What am I doing here?

Sometimes, if I pay attention to when I’m not paying attention, I notice a strange phenomenon.

It starts off simply enough.  You’re driving home from work.  A drive you’ve made hundreds, nay, thousands of times.  And you switch into autopilot.  You don’t need to pay that much attention.  You could probably make the drive with your eyes closed.  Like you’ve done several times just for fun.  I would never attempt such a feat.  That would be reckless and irresponsible.  (Luckily, with the invention of Siri and voice-recognition software, texting while driving with one’s eyes closed has not been rendered any more difficult.)

And then you say to yourself (because you often talk to yourself while you’re driving with your eyes closed), “Why am I driving so close to the line?”  You don’t need to be that far over.  There is nothing in the road, presenting a hazard, necessitating the path you have chosen.

Then you open your eyes realize the reason for your errant driving.  The car in front of you is driving along the center line.  Your autopilot has switched to a “follow” mode.  You’re simply keeping with the track the car ahead is taking.  You casually slide back to the center of the lane and continue on your way.

I was walking back from lunch.  I walk through several buildings and a parking lot.  It’s the shortest route.  Or so I’ve convinced myself.  In the parking garage, there is a pedestrian lane to one side, so as to keep us wayfarers out of harms reach.  I found myself walking behind a woman.  As she neared the entrance to the walkway over the boulevard below, she stepped up onto the “sidewalk” just in front of the elevators.  As she walked the 3 feet along the landing, I found myself following in her path.  Also for 3 feet.  At which point, I wondered, half aloud, “Why did I do that?”  My autopilot had switched to “follow” mode.

We walked down the handicap ramp and strolled across the walkway.  It wasn’t until I was 4 blocks past my destination that I realized what had happened.  I flipped the autopilot switch from “follow” to “off.”  It was 10 minutes later that I finally happened upon someone who was headed to my building.  Luckily.  Had my aimless ambling not been arbitrated, it’s anyone’s guess where I might have ended up.

Quelle promenade (part deux)

Continuing the saga…

Determined to see something worthwhile, after a day of less than successful sightseeing, we headed back to the hotel. The view from our room was not spectacular. But it was ok.

We could see into the buildings across the way from us. It seems no one knows how to close their drapes. We used this for our entertainment. We watched as several apartments of DC-ites went about their nightly lives.

There was a young man who seemed to be dusting picture frames in one apartment. He spent what seemed like the majority of the half hour or so we were watching in a particular area, tending to whatever it was he was tending to. Topless. Just milling about in pajama pants. His wife/girlfriend kept walking into the room, which seemed to bother him. It distracted from his task. Once he finished, she spent a few minutes on the same task. How dusty are those picture frames?

There was another woman, a floor or two above the dusters, who couldn’t seem to relax. The television was on. But she refused to sit down and enjoy whatever she was watching. (I know there was a baseball game on in one of the apartments.) She hadn’t even changed out of her scrubs yet. Apparently, no one in DC knows how to relax.

Caitlutz asked what they were all doing. To which PeachJello replied, “Living.” Unfortunately, “living” doesn’t entail the types of things you see on television. No murders. No trysts. Nothing exciting. Unless you count sitting on your balcony reading exciting. I do not.

The next morning, on my way down to straighten out our room charges, I ran into an interesting woman on the elevator. Her brother in law was being sworn in as the ambassador to Luxembourg that day. They had a delightful Italian dinner the night before. It would be Thai tonight. She liked to share.

Then we were off to meet our French friends. Another day of strolling the streets. This time in the shopping district. The girls love to shop. I love to walk around, apparently.

Of course, there were the obligatory stops at cupcake shops. Two notes:

1. The cupcakes at Georgetown Cupcakes are much better than the acting the sisters do on the show.
2. If you are a judge on a show about cupcakes, I hold you to higher expectations than normal cupcake shops. You did not live up to the expectations to which I hold normal cupcake shops.
3. Cupcake shops in DC have not yet figured out how to fit appropriate seating into their small footprints.
4. I cannot count.

