Travel is limited, by definition. To optimize it, I make resolutions. Do I always follow them? Of course not. But I keep making them, just the same. This year, returning from an art-filled few weeks, I resolved to visit more museums. On Friday an opportunity presented itself, a meeting downtown. So I got myself moving earlier than planned so I could visit the National Gallery of Art.

It was the right thing to do. Right in so many ways. For one thing, it brought me off my European high horse. Do we have world-class art in the United States? Of course we do — and it’s time I started enjoying more of it. After all, I live in the D.C. suburbs, endure the D.C. traffic. Should I not enjoy the artistic treasures of our nation’s capital?

The visit was most worth it because of the paintings themselves. I hadn’t visited the National Gallery in years, thanks to the pandemic and the busyness of life. But from the moment I walked up the imposing stairs, I knew I was in for a treat.

There were Monets, Cezannes and Renoirs: the bridge at Giverny, the cathedral at Rouen. There were Gainsboroughs and Constables and Turners. There was a portrait of Abraham Lincoln by George Healy, who I’d just been reading about in The Greater Journey.

For a moment I thought I was back in Paris, turning my head sideways to take in every angle of a previous canvas or tapestry. But no, I was an hour away from my house. The precious canvas was close to home. It was, of course, a view of Paris.

(Boulevard des Italiens, Morning, Sunlight by Camille Pissarro)