Freedom for Iran. No More Bloodshed.

Passing cars realized what was going on, and drivers waved or honked their horn in support. Pedestrians all along Wisconsin Avenue and P Street paused to look. People sitting in sidewalk cafes lost interest in their wine. Some clapped. Some snapped photos. One older man stopped on the other side of the street where I was. When the procession was close enough that he could see the signs and the green ribbons and T-shirts, he cracked a slight smile and nodded in silent agreement.

Once they arrived at Dupont Circle, they gathered around the familiar fountain, and read a statement. Then they requested that everyone pile their signs on the grass and return to the edge of the granite pool for a candle light vigil in honor of Neda, the young woman whose death has become symbolic of their struggle for freedom. When the candles finally dimmed and the protest crowd began to dwindle, the usual loiterers and stragglers appeared in Dupont Circle, willing to preserve the mood of the moment.

Even the street musician who strolled up and plugged in to play seemed to select music suitable for the tribute. His first two songs were, “Fire and Rain” by James Taylor, and “She Talks to Angels” by the Black Crows. The third song seemed most appropriate of all; the Beatles song, “Let it Be.”

And when the broken hearted
people living in the world agree
there will be an answer, let it be.
For though they may be parted
there is still a chance that they will see
there will be an answer, let it be.

Twittering Freedom

I have a confession to make. I finally broke down and signed up for a Twitter.com account. I don’t think I’ll use it much for my own entries, but, in recent weeks, it has become obvious that the protesters in Iran were using social networking sites like YouTube and Facebook to smuggle out video and still images when the Iranian government began blocking more conventional routes of delivery. The protesters were also using Twitter, to the extent that, when you heard breaking news from Iran on CNN, they prefaced half the reports with, “This just off of Twitter….”

So I created an account, and have since spent fascinating hours over the last few days watching the “tweets” go rolling by on the computer screen. Among the most active threads, as you might imagine, were ones called Iran Election, Iran, and Neda.
I’m not exactly sure why the events in Iran fascinate me so, although I am obviously not the only one thus affected.

If you read a little, you discover it is a nation that defies many Western stereotypes. Because of a baby boom in the 80’s, nearly two-thirds of Iran’s population is under thirty. College enrollment there is 63% female, and women “increasingly continue to play pivotal roles in society.” (Interesting Article Link HERE). I get the impression that, while the government may be oppressive and extremist, large segments of the population are sophisticated and tolerant. Do a few Google searches. You’ll be surprised at what you find.

Several protest events are now scheduled in the DC area over the next few days, and it is likely that I will attend one or more. Although I don’t know how I can get there and back, tomorrow night (Thursday) there is a march that ends, appropriately, in Dupont Circle with a candle light vigil for Neda (Link HERE).

As I write this, a tweet comes across with a link to a very simple website showing first aid information in Persian. There is an English translation that reveals topics such as - Treating Pepper Spray, Dealing with Tear Gas Canisters, Treating Gunshot Wounds, and How to Perform CPR. Many of the tweets are repetitive. Some appear to be efforts of Iranian protesters to communicate with each other, or with outsiders, in some cases cryptically. While many just offer support, some offer advice:

“To stop Basij motorcycle patrols tie wire/rope to tree across street 3-4 feet above ground pull tight before they arrive.”

“Don't fight the beast, starve it! They are vulnerable (dependent on oil/gas revenue)! Work slowly!”

Then there are alarming tweets about people in Iran - identified only by their screen name - who are now missing:

“Persiankiwi has been absent for 15 hours, God save persiankiwi.”

Who could have foreseen the fact that Twitter's most succesful marketing "campaign" would be the election in Iran?

I don't know how long I'll use it, but, for now, I'm Twittering. And watching a struggle for freedom scroll before my eyes.


[Photo Credit: Ben Curtis (AP)]

The Journey Home...

