The Streets of DC

Dinner is wonderful.  The atmosphere is fun. The decor and the crowd are eclectic. The food divine.  The kids and I make notes throughout the meal planning our days and attempting to cram as much activity as humanly possible into every day. We are new to this neighborhood so I am going to need to get my bearings.  I suggest we walk to the White House Tourist Center the following morning, making that area of town our first destination. That way, I'll know if we can walk there on Tuesday, or need to arrange for a cab, or figure out the Metro.  The kids are excited to be here, so they agree. Mostly because I bribed them with a trip to the Krispy Kreme we discovered on the circle and I sprang for a round of doughnuts.

We have been looking forward to the White House tour for months, though we only found out about being granted a tour a few weeks ago. It is quite a production. Writing your Congressman, exchanging information.  Background checks, travel details, identities and other particulars about each member of your party.  And then, you wait. We were notified just two short weeks ago. We are thrilled to be going, even though it sounds a little scary.  Show up carrying even one small forbidden item, as benign as a purse, and you are going to be jettisoned away by the Secret Service and questioned. And no one in your party will be admitted. No matter how disappointed.

But for now, we have to figure out how we're going to GET there, or getting in won't matter.  One must not be late. The Secret Service don't like the tardy.

In the morning, I pry my lethargic teenagers out of bed.  It is a chore but they manage to dress and groom before they stop serving the complimentary breakfast in the hotel dining room.  Good thing. I am spending  on this trip, a free bagel is a blessing.

We wander, however sluggishly into the dining room. I pour myself a second cup of coffee (I choked down the In-Room cup of coffee earlier. It may as well have been battery acid, and I am hoping for an improvement with the next round) and get some yogurt and granola.  The kids toast bagels and fill their plates with muffins and balance it all in one hand while getting bottles of OJ with their free hands. We find a table and I give everyone a hairy eyeball so they observe good table manners. 

That is, until the gentleman at the next table blows his nose. A la tornado warning. Twice.  And all bets are off. Each time the kids look at each other, they are choking back the laughter.  I decide it would not be a tragedy to take our muffins to go.

We return briefly to the room and head out. We have our map and our plans and our cameras. What we don't have are sunglasses, Band-Aids and sunscreen, all of which is still neatly packed in my overnight case.

Pat's new sneaks are giving him a blister. The sun threatens to scorch Hil's fair skin and make her burst into flame. I am blinded by the light and will surely wander into traffic with my two obedient charges in tow. We decide to splurge and get what we need at the local CVS.

And evidently, a local homeless man decided to do the same thing. 

Someone holds the door for him as he walks in.  All the staff become consumed by him.  He is no stranger to the CVS staff and they are following him and watching him and remarking to him while I roam the aisles looking for the things we need.  It is taking forever. This CVS is laid out differently than mine. I have no idea where I am going for anything. 

Hil picks a pair of $9 sunglasses. I decide to forgo a pair since she got the only cute pair and the rest are all $20.  I am not paying $20 to look like a member of the Starship Enterprise crew. Pat doesn't want any.  He wants a Band-Aid. I find a store brand variety pack that will last us the whole time we are in DC. Not necessary, but there are no mini packs of sterile bandages I've found. Bandage companies apparently assume multiple injuries. The kids and I find a spray on sunscreen we can all live with (Pat doesn't like the ones that smell too girly) and Hil chooses some gum.  And while she is deciding between two fruity fresh flavors, I hear a ruckus starting.

Mr. Homeless is apparently taking bottles of soda from the shelves and drinking them as he roams the store. He has also opened several packages of various types of snacks and is eating them as he wanders the magazine aisle (looking for something to read next to the fountain later).  The staff are encouraging him, rather, imploring him to come to the register to pay for his items at once. As if. 

At the same time, Register 2 opens and the young lady waves me over.  She patiently waits for me to find my CVS card and places all of my things in a bag.  It is twenty-three something. I reach into my wallet.

And as I do, I sense, with more than one of my very keen senses, that Mr. Homeless has decided to "pay" for his items at Register 2 also.  He has made his way to the register and is standing uncomfortably close to me.

I lean into the counter to gain another half inch of distance. I can hear him breathing. I am afraid to breathe.  I am afraid to take out my wallet.  I am afraid of a lot of things, mostly having to do with germs and having recently showered. I am afraid I am standing in the imaginary Pig Pen fog he's emanating. 

It seems to take forever, but I finish my transaction and scoot sharply to the left without stepping away from the counter. I am in no mood to have to burn my clothes today.  The kids have been waiting.

And observing.

Pat asks what was wrong with the guy.  I tell him he lives on the streets. He asks if he is wearing a wig. I tell him that no, that was his hair, and that he'd not had a hair cut in quite a long time. When you are homeless, you not only do not have a home, you don't have a lot of other things either, like a car, or food, or a toothbrush or a change of clothes.  Just for starters.

Hil says that when I was paying the cashier, I looked like I smelled something bad. 

I acknowledge that I had. She asks what it smelled like.  "Well, sweetie, not good. It smelled like BO, and urine, and dirty hair, and bad breath, and feet, and poop, and disease."

Both of them let out a long, under the breath, "Eeeeeewwww."  Hil says if she were in charge, no one would be homeless, there would be places they could go to get food and a bath and something to eat and some new clothes.

I explain that there are those places, but sometimes the people who are homeless have other problems that make them not want to go to them.

"What about their families or friends?" 

I tell her that some of those problems are very severe and friends and families who may have tried to help once may have given up. 

What an educational morning!  We haven't been to a single Smithsonian or even seen a glimpse of a monument and my kids have already had the civics lesson of a lifetime.