Drive-by Bye.

London, ON — The darkness of night suddenly swirled in blue and red, the silence of a quiet evening shattered by sirens and high-revving engines.

Connecticut Avenue had become a police disco.

Had someone hit a cyclist? The response, within minutes, of more than a dozen police cars and fire trucks wailed of great tragedy.

Little did we know.

Behind our hotel, four men had jumped out of a carjacked Alfa Romeo and fired more than 50 rounds — including with a semi-automatic rifle — in a targeted killing that also left a bystander with significant injuries. My partner had walked past the spot 20 minutes earlier. I had been there a couple hours prior, and countless times before.

When I first started coming to Washington D.C. more than 30 years ago, it was understood you had to be careful to not cross the wrong streets or you could suddenly end up in a bad area. Having walked through much of the city since, I’ve never felt unsafe.

Row, row, row.

And, despite being the site of an assassination attempt on President Ronald Reagan in 1981, the area around the Washington Hilton hardly qualifies as bad.

Violent crime and homicide have increased steadily in the district in recent years, though, reaching rates unseen in 20 years. It’s immediately obvious more people are experiencing homelessness than when I was there last. The pandemic cannot have helped.

Having spent the day driving home, we have been left reflecting on change, on life, on equity. And on a love I still have for D.C.

Vitals:

• Time: 12 hours
• Distance: 969.3 kms
• Province/States: Washington D.C., Maryland, Pennsylvania, New York, Ontario
  
• Weather: Sunny and mild
• Wildlife: A panic-stricken coyote, struck by a car and unable to move its legs

Column Maybe.

Capital I, Capital I, Capitol I.

Washington, DC — With each swing of my arms, I water the plants dotting narrow gardens that extend like long, manicured fingers from colourfully painted homes.

Sun flits through the leaves, casting shadows that slow dance across the sidewalk like awkward sixth-graders, languid and tentative. It’s that hot. Even first thing in the morning, the air folds its grasp around my lungs.

It’s a greenhouse.

But I push on through Truxton Circle and NoMa, past Union Market and on to Ivy City. I've been through prettier, and apparently much safer, parts of the city. 

Arriving at the United States National Arboretum, my reddened face is in stark contrast to all the green.

Twenty-two Corinthian sandstone columns rise before me like chess pieces, seemingly misplaced in a vast meadow buzzing with crickets. I have come across the final resting place for most of the original columns of the United States Capitol.

Built in 1826, they served as the backdrop for countless historical events, including Presidential inaugurations from 1829 to 1957 — Andrew Jackson to Dwight Eisenhower. Now, they stand solemnly, a human creation set in nature, whispering stories amidst the low rustle of leaves.

Fitness, stubbornness and a love of exploring still have me walking everywhere. 

At 41 degrees, however, this may not have been the wisest day to hike 23 kilometres.

But my reward: top-notch beers at Other Half Brewing.

Czech Mark.

Will that be Visa or Mastercard?

Washington, DC — Beer? Check. Cheese? Check.

Embassy visit? Czech.

It may not be my conference, but I'm not often afforded opportunities to attend receptions at embassies. Think of the stories! Unsurprisingly, it doesn't take much convincing for me to tag along this evening. 

I’m still an Uber newbie, though, and am a little surprised when a Tesla pulls up. I fumble about the recessed handles, not entirely sure how to open the streamlined door. When I finally do, the dash-mounted screen blips with cars and pedestrians caught in the radar as they cross in front of us.

Space Invaders has come a long way.

Na Zdraví!

We wind through green hills in the north end of the city and slalom down a curvy road into which a few embassies have tucked themselves. My glasses dim with fog as I arrive at the gate framing the Embassy of the Czech Republic. Everyone files though security but me.

My passport is in another car.

We’re greeted with local Czech-style beer and wine, plates of cheeses and meats, and goulash with dumplings. Beef, salmon, pasta and salads. It’s a nice spread in a room lined with an inordinate number of nude sculptures and paintings.

We’re told that the grounds are largely devoid of flat spaces to prevent people from jumping out of windows in attempts to escape with information. Lessons learned, apparently.

Despite the conviviality, all I can think of as I look around the room at everyone eating and drinking without masks is the all-too-reality that someone here has COVID and is passing it around. I regret for a moment deciding this was a story I wanted to experience.

But there’s no escaping now.

(Postscript: COVID was indeed present and several attendees have since become sick.)

Foul.

A monumental homerun.

Washington, D.C. – I’m greeted by the fetid smells of a humid city on trash day.