Finally came the sad moment when we had to say goodbye to PetitOrange and her family. I’m sure they were glad to be rid of the crazy Americans who walked them all over creation. Not to worry, they’ll have their chance at revenge when we visit on their turf. Sadly, Vasilios will have to wait until then to hear my spot on British accent.

Quelle promenade (part une)

PetitOrange and her family came all the way from Paris to visit our nation’s capital. It was the least we could do to make the six-hour drive to visit them. I don’t care how anyone stereotypes the French, these are some of the nicest people I have ever had the pleasure of knowing. And I’m not just saying that because they have offered to let us visit them in Paris.

While we were waiting to check in to our hotel, we met an…interesting couple. Ed Cooper and his wife Something Something-Cooper. “Two names,” she quipped. Their son lives just down the street. They were there for a wedding. Their room wasn’t ready either. So we chatted. And he busted out the boxed wine. Because nothing says welcome to DC like a good box of wine. Except anything not a box of wine.

One of their other sons had recently married. A Spanish woman. They had three weddings. When Ed found out Caitlutz was taking Spanish, he took it upon himself to test her. “How do you say 5 in Spanish?” he asked. He was quite pleased that she had obtained a level of knowledge taught from Sesame Street. A level Punkers, at two, has reached. Nonetheless, Ed was satisfied she could find make her way through Spain with such extensive vocabulary.

Ed, being the Spanish expert he was, since his son has a Spanish wife, then went on to provide her with some helpful tips. Such as if her trip to Spain next year was going to be in Barcelona (not the likely destination of Madrid, and the Madrid area that he was told), the pronunciation of some things was a little different. Based on the above example, he told her, “In Barcelona, it would be pronounced ‘thinco.’ Because the letter c makes a ‘th’ sound.”

Unfortunately, our room was now ready. We had to part ways with this delightful couple and make our way to the room, glass of box wine in hand. Lest you be worried our dear friends would forget us, Ed had been taking notes on us the entire time. Spelling our names correctly, since he guessed incorrectly on each one originally.

The wine sat untouched in our room until we left the hotel the next morning.

We met up with PetitOrange and her family and had a delightful dinner. We made plans to meet the next day and bid them adieu. Because they’re French.

The next day was spent walking around our political mecca. A lot of walking. We walked by the gates in front of the White House (complete with a heavily armed man doing a bush check by the fence). We walked by the gates of the Department of the Treasury. Next was the fence at the back of the White House. (Which seems much smaller in person than you see on television. It could be the half mile perimeter you couldn’t breach. I offered Caitlutz $100 if she scaled the fence. $1000 if she could run all the way up to the presidential abode. She declined.)

We then proceeded to the closed Washington Monument, and its chain-link fence. I was informed it should be open sometime next year. Something about the ground falling, or some such nonsense. What a way to impress our jet lagged French amis. They took it all in stride. They’re good people like that.

Next up was good ol’ Honest Abe. I was hoping to sit in his lap. Snap a pic. You know, touristy stuff. I guess Abe was tired. There was a black tarp covering him. I don’t know if he was sleeping. He may have been changing. We didn’t walk all the way down there to find out. We merely admired the black tarp from the other end of the Reflecting Pool. Which, as you can see, isn’t so reflecty these days.

In my opinion, the walking to successful sightseeing ratio was way out of proportion. I’m sure the French would agree. They were much more accepting of the situation than I would have been. They’re six hours ahead of us, you know. So it must have been a terribly long day for them. It was for me. And I didn’t change timezones at all.

At least we did get to see this guy in the crosswalk on the way to the Smithsonian. (You know, the castle one. With nothing exciting in it. That we had to see.) No rhyme or reason. No brethren anywhere else. Just one lonely robot man. Being trampled. Hands-down, best sight of the day.