Like most people, I was surprised and saddened when I heard about the DC Metro accident yesterday afternoon. Despite some criticism in recent years, the Metro has a pretty remarkable safety record, especially when you consider that it is the second busiest rapid transit system in the nation (behind New York City), recording almost 20,000,000 trips per month (averaging 798,456 per weekday) on 106 miles of track connected to 86 stations.

Just hours before the collision, I had ridden the same line along the same route into downtown DC, as I do on most days. You can see on the Metro map below that the Red Line forms an irregular "U" shape that dips into the heart of the city, and I rode from Glenmont station (the northernmost station on the east leg of the line) to Dupont Circle (a short distance up the western leg of the line).



The accident site - marked by the X on the map below - is just north of the Fort Totten station. Since I had already ridden into Dupont Circle, and Red Line traffic on the east branch was suspended because of the accident, my usual route home was now non-existent.



I sat in Starbucks and watched on CNN.com as the sad tale unfolded. I fielded phone calls and text messages from family and friends making sure I was ok.

I decided the best way to get home was simply to make it as far north as I could on the Metro, and then improvise. I don't mind walking. Sometimes I walk miles just for exercise, so it seemed silly to complain about walking out of necessity. It didn't seem right to complain at all, really. Even if my journey home was a little inconvenient, I had heard before I left that there were at least four people who would never go home again (the death toll is now up to nine), along with dozens of injured.

I rode the Green Line to the Georgia Ave - Petworth station. Once there, I got lucky. I had never been to that station, but, as soon as I came up the escalator and started trying to get my bearings, a Metro bus pulled up with "Takoma Station" in lights on the front. I knew Takoma Station was on the Red Line, and still shut down, but I also knew that it was further north - closer to Silver Spring. Without a second thought, I jumped on the bus.

It went through areas I had never seen (and some I hope to never see again), and, most of the time, I had no idea where I was. Eventually, though, it pulled into the Takoma Metro station. I had bypassed the accident scene on the Red Line, and knocked a few miles off the walk/cab ride that I figured was coming next. I knew Takoma was only couple of miles or so from Silver Spring, and I knew the Red Line was running from Silver Spring north for the last few stops.



After getting off the bus, I went to the bulletin board to study the map of the area. There is a local map at every bus station. I wanted to try to memorize the tricky roads in Takoma so I wouldn't get lost trying to negotiate the two miles to Silver Spring. There is no good, direct route. It would involve twists and turns on roads I had never seen. I had been standing there for several minutes, mapping it out in my head, when I heard a voice behind me say, "Anyone going to Silver Spring?"

I turned and looked. It was another Metro bus driver. I raised my hand like a timid second grader. "I am." Somehow I had stumbled right into another bus ride one step further up the road. I followed him, and flopped into a seat on the right hand side. A number of other people were already on board, apparently in various stages of the same predicament. All were quiet, as was the driver. Who could complain? We were going home.



The bus pulled up next to the Silver Spring station. The Metro system was not charging for these last bus rides or trips to the last few stations. By now it was close to midnight - the normal Sunday through Thursday cutoff times for Metro trains. I descended the escalator, and boarded the last Red Line train of the night heading north.

[If you are interested, the Metro website has a good, interactive map HERE]

Yes, I Ride the Red Line. Yes, I Am Fine.

I did ride the Red Line into DC this afternoon. I am STILL in DC, and trying to figure out how to get home. Red Line service in NE DC area is suspended indefinitely.

More Fragments...

IN MEMORY OF MY HYUNDAI

In case you are wondering, I’m still dealing with the aftermath of the wreckage of my SUV. There is a small issue with transferring the title to the salvage yard. We should be able to fix that. The tow truck driver’s insurance company now says he might have insurance after all. How can they not know? I‘m not sure what it all means, other than I am guessing it will somehow cost me time or money or both. In the meantime, the only thing that really sucks about not having a car is grocery shopping. I‘m out of orange juice! And beer. Oh, the horror…

JOB

There is no news to report here, and the only reason I don’t write more about it in my blog is because it would as repetitive as a summer weather forecast in Florida. Let’s see, hot and humid with a chance of thunderstorms? Am I right? Am I right?? Rest assured that, when there is news on the job front, I will crow like a fat rooster to everyone I know. In the meantime, I’m still looking, and still hoping.