It seems I’ve been here enough the past couple years to fall into the city’s rhythms and to navigate the bustle of the off-to-work crowd and the heat alike. To know the roads well enough to know the ‘do not cross’ signal is a mere suggestion.

But, to watch out at roundabouts.

To find coffee, food and good beer (best of the lot: Churchkey).

It still doesn’t prepare me for how large my peppered salmon bagel from Bethesda Bagels is going to be – the thing must be four inches thick. Naturally, this is the one time I’ve forgotten to grab some napkins.

At least the pigeons, pecking around me with a suspicious and eager eye, will love me as I clumsily eat it in installments, first at a tiny pocket park at Dupont Circle, then at the Washington Monument. It does, however, fuel my six-mile walk to the ballpark, where I find myself surrounded by the snap of ball-to-glove and square-shaped fans clutching tall cans.

I must be getting old: I’ve opted for shade over proximity to the field of play. As the day drags on, the usher pushes the crowd farther back and under the overhang. Then, a storm brews in the distance.

For the moment, however, the only brews at the game wear jerseys like Budweiser and Shock Top. So much for the craft beer invasion.

I may have found my rhythm, but it turns out it doesn’t matter what city you’re in: baseball is still boring.

Heated.

No lower cases tried here.

Washington, DC – Sweat beads on my arm in shapes that seem to spell out how hot it is, even early in the morning.

It’s not long before I drip with a clatter against the pavement – noises lost to the sounds of the city.

Crossing the road, a man carries a half-eaten banana, a box of cookies and another freshly pressed shirt. He knows the one he’s wearing won’t make it.

A line of men with the same idea follows – this must be a drycleaner’s dream.

The city’s past, meanwhile, is reflected in countless glass structures being erected in the southern sector of the city. An old red-brick church stands forlornly, temporarily displaced into the middle of the street.

It’s hard to imagine it’s the only thing being displaced during this period of rapid gentrification.

I venture down to the East Capitol Street area, one of the district’s oldest and priciest neighbourhoods. Flowering trees form awnings over the sidewalks, but I preferred gawking at the homes in Georgetown.

As I make my way back behind the Capitol Building, though, I’m struck by how much – even with my distaste for the politics – this building, and this area, are awe-inspiring.

Quite a Row.

I flagged in the heat, too.

Washington, D.C. – Even in the full force of heat, gas lamps dance in daylight – exclamation marks framing monied porch stoops.

You can almost imagine the buxom trees surrounding them to shed $100 bills onto the walkway.

Wandering through Embassy Row and on to Georgetown is a wonder for architecture lovers, even amateur ones. There’s a history told in these pillars, alcoves and archways.

Some of these buildings are so old and tied to intrigue their stories only come out in whispers.

Many are dressed in fresh coats of paint and with modern numbers or open concept interiors that allow the timepiece to shift somewhat, but they retain the beauty of their neo-classical and beaux-arts styles.

Turning toward Georgetown, under the university’s towering structures atop the hill, a group of jovial homeless people tucked into a theatre entranceway spin conspiracy yarns about declassified CIA files. Some things never change.

I’m grateful for the canopies of foliage that shield me from some of the brooding heat. My path is drawn by closely cropped waxy greens and buckled red bricks, crooked like misplaced teeth.

Centuries of roots laid down are now trying to surface.

There’s a parallel to be found in today’s political climate in the U.S., of course.

Porter Fail.

Religion tends to be a little fuzzy for me.

Breezewood, PA – The peak-lined sky shimmers, translucent like vellum, layered and folded-over in Pennsylvania’s mountains, adding a depth to the panorama rising before us.

At the corners, the sky narrows in, smudging in depths of charcoal.

It’s a surreal evening on the roads.

That’s right: the roads.

After a week in D.C., we received an email alert two hours prior to our Porter Airlines flight home we had been cancelled until Monday. Yes, two-and-a-half days from now. No explanation: just cancelled. Hotels in the American capital aren’t cheap.

Looking for answers, we called the long-distance number, which doesn’t appear to work in the U.S., despite the airline servicing several American cities. Still no explanation.

Do I look angry?

We had gone for one last wander through the city – up to Embassy Row, and to Washington National Cathedral, which suffered more than $34 million in damages from a 2011 earthquake that affected the eastern seaboard – but now found ourselves on our way to Reagan National Airport to rent a car.

Our taxi driver repeatedly got lost, and twice nearly had his tires spiked trying to navigate the parking garage. I watched the clock tock toward six o’clock, thinking of the road ahead.

Meanwhile, neo-Nazis clashed with protesters two hours away, leaving a woman and two police officers dead. Get me out of this country.

