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The Concert

The Concert

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The tickets were a gift, generous and unbidden, and so the concert was, too. It had been a while since I sat in a hall while music poured over me, and I had forgotten how exciting it can be. Even the preliminaries: A rush to find parking in the limpid early evening, a parade of evening-dressed concertgoers entering the hall, taking a seat quickly before the lights dimmed.

The featured performer was Itzhak Perlman, and Lexington audiences are not used to having him around. The applause was loud and sustained — even before he began to play. But then — ahh — he did, and there was that familiar, charged concert stillness, and the violin singing out over it, taking us along.

 Perlman hunched over this violin, seemingly at one with it, and when he finished the opening section of the Tchaikovsky Violin Concerto, he used the fingers of his right hand, slightly cupped, to gesture “come here, come here,” to the first violin section, asking them for more, for a swell of sound to answer his lone voice. And they responded, this student orchestra that was most definitely not the New York or Vienna Philharmonic but which, last night, must have felt, just for a moment, like it was.

When the last notes sounded, the audience jumped to its feet.

Slow Start

Slow Start

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Sometimes the day starts slow and and will not move faster. Time to enjoy the many small steps that take me down a city block, the rising sun that reddens office windows, the man who walks ahead of me, a picture of the bureaucrat, black pants, blue long-sleeved shirt, the closure of a lanyard peaking out from his back collar.

On a slow day I savor details I might otherwise miss. The freedom of the lone cyclist pedaling one of the new red bikes you can rent and ride. The swagger of a young woman who has mastered the art of scarf wearing. The caffeinated chatter of a couple leaving Starbucks. The quiet diligence of the man hosing the sidewalk in front of the building next to mine.

The pavement smells fresh after this cleaning.

It’s a new day.

What I did not see on my walk this morning.

City or Suburb?

City or Suburb?

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An article in yesterday’s Washington Post headlined “Is a city still a city if it’s in the suburbs?” discusses Reston Town Center, the Village at Leesburg and other “downtowns” that mimic the real thing.

The idea is to export urban density and excitement to the outlying ‘burbs. “[People] want to be in an environment, in a context, where they can experience life as fully as possible. They like to be around people, and they like to be around interesting things, and they like to be around energy. And that’s what the suburbs have historically lacked,” said Robert Kettler, who planned and developed the Village at Leesburg based on the model of Reston Town Center.

I have a complicated relationship with Reston Town Center, our closest “downtown.” When it was first built, I disparaged it for its fakery. It was a movie set of a city. Walk through the set doors and you would be in a mall. But as the years have passed; as restaurants, stores and plazas have been added; as festivals, concerts and wine tastings have lured me to its center, I have developed a reluctant fondness for the place.

As the article points out, many city neighborhoods now