Fireflies

I saw my first fireflies two evenings ago. Magical, as if someone gave cameras to bugs, and they were taking flash pictures of the impatiens. We were coming back from a delicious Board dinner at New Heights in Washington, D.C. (the other Washington), a Zagat-rated restaurant that would have been pretty close to sublime in many ways if they could lose the attitude.

The next night saw us hot and sweaty from heavy-duty way too many monumements touristing, in the Lebanese Taverna across the street. We adults grazed on scruptious mezze, while Little One stuffed fresh-baked pita with chunks of the butter that our gracious server—no attitude here—provided him. I realized I had asked for a table for four: my mother brain seems to have forgotten that Number One was lodged with the Mistress of Indulgence, and is probably too busy cruising the mall with her minions to have time to miss us.

We were sorely tempted by signs and awnings reading Petits Plats, Murphy’s Pub, and Organic Chinese Food among others, but there are only so many meals we can eat in a 24-hour period, and the friction economy is alive and well, gobbling up far too much of our time, and forcing us to resort to grab and go meals far too often.

But this city seems to be at odds with itself: L’Enfant’s sweeping views and allées, heavily influenced by his contemporary Haussmann’s Paris, has been filled with enough concrete barriers to sink an island the size of Manhattan. Bollards and fences everywhere ignore the meandering nature of nineteenth century pathways, forcing tourists into TSA-like cattle chutes. A folly tucked into the woods is inaccessible from the reflecting pool on the Mall.

It is easy to see the magic that this city once hold, and perhaps I am jaded by travel and extremely muggy weather, but I can’t help but feel that the spirit and history of the city is being stifled in the name of security.