QUOTE

You may recall, I am someone who has a fondness for quotes. I still wonder why it is that other people sometimes have a much better way of saying what I am thinking?

Thanks to my parents for a very thoughtful gesture. They sent me a copy of "An Army at Dawn" - part of the Liberation Trilogy written by Rick Atkinson (Link HERE). I became quasi-depressed when I finished "The Day of Battle" (what was I going to read now?), and the timely delivery of the other book ensured that I will have good reading for at least another week or two. Atkinson writes with the kind of historical detail that I love. This morning I read a quote that seemed appropriate and I thought I would share:

It is good medicine to one’s self esteem to meet with serious setbacks at timely intervals.
~British Lieutenant General Kenneth A. N. Anderson, during the Allied campaign in North Africa in 1942

THE PENTAGON (HISTORY LESSON)

The above-mentioned book also made me think about the Pentagon (since, obviously, it discusses some of the goings-on there). The Pentagon, in case you were wondering, is the world's largest office building in terms of floor area. There are 17.5 miles of corridors inside. The sheer size of the building caused staffers during World War II to joke that a Western Union telegram boy had entered on Friday and emerged on Monday as a lieutenant colonel.

The reason it is such a sprawling mass is simple when you think about it; a tall building requires lots of steel girders for support. Steel was too valuable for other needs during World War II when the structure was completed. By keeping it to five stories, the planners and builders minimized the amount of steel necessary. It was constructed with concrete ramps inside instead of elevators. Elevators require steel.

Here is something I never knew; the Pentagon was necessary because the Navy Department had outgrown its facilities to the extent that they were building temporary structures everywhere!



Look carefully at the above photo (courtesy of the US Navy Archives - ca. 1943-44). In the left center distance is the Lincoln Memorial! The buildings in the foreground of this image were, literally, on the lawn of the Washington Monument. The buildings to the left of the reflecting pool occupied the area which is now home to West Potomac Park - the World War I Memorial and the Korean War Memorial. The buildings to the right of the pool cover the area that now contains Constitution Gardens Lake and the Vietnam Veterans Memorial. When this photo was taken, the reflecting pool was still relatively new. Foot bridges across the pool connected the groups of buildings on both sides.

Below - the area as it appears now - from a different angle, and directly overhead:

View Larger Map

When you see how much these buildings had gunked up the National Mall, it makes you appreciate the fact that they packed everything up and moved it across the Potomac to the Pentagon.

FASCINATING

While wandering on M Street in Georgetown, I began hearing a familiar tune played in a very unfamiliar way. I wasn’t sure what to think, but it kept getting louder as I walked. Finally, I recognized the song, and found the source – a street musician standing on a corner playing Led Zeppelin’s Stairway to Heaven. On violin.

FASCINATING, PART II

On Sunday, my trusty bike and I rode the Metro into DC, and spent a few hours cruising around. Since I am still a stranger in this city, and since I still harbor a somewhat irrational fear of getting lost at any moment (although I have taken to venturing out occasionally with no map in my pocket), I continue to notice electrical outlets in public places in case I have a dire need to charge my cell phone. I have already used the previously mentioned outlet in Dupont Circle twice (Link HERE). I was riding by the Verizon Center – the big arena where the Wizards (NBA), Mystics (WNBA) and Capitals (NHL) play, and where major concerts and other events are held. I noticed an older woman, obviously homeless, tucked into a recess formed by a supporting brick column on the front of the building. She had some kind of wheeled cart containing her belongings, and she had turned a newspaper vending rack on its side to use as a chair – with her back leaning against the column. She looked as comfortable as if she were in an office chair, and – here’s the funny part – propped on the cart in front of her, she had an old word processor plugged in to an electrical outlet, and was busy typing away.

