Road Trip '09, Part One - On the Road

The most important journeys in our lives always seem to involve family and friends. So it was with our Road Trip '09. Family was calling. The need to see loved ones face to face, to embrace, to tell our stories and to laugh together was strong. Carol suggested that we forsake the airlines, make it a road trip. This surprised the heck out of me, because Carol is the first to tell you that she hates riding in the car. Family can be surprising.

The appeal of a road trip was strong. We could see friends along the way whom we haven't seen in years. We could at long last visit Frank Lloyd Wright's Fallingwater. We could take in the beauty of the American landscape. So, on May 9, our journey began.

The Wisconsin River at daybreak, Portage, Wisconsin

Our first stop would be Dayton, Ohio, to see our friends, Ken and Emelda Dahms. Minneapolis to Dayton was the longest stretch of the two-week trip, so we left home a day early. After we left Rowdie with Joanna, Bob and all the dogs with the assurance that we would return and she would once again be the princess, we set out midday to knock off a couple hours of driving. This plan got us to Portage, WI, a gem of a small town in the beautiful rolling hills near the Wisconsin Dells. We had a good dinner, a good night's sleep, and a good look at the well-kept old village when we departed early the next morning. As a bonus, we earned 490 Super 8 Motel points and were treated to the stunning sunrise view as we crossed the bridge on our way out of town.

Our first full day's drive took us through the expanse of farmlands of Indiana and gradually into the hills of western Ohio. Someone once described the sensation of driving across the vastness of flat terrain as a feeling of standing still. The land is so open and you can see so far that you feel suspended in space and even time. You can't allow yourself to be in a hurry on this kind of journey. You let your mind and your heartbeat slow, and you take it all in. You talk to your companion, but more often there is quiet. You have time to think all the grand thoughts and all the small ones that you care to entertain. Oh, and when you've have enough of all that, you put disc one of your book-on-tape into the CD player. Then disc two, disc three, four, five, and...

At the end of the day, we followed Emelda's excellent directions downhill on a country road, turned left onto the gravel road just before the new bridge, meandered a few hundred yards through woodlands next to a small creek and found ourselves at the home of our longtime friends.

Ken & Emelda Dahms, our friends for many years

Have you ever experienced a reunion with friends whom you haven't seen in years and you just fall into an easy camaraderie as if you have lived all that time as neighbors on the same block? This was how it was with Ken and Emelda. We gave and received the first embraces of our two-week journey, were given cold drinks (ahhh! A beer after a long day in the car!), and fell into animated conversation that was more or less uninterrupted over the next day and a half together.

Ken and Emelda treated us like visiting royalty, showing us their favorite restaurants, taking us on a lovely hike through the Ohio countryside, showing us all the points of interest in the region and on their property and all the while making sure of our comfort. What I'll remember most of this visit was the lively conversations, which seemed to be nonstop. We talked politics, social policy, sports, family, work, retirement and a few dozen other topics. Ken has always possessed an inquisitive mind and an irrepressible desire (need?) to share his ideas and find out what yours are. So it was always a lively time.

Ken and Emelda bought their small home on several wooded acres in rural Ohio thirty years ago. Over time, Cincinnati to the south and Dayton to the north continued to expand until the once bucolic countryside has been overrun with residential subdivisions, malls, convenience stores and the other signs of unrelenting growth. Over that same time, our friends have bought a couple acres here and a couple there, so that their home is a true retreat from all the modern hubbub. You can look out of any one of the many uncurtained windows of their home and see nothing but trees. If you stay longer than Carol and I were able, say thirty years or so, you grow familiar with foxes, deer, raccoons and numerous other creatures of the forest. You learn the names of dozens of varieties of birds that are your most frequent visitors. Just up the hill from their kitchen window is a residential subdivision; if you try very hard, you can just make out a patch of roof of one house. A short walk will take you to the road which is busy with commuters in the morning and evening. If you try very hard, you still cannot see or hear the road with its activity.

We were up and out the door, coffee cups in hand, early Tuesday morning. Our next stop would be Washington, D.C. Today's drive would take us over four hundred miles through the old worn-down mountains of eastern Ohio, western Pennsylvania and Maryland, different terrain from the farmland we had crossed two days previously.

The Youghiogheny Reservoir in western Pennsylvania
(If you think you can pronounce that, let us know.)

More than once on our drive we noted the similarity of the countryside to that of la Dordogne. I admit that this required a bit of imagination, but the likeness was there. Missing, of course, were the thousand-year old churches and chateaux, the small villages nearly as old and the tiny restaurants that invite (almost demand) that the traveler stop and sample their unique and tasty offerings. This reflection would bring a smile to our faces and a bit of silent reflection of our time there last fall.

Along our route, we couldn't help but notice the baseball fields. From the highway we saw the minor league park of the Washington, Pennsylvania, Wild Things. In virtually every smaller town we spotted the playing fields of the children, perhaps among them a future major leaguer or two.

