Back in The District
After a year in Africa, I was looking forward to some much
needed R&R in the States. As much as I like living in the place where I am
now, it doesn’t hurt to see vehicles driving in their allotted areas (as
opposed to vehicles creating lanes on the sidewalk), functioning traffic
lights, and people who honestly don’t care whether you’re a mzungu or not.
Dulles International Airport has improved somewhat, although
I don’t think it’s on par with other major hubs in the States. I discovered you
can now check yourself into the country the way you would for any given flight
leaving it. Show your passport, scan it, and have the machine take your
picture. Once the machine spits out the piece of paper that says you’re good to
enter the country, you get your bags, and you’re out the door very quickly, which is rare.
Unfortunately, I don’t find a speedy way to get from Dulles to the other airport, Ronald Reagan in Crystal City. The subway isn’t built for such a trip yet, although a series of buses would certainly take you to your destination. I remember all too well how it is, the part about hopping on municipal buses with full bags of luggage and immediately dismiss that possibility. Although this is doable, I don’t want to be that guy taking up standing room for four or five people (there are no luggage racks on municipal buses) just because I can’t spring for a cab. The metro is a possibility if I were to ask the driver to drop me off at the nearest station, but this is even more painful, as my years living in New York taught me. Again, I would be that guy, except that now I will have to push my suitcases through the turnstiles and down the escalators. That, or beg the operator inside the toll booth to—pretty please with sprinkles on it—open a gate that will allow me to schlep my over-sized luggage through a mass of understanding and law abiding Washingtonians. Nope. It will have to be the cab, all the way through.
And I enjoy cruising in the cab. This is not the loud grind of a bajaj engine negotiating the potholes in Bongo, but the steady hum of a well maintained taxi that is virtually flying up the I-395. That said, it doesn’t take long to be reminded of just what sent my blood pressure racing to the roof for all of the years I lived in the States, and the reminders are beautiful colors that glide past me in blue and red and yellow and green. The problem is that these colors belong to the automobiles clogging the I-395, which means a traffic jam. I spend the time checking out the license plates. There’s Texas, Virginia, New York, Texas again. Washington, D.C., Pennsylvania, New Hampshire, Texas again (where do they all come from? Right, Texas, I get it. But why so many?). We are not moving. Finally, when I’m sure that I see a mother passing us with a stroller on a nearby sidewalk, the driver turns into Jefferson Davis Highway and eventually the Hilton, one of many highrise hotels that call Crystal City home.
There’s an ABC store across from the Hilton, a blues bar, and a chicken wings place. We can have junk (McDonald’s), or something more high end only a block from the hotel. Choices, another thing I missed about the States. I arrive at the hotel at around five, meaning this is when most people get off work. Liebi is there—she is done with her training classes for the day—and we have dinner. The kids are with the in-laws and will remain there until we gather them in three more days. For now, Liebi and I will get to relive DC the way we remember it—without children. Although we are aware that we might be posted here ourselves one day and the kids will experience The District up close and personal, for now it’s clean roads, a choice of good foods, piping hot weather, and some alone time with Liebi.
Yeah, I still dig DC.
Unfortunately, I don’t find a speedy way to get from Dulles to the other airport, Ronald Reagan in Crystal City. The subway isn’t built for such a trip yet, although a series of buses would certainly take you to your destination. I remember all too well how it is, the part about hopping on municipal buses with full bags of luggage and immediately dismiss that possibility. Although this is doable, I don’t want to be that guy taking up standing room for four or five people (there are no luggage racks on municipal buses) just because I can’t spring for a cab. The metro is a possibility if I were to ask the driver to drop me off at the nearest station, but this is even more painful, as my years living in New York taught me. Again, I would be that guy, except that now I will have to push my suitcases through the turnstiles and down the escalators. That, or beg the operator inside the toll booth to—pretty please with sprinkles on it—open a gate that will allow me to schlep my over-sized luggage through a mass of understanding and law abiding Washingtonians. Nope. It will have to be the cab, all the way through.
And I enjoy cruising in the cab. This is not the loud grind of a bajaj engine negotiating the potholes in Bongo, but the steady hum of a well maintained taxi that is virtually flying up the I-395. That said, it doesn’t take long to be reminded of just what sent my blood pressure racing to the roof for all of the years I lived in the States, and the reminders are beautiful colors that glide past me in blue and red and yellow and green. The problem is that these colors belong to the automobiles clogging the I-395, which means a traffic jam. I spend the time checking out the license plates. There’s Texas, Virginia, New York, Texas again. Washington, D.C., Pennsylvania, New Hampshire, Texas again (where do they all come from? Right, Texas, I get it. But why so many?). We are not moving. Finally, when I’m sure that I see a mother passing us with a stroller on a nearby sidewalk, the driver turns into Jefferson Davis Highway and eventually the Hilton, one of many highrise hotels that call Crystal City home.
There’s an ABC store across from the Hilton, a blues bar, and a chicken wings place. We can have junk (McDonald’s), or something more high end only a block from the hotel. Choices, another thing I missed about the States. I arrive at the hotel at around five, meaning this is when most people get off work. Liebi is there—she is done with her training classes for the day—and we have dinner. The kids are with the in-laws and will remain there until we gather them in three more days. For now, Liebi and I will get to relive DC the way we remember it—without children. Although we are aware that we might be posted here ourselves one day and the kids will experience The District up close and personal, for now it’s clean roads, a choice of good foods, piping hot weather, and some alone time with Liebi.
Yeah, I still dig DC.
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