At first, all I did was make a mental note of yet another electrical outlet in case of emergency, but, after riding by, I immediately had two regrets. 1) I wished I had stopped to take her picture, if it didn’t embarrass her. It was just such a bizarre sight. She looked like she could have been Andy Rooney’s hard luck younger sister. 2) I wish I had stopped to ask what she was writing. It may have been her memoirs, or a letter to the editor of the Post, or the next great American novel. Or maybe she was just typing “All Work and No Play Make Jane a Dull Girl” over and over. Now I really want to know…

THE BEST OFFICE-MATES

Until today, my last visit to one of my offices (Starbucks) – this time at 2101 P Street – was on Friday. I got a late start on the day because I had to wait at my hovel for an insurance guy to show up with some papers. After getting my coffee, I wandered upstairs and was immediately distressed at the sight of 25 or 30 people sitting there. That many people in a small area always mean a racket that precludes any hope of concentrating and being productive. I continued upstairs to the only table available, and tried to decide if I should even bother unpacking my laptop. Then I noticed something strange.

There wasn’t as much noise as I had anticipated, given the fact that they all appeared to know each other. It was clearly some kind of social gathering, but unusual somehow. I looked more closely. They were all deaf, and signing to each other. I quickly forgave them for the intrusion on my office space, and was actually glad that, by occupying so many chairs, they kept other potentially noisier people from sitting there. As it turns out, I was able to be very productive, once I got accustomed to all the wild gesturing.

Afterthought: Washington DC is home to Gallaudet University (Link HERE) which, according to their website, “leads the world in liberal arts education, career development, and outstanding graduate programs for deaf and hard of hearing undergraduate students.”

Fragments...

During the last week I've had a hard time delivering product to my faithful readers! For that, I apologize. I think the wrecked car debacle may be mostly behind me, so it is time to move along.

At this point, I should explain that I carry a small notebook everywhere I go. I jot down thoughts and ideas as they come to me. I even keep track of places I find or happy hours that are particularly good deals. To catch you up on the last week or so, I figured I would offer these fragments from my notebook.

CHERYL

After a long evening of exploring downtown DC on foot, I stopped to get a cold beer at an old place called Harry’s. I stood at the bar next to a girl who introduced herself as Cheryl, and who seemed a little too loud and a tad too intoxicated. I thought it might be time for the bartender to cut her off or for her friends to take her home.

Then I began hearing fragments of their conversation, and, when I appeared interested, she turned to me. There were a few moments of the usual small talk, and then the bartender placed a fresh cocktail in front of her, courtesy of one of her companions. She was unsteady on her feet, and, as she pulled the drink toward her, a bit splashed on the bar.

Looking at me, she grinned, lifted her glass in a familiar gesture and chirped, "It’s my twenty-fifth birthday!"

Now it all made sense. Chuckling, I tapped my glass against hers and, feigning concern, said, "I hope you make it to twenty-six."

She sipped and put the glass down in front of her. I could tell, at that moment, a thought had entered her mind, one that was familiar but nonetheless unpleasant. I watched as the expression on her face changed, and a haze descended over her eyes, giving the impression that she was looking at something far away, but seeing nothing.

Without facing me, she leaned and whispered, "My mom died on my birthday."

I don't think her hard-drinking friends had any idea. I guess she just wanted to tell… someone. I was the lucky one. I wondered how long ago it had been, and thought how awful that must be. Before I could say anything, her eyes brightened again. The silence hadn’t been long enough to be awkward.

"Aren’t you going to wish me happy birthday?" Loud, drunk Cheryl had returned just as suddenly as she had departed.

"Happy birthday," I said as I smiled and nodded at her, and took a big swig from my mug.

One of her friends grabbed her and pulled her away down the bar. Someone had bought a round of shots.

Left alone, I drank a silent toast. Birthdays are sometimes bittersweet, Cheryl. Yours will always be so.

Cheers.


THE BRICKSKELLER

I go to the Brickskeller (Link HERE) about once a week. I've spoken of it often to friends. They have 1000 different kinds of beer. They're officially recognized by the Guinness Book as holding the World Record for most beers available in a single retail location. The beer menu reads like a small novel. I love it. (Seriously, the beer list is HERE).