As the day rolled on, an unmistakeable change occurred all around us. Long stretches of pastoral scenery became punctuated more frequently with larger and larger towns. The highway grew crowded. Our heart rates ticked up a notch as we had to pay a little more attention. We were in the East.

Soon, Interstate 495, the D.C. Beltway, sucked us into its frantic midday flow of traffic, spitting us out just as quickly onto Connecticut Avenue. We were in our old stomping grounds. Then we were turning left on Porter Road, crossing Rock Creek Park and entering Mount Pleasant, our home for four years in the 1970's. We parked in front of 1811 Lamont Street, NW, got out of the car and stretched mightily and knocked on the door of our former neighbor and still good friend, Wolsey Semple. Ferocious barking greeted us. Through sheer curtains we could see gaping jaws and sharp teeth just itching to get at us. Wolsey's German Shepherd, Othello, was doing his job, and doing it well. Then the door opened. Wolsey welcomed us once again into his home. Seeing his master embrace us in welcome was good enough for Othello. We became his new best friends, just like that. From that moment on, he permitted us to scratch his ear, rub his back and take him for walks whenever we wished.

Hanging out at Mama Ayesha's with Wolsey

Our old neighborhood. Some things never change.

Over the next two days Carol and I roamed the neighborhood and the city on our own. In the evening we'd meet up with Wolsey for dinner and conversation. There are countless high quality restaurants in Washington, but on our trips back there, we always end up at Mama Ayesha's. In her day, Mama served up cheap, delicious Middle Eastern cuisine. She used only fresh produce from her farm in Virginia. The restaurant wasn't much to look at back then, but you could always count on a good meal and a good time with friends there. Mama is long gone, but her family still runs the place. They've jazzed up the facade and the interior, and nudged the prices up a bit, but the food is still great and it's still a good deal. Wolsey told our waiter that we were visitors from the Midwest and had frequented the restaurant many years ago. Our waiter, Mama's grandson, is twenty-eight, Ellen's age. He wasn't born when we were on the scene.

Mama Ayesha's, a favorite of ours since forever.

Washington has changed a lot since we lived there. On Wednesday morning, we walked ten minutes to the Metro station on 14th Street. In the seventies, 14th Street was a place you steered clear of, a burned out remnant of the riots of the sixties. Now it is teeming with traffic, both motorized and pedestrian. The streets are lined with upscale condominiums, coffee shops and trendy stores. There is even a Target store.

We boarded a Metro train, and eleven minutes later emerged from underground onto the Mall! No traffic snarls. No parking woes. We spent the entire day on the Mall reveling in being the tourists we tolerated with disdain so many years ago. We spent most of our time at the National Gallery of Art, drawn by the desire to see its newest building, designed by I.M. Pei. I also wanted to visit Salvador Dali's Last Supper. When we lived in Washington, I would make my way from time to time to the National Gallery for the sole purpose of standing and studying this amazing painting. It used to hang by itself in a grand stairwell. Now it is found, still in solitary splendor, on the lower level next to the elevators. The painting's unlikely showplace is not an insult to the artist, as it would first appear to a visitor who comes across it in its out-of-the-way corner. The people who donated the painting to the National Gallery did so on the condition that it would always be displayed in a setting where it apart from other works of art.

The National Gallery of Art addition, designed by I.M. Pei

An Alexander Calder mobile in the foyer of the new building.

Outside the National Gallery of Art.

Springtime in Washington, D.C.

It was a beautiful day on the Mall.

After touring the National Gallery, we grabbed a snack in the cafeteria. It was about eleven a.m., and the cafeteria has only just opened. A handful of tourists were there when we arrived. Ahead of us in line was an older man dressed in what I would call a $1,500 lobbyist's suit. He ordered a sandwich and a split of champagne. When he handed the cashier a hundred dollar bill, she said she could not make change. He reached into his pocket and extracted a thick roll of bills, fingered through them but was unable to find anything smaller! His credit card saved the day.

After our snack, we took in the new American Indian Museum, another stunning addition to the Smithsonian. Like the many other Smithsonian Museum buildings, a person could spend weeks absorbing all that it has to offer. The museum's stellar cafeteria offered Native American cuisine, with offerings from each of the many geographical regions inhabited by various tribes. The plank-roasted salmon from the Pacific Northwest was nothing less than irresistible, but we left with the desire to return and try each of the regions.

If you asked me what my favorite city in the world is, I'd answer without hesitation, Paris. But I must add that Washington, D.C., takes second place. No other city comes close. (Okay. I'm not the greatest of world travelers, and I haven't seen all that many cities, but I still mean it.) It's not coincidental that Washington was designed by a Frenchman, Pierre L'Enfant, and that its layout mimics that of Paris with its many traffic circles. D.C. is a lovely city, with an international flavor and a pulsing excitement that are hard to match. What sets Paris and Washington apart, for me, is that they are both places where I would be satisfied to do nothing other than walk about their streets. Well, that and eat in their restaurants. But that is all I would need to do.