Before I land at Ronald Reagan National Airport in DC, dozens of passengers ignore the pilot's request to shut off all electronics. Dazed by the lights outside and the Washington Monument we pass, they press the film function of their cameras, hoping to capture as much of the nation's capital from a birdseye view as they can.
It will be the last indiscretion I will see for a while back in the U.S.
So I am back to civilization. This is where people walk in a straight line and stop at red lights. If you have the right of way on the roads, you have the right of way, unless you would like to discuss it with one of thousands of friendly lawyers, cops, and judges who enforce these rules.
The next day, an Easter Sunday, I am re-introduced to Washington's metro and its waffle iron ceilings above the platforms. Again, people are remarkably civilized. They give each other plenty of space and rarely bump into each other.
One of the most American charcteristics is giving your fellow citizen space. This is apparent in the size of their cars and houses, but also when it comes to privacy. For instance, if I take a seat in the metro, the next guy entering the train will take a seat that is as far removed from mine as possible. I like to compare it to the dogs marking their territory. In public restrooms, if I take a urinal that is to the far right, you just know that the next guy will take the one to the far left. It's nothing personal, merely a question of privacy.
On the train, I look at the passengers on this Easter Sunday. It's clear that these people don't know about La Paz, haven't heard of the place, and probably never will whenever their education is concluded, if it isn't already.
When I exit at L'Enfant Plaza, I am walking faster than anybody else. After almost a year in La Paz at 11,000 feet altitude, I am fit. It's good to be back at sea level.
Whereas most people are probably at home feasting on chicken or turkey and stuffing themselves with chocolate eggs, I buy a soft pretzel from a vendor. An Easter Pretzel, if you will. Those pretzel vendors are lame. At least they could have colored it a little or decorated it with a bunny.
My goal is to visit the Hirshhorn, one of my favorite art museums. The best place to go there is the basement. That's where you will find all of the new exhibitions and other oddities, today the Black Box by Laurent Grasso.
Grasso is a French-Italian artist who is truly unique.
His work here surveys architecture in the area that was formerly East Berlin, focusing on the city's TV tower at the Alexanderplatz and other structures that transmit electromagnetic waves. Here you have to wonder: is that sparkly fluff that sails through the air cosmic lint or an invasive botanical species? The sky features heavily in this video display, which becomes the artist's quasi canvas. It is mesmerizing to watch this, to say the least.
Up two stairs and there is an exhibition by a protege of Beuys, the late Blinky Palermo, where we find his fabric paintings. This guy has blown the stereotypical artistic form, as we have known it, to smithereens. Rarely do you see a painting reduced to merely being featured within a square or a rectangular frame. He will paint on fabric, aluminum, steel, wood, you name it.
I love to look at the permanent exhibition, the sculpture garden that I have always admired, starring works by Giacometti. On a sunny day like this, the sculptures look particularly sweet.
When I head home and sit on the balcony of the apartment I've rented on the 14th floor, I gaze across the river from where I am in Arlington. I can see the National Cathedral of Washington towering on a hill above Georgetown. Everything looks so peaceful, and the Cathedral makes me think for a moment I might be in an English city like Coventry instead of America's Washington, DC.
I finally head back inside. Time to write.
It will be the last indiscretion I will see for a while back in the U.S.
So I am back to civilization. This is where people walk in a straight line and stop at red lights. If you have the right of way on the roads, you have the right of way, unless you would like to discuss it with one of thousands of friendly lawyers, cops, and judges who enforce these rules.
The next day, an Easter Sunday, I am re-introduced to Washington's metro and its waffle iron ceilings above the platforms. Again, people are remarkably civilized. They give each other plenty of space and rarely bump into each other.
One of the most American charcteristics is giving your fellow citizen space. This is apparent in the size of their cars and houses, but also when it comes to privacy. For instance, if I take a seat in the metro, the next guy entering the train will take a seat that is as far removed from mine as possible. I like to compare it to the dogs marking their territory. In public restrooms, if I take a urinal that is to the far right, you just know that the next guy will take the one to the far left. It's nothing personal, merely a question of privacy.
On the train, I look at the passengers on this Easter Sunday. It's clear that these people don't know about La Paz, haven't heard of the place, and probably never will whenever their education is concluded, if it isn't already.
When I exit at L'Enfant Plaza, I am walking faster than anybody else. After almost a year in La Paz at 11,000 feet altitude, I am fit. It's good to be back at sea level.
Whereas most people are probably at home feasting on chicken or turkey and stuffing themselves with chocolate eggs, I buy a soft pretzel from a vendor. An Easter Pretzel, if you will. Those pretzel vendors are lame. At least they could have colored it a little or decorated it with a bunny.
My goal is to visit the Hirshhorn, one of my favorite art museums. The best place to go there is the basement. That's where you will find all of the new exhibitions and other oddities, today the Black Box by Laurent Grasso.
Grasso is a French-Italian artist who is truly unique.
His work here surveys architecture in the area that was formerly East Berlin, focusing on the city's TV tower at the Alexanderplatz and other structures that transmit electromagnetic waves. Here you have to wonder: is that sparkly fluff that sails through the air cosmic lint or an invasive botanical species? The sky features heavily in this video display, which becomes the artist's quasi canvas. It is mesmerizing to watch this, to say the least.
Up two stairs and there is an exhibition by a protege of Beuys, the late Blinky Palermo, where we find his fabric paintings. This guy has blown the stereotypical artistic form, as we have known it, to smithereens. Rarely do you see a painting reduced to merely being featured within a square or a rectangular frame. He will paint on fabric, aluminum, steel, wood, you name it.
I love to look at the permanent exhibition, the sculpture garden that I have always admired, starring works by Giacometti. On a sunny day like this, the sculptures look particularly sweet.
When I head home and sit on the balcony of the apartment I've rented on the 14th floor, I gaze across the river from where I am in Arlington. I can see the National Cathedral of Washington towering on a hill above Georgetown. Everything looks so peaceful, and the Cathedral makes me think for a moment I might be in an English city like Coventry instead of America's Washington, DC.
I finally head back inside. Time to write.