Most of the people who go there are beer snobs like me, but, occasionally, "normal" people arrive at the downstairs bar, no doubt by accident, and say things that seem silly to me.

One guy, with no idea what to order, told the bartender, "I'd like a beer with character..." For some reason, I immediately conjured up a mental image of them delivering a beer and Jack Nicholson. Sometimes when I'm by myself, I giggle. I'm sure people wonder why.

Once, a guy walked up and ordered a Coors Light. The look on the server's face was priceless. Her thoughts were as clear as if she had a scrolling sign on her forehead. With all this good beer here, you're ordering THAT? She looked at me in mock confusion. I grinned and shrugged. It was awesome. She brought him a Coors Light. He sat at the end of the bar, in the corner, drank it quickly, and left.

Later, a new arrival walked up to the same server saying, "Can I have a water and a Miller Lite?"

I said to her, knowing that he could hear, "Isn't that redundant?"

This server likes me. I can tell. She seems just a bit too happy to see me. Ahh, the life of a beer snob.




HISTORIC FLOORBOARDS

Inside the historic Georgetown Inn (Link HERE) is a place called the Daily Grill. During the course of my wanderings, I stopped there once for a happy hour glass of wine and one of their delicious $3.95 appetizers. The hotel has been in that building for forty years. I have no idea how old the building may be.

As I always do when I'm exploring, I had my backpack with me. I rarely venture out unless I have my camera, my notebook and my raincoat. I hung the backpack over the back of the bar chair, and ordered ahi tuna and a pinot grigio.

It wasn't long before I noticed that everyone who walked behind me seemed to brush my backpack. I would scream for a week if someone ripped off my camera and notebook, so I am always aware of where it is, and cautious about my surroundings. But why would everybody, in the Georgetown Inn of all places, continue to tussle with my backpack as they walked past?

I'm generally a calm person, but I was beginning to get a little annoyed. Then I noticed that every time I felt my backpack move, a noise accompanied the motion. What the hell?

Finally, I turned and watched one of the servers as she walked behind me. One spot in the old floor dipped, and the board creaked as she went. The right rear leg of my chair was perched on the end of the broken board. No one had brushed my backpack after all. They had simply walked across the soft spot on the floor which caused the right rear leg of my chair to lean just a bit, thus causing my hanging backpack to swing slightly.

I shook my head and laughed at myself. The price you pay for dining in places with historic floorboards.


HONESTY

I always appreciate honesty, even when the truth is sometimes painful or inconvenient. And I always have a tough time knowing how to deal with beggars. The compassionate side of me wants to help if they are really hungry and down on their luck. But I wasn't put on this Earth to support someone else's bad habits.

I often carry in my wallet gift certificates for a free foot-long sandwich from Subway. If someone stops me, and is genuinely hungry, I can feed them, indirectly at least. There are Subways everywhere, and that always seemed like a good way to be kind.

Today, a man appeared on the street with a sign. He was facing the other way, but I knew what the sign must mean. I thought about the contents of my wallet. I had left the certificates behind. What a shame. There is a Subway just two hundred yards away.

When he turned to face me, I read his sign, and laughed out loud. He caught me in a weak moment, but I needed a good chuckle. And, honestly, I was impressed that he had gone to the trouble of having his sign laminated! He let me take his picture - provided I gave him the $2.96 in my pocket. There is something to be said for honesty...

Not On My Terms...

Early Wednesday afternoon I discovered I had been the victim of a very unlucky break, and my first inclination was to not write about it here. I wanted this blog to be a positive thing, and, once I start, it’s not terribly difficult to slide into the dark areas of doubts and fears and sadness that sometimes make my existence a struggle.

After thinking about it, though, I decided that I should include some negatives along with the positives or this would become a fairy tale rather than a document that honestly describes this stage of my life. In the grand scheme of things, it could be much worse, but it’s just not what I needed right now.

I walked out to my SUV, intending to go grocery shopping, and saw this:





As it turns out, a flatbed tow truck at the top of the hill had slipped out of gear while it was parked, rolled down the hill unoccupied, and crashed into my SUV sending it sideways over the curb against which it was parked. This happened Tuesday night, but the police were unable to locate me – my hovel is about 150 yards away, and who knows what old phone number is in the vehicle registration computer in Florida. It’s just another one of those things that we all should update but never do.

The accident apparently caused a major disturbance when it happened. Police blocked off the road and went door to door looking for the owner of the truck – which they found, and the owner of the SUV (me), which they did not. I was actually having dinner with my niece and her friend in Bethesda. When I ride the Metro, the route I take back to my hovel does not pass the place where my SUV was parked. So I knew nothing until I decided to get groceries early Wednesday afternoon, and found my SUV as you see it in the pictures, with a written description of the accident and the truck owner's name and insurance information left by the investigating officer in a sealed evidence bag tucked under my windshield wipers.

After two days of phone calls to and from my insurance company, it appears they have decided the SUV is a total loss. I have to say I was unhappy when I heard the news, but not in the way I expected.

While I tried to comprehend the idea that my SUV was destroyed, I realized that I have had it since December of 2000. I thought about how much my life had changed since then, how difficult it has sometimes been, and, as silly as it may seem, the one constant thing in that entire time has been my SUV. It has taken its share of knocks and dings, but it has been practical and reliable.

For the first few years it served as a very functional transport vehicle while Tracy’s Acura was the choice for comfort on restaurant outings and road trips. It was convenient to have my old dog Bo hop in the back and take him places. Whenever he heard the words “go for a ride” he would immediately yelp for joy and twirl around in excited circles until I opened the tailgate.

Tracy was terribly sick for a long time until a kidney transplant gave her new life. Bo died after several months of debilitating illness that was heartbreaking to watch. Then I nearly lost my right eye when a good jab from a branch of an azalea bush led to a vicious fungal infection. Somewhere along the way, Tracy and I separated and then divorced. So I moved into an apartment with a truckload of my belongings.

And I parked my SUV just outside.

During the summer of 2005 I drove all over North Florida in it, seeking every trail that could be hiked. My mind was not well so I set out to improve my body by walking, sometimes for many miles, in the pine and palmetto forests. By the summer of 2006 I had switched to biking, and my SUV proved to be the perfect carrier to move me and my bike to the entrance of the Hawthorne Trail over and over. After months of training, I successfully completed the Santa Fe Century (100 miles of riding in one day) in October of 2006. My SUV brought me and my biking gear to the starting line. When 2007 came, I had met Kami by then, and she and I – with her dog Denali – got in the habit of going to St. Augustine Beach almost weekly, a pattern we continued into 2008. Even now, when I lift the back seats, I find substantial lingering deposits of beach sand and dog hair.

And, of course, when I departed on this New Clothing Enterprise, I loaded all I could in to – and on to – my SUV. Nourished by fresh oil and steering with new front tires, it carried me up hundreds of miles of mountain roads and brought me here, to the place where I hoped to create a life more worth living.

I had decided some time ago that I would keep it until it fell apart. Who the hell wants car payments? Occasional repairs were to be expected, but I hadn’t experienced the catastrophic one that would cause me to throw in the title. The transmission seemed sound. The engine burned a bit of oil, but started quickly every time I turned the key. It was a welcome, familiar sight when I returned to every random parking lot in which I left it. For eight and a half years.

I think what disturbs me most is, once again, I don’t get to end things on my terms. I wanted to have my SUV reach the stage where I was happy to see it go. I wanted to curse it when a belt broke or a starter stopped. I wanted to kick it when the fuel pump quit suddenly on the side of a lonely road. I wanted to have time to enjoy the memories that I associate with it, the good ones.

In the long run, it might all be for the best. The loss of this last link to days gone by may signal the end of an unsettled chapter in my life. I just wish I could have been the one to write the ending. But, the chapter is written. The story moves on.