We had debated driving through the night, but with the skyline’s teeth now melted into black, the winding tape before us whispering to be prudent.

Hello, unexpectedly, Pennsylvania.

Thank you for having us.

Vitals:

• Time: Two hours, six minutes.
• Distance: 200.8 kms
• Weather: Sun, rain, fog, nightfall.
• States: Washington D.C., Virginia, Maryland, Pennsylvania
• Wildlife: None

No Words.

Duck, Duck, USA.

Memorial Day.

Washington D.C. – Cicadas rub wings to their legs, adding a sonic electricity to the lush gardens serving as feather boas to the grand dames of historic houses surrounding historic Dupont Circle.

It’s a liveliness lost for most of a day spent reflective, awed and as silent as the marble and stone memorials dotting the city. Emerging at an angle from the earth, the Vietnam Memorial reads like the black pages of a phone book. Such gravitas: so many names and so much youth lost in the jungles of a country where I made very different memories.

Later, bells ring out over Arlington National Cemetery, which gleams like a perfectly arranged smile in the early morning light. A single red bouquet breaks up the repetition, like having something stuck between its teeth.

Changing of the guard has taken place here since 1937, and sentinels’ boots now clack with precision in the pin-drop silence facing the tomb of the unknown soldier.

Lincoln, Martin Luther King, FDR, Jefferson. The National Korean War Monument, with its ghost-like sculptures of faces haggard by war, seem to seep through the foliage. It’s one of the most evocative memorials I’ve experienced.

Finally, the Holocaust Museum and the Air and Space Museum.

I’ve taken more than 41,000 steps today and have still seen more memorials than I’ve taken steps.

No doubt I’ll remember both tomorrow.

I, Spy.

When the museum itself is art.

Washington D.C. – A light rain falls like a cooling mister (when the missus is away). It’s a welcome break from D.C.’s typical August heat.

In fact, the air along Massachusetts Avenue is filled with pungent aromas that whisk you away to the tropics. While the humidity has not yet awoken, you know it’s not far off. And yet, much of yesterday’s yoga gear and running shorts have been replaced by finely tailored Brooks Brothers suits and patterned dresses. For many, it’s back to the work week.

Arriving at the International Spy Museum, I’m tasked with remembering a cover identify as I slink between exhibits of ciphers, poison pens and props from the James Bond franchise: spies, real and imagined, surround us in the city most notorious for them in the world.

I passed the exit interview, but have no illusions: I would not make a good spy.

(Or would I?)

Making my way to the Smithsonian American Art Museum and National Portrait Gallery after a veggie burger at City Tap House, the rains rise, smelling like a violent sea. Between an exhibit of glossy images of John F. Kennedy hang gritty portraits of war by Tim Hetherington. Folk art toys dance with plastic-wrapped arcade games ready to be unveiled for a future exhibit. Should they still be operational, the noise in these gilded halls will be deafening.

Sculptures appear to dissolve into the air. The artist breathed essence into breasts, soft in life, yet hardened in marble. Youth has been captured for an eternity: she is, as then, unknown – not aged, but unforgotten.

Around a corner, Sylvia Plath’s childhood ponytail wraps around sheets of her words and sketches in ink, bled onto pink paper. Never a fan, I become one.

Following the pixelated path home through the sky’s deceit, homeless men rise from blankets tucked into the corners, tapping on smart phones nicer than mine.

This is a connected era. Plath’s typewriter absorbed enough pain.

D.C. in Silence.

Give me a 'capitol' W.

Washington D.C. – The streets remain dormant on Sunday morning: my only companion is the fetid stench of trash day as I make my way down Connecticut Avenue.

It’s early, though, and the pavement of this historic city is as yet unpainted by footsteps. That will soon change.

It’s like President Trump (which still feels strange to type) has taken everyone with him on his 17-day vacation. (Or, they’ve run away, exhausted by the early days of his tenure.)

Or, perhaps everyone is at church – apart from those less fortunate, lying supine on benches lining the parks’ boundaries. While it’s still comfortable out, you know the humidity is parked around the corner, engine running.

The National Museum of American History, hit at the heat of day with crowds of cellphones snapping, is a bit of a disappointment. I must have missed some of the most interesting exhibits. Perhaps I had just tired of no longer having solitude.

At the Newseum, however, silence.

Visitors stare at the antenna that stood atop the north tower of the World Trade Center prior to 9/11. Only the tinny, looped newscast echoes, replaying the horrors of the day.

So ingrained, they do anyway.