This Land Is My Land

It is shortly after lunch when we leave the museum.  The day is ours to plan. 

This is my favorite trip of the year for this reason.  We are unleashed on a beautiful city with loads to do and no calendar to keep.  We can go anywhere at any time. We can change plans at any minute. If something interesting distracts us, we can change direction.  We are on no one's time but our own. All three of us deciding to together what we'll do. 

Lunch at a favorite place.  A trip to the Old Post Officebuilding. Ben and Jerry's is on our minds and we go hog wild.  I wish my post office sold ice cream cones. Maybe I'd mail more stuff. 

We see a sign for the Tower Tour and decide to detour there. We ride up a dozen floors in the elevator with the mortar inspector who freaks us all out at the top when he shimmies out the window on a leash.  We can see everything from up there and take loads of pictures, including a few of the lonely Washington Monument and the Official Congressional Bells. They have their own bells? Who knew?

We walk toward the Koshland Science Center by way of the Navy Memorial. We are serenaded by some men in uniform who are getting promoted. Anchors Aweigh never sounded so good. I can't help thinking of my Dad.

The Science Center is run by an uncommonly boring yet very talkative older lady who won't leave us alone. I am toying with the idea of pretending to be deaf. Or diseased in some way. Maybe if I sneeze a lot and don't cover my face?  She is unrelenting and will not leave us alone. I am praying for a group of school children to come in. I toy with the idea of pulling the fire alarm. To get her to go away, I have to pretend to be engrossed in learning how one's brain develops and then withers and turns to mush.  And its effect on your driving abilities (which is actually hilarious). She steps away, thankfully, as I take a seat in the driving simulator to see how withered a driver I am.

We make our way to the Newseum - the museum devoted to the freedoms I hold dear.  It is the best deal in town. Kids go in for free with a paying adult (that would be moi) and the tickets are good for two days. And we love every square foot of this place. We take in what we can before closing, vowing to return the next day. The newest exhibit is about the influence of the press on elections. That's worth the price of admission. We'll be back before the place closes tomorrow.

After a long day we head to the hotel in a cab, anxious to end the day with a swim, some relaxation and plans for dinner.

I get some ice and some wine. The kids get into their suits. We head up stairs to the roof top pool looking forward to getting off of our tired feet and relaxing a bit. It is a great view.  The sun is sitting low. The city looks beautiful. The kids jump in and cool off. I sit back and take a calming sip.

Until I notice the man at the next table. While his kids swim at their own risk, his wife reads a book. And he, with nothing to occupy himself, takes to maniacally examining and picking his own feet.

Leg bent across his knee, he is bent in half with his face inches from his feet (very flexible).  He is shamelessly digging in between his toes, and picking under his nails. It's as though he's never seen his feet before, and would you look at that?  They're cruddy!  To my ever lasting horror, he is blindly flicking ---flicking whatever it is he digs out...in my direction!

I look around. Is anyone else seeing this? He should be hauled away in handcuffs for outrageous hygiene offenses against humanity!  I cover the mouth of my cup with my hand and look frantically around for another table outside of flicking range.  Nothing. I am in a near panic. I am trapped in the war zone. I am imagining a floater in my wine.  God help me and all that is holy if I come across a foreign object in a mouthful of wine. They will have to cart me off the roof in a locked box.

I stand up and am on the verge of screaming to my kids to evacuate the area. Before I can do so, and as he switches feet and begins to excavate the other foot, my kids climb out of the pool and walk toward me with their towels.  I don't need to screach just yet. Hil takes note of the situation and is visibly appalled - and mesmerized by The Picker. She starts to back away. Like a Stepford Wife, I brightly suggest we go shower and decide where to go for dinner. We can just as easily decide that in our room. We quickly gather our things ( I give everything a shake just in case..) and head to the room.

Once in the room, the kids peacefully decide who will shower first (this never happens). Hil is chatting on Facetime regaling a friend with stories of all the fun we're having. Pat is reading about the White House tour out loud to us. I am recovering from my brush with foot fungus by breathing into a paperbag and perusing the maps and dining guides. I narrow our dinner choices to two.
An hour or two later, as we head out to a quaint Italian restaurant in our neighborhood, the moon is full.  And so is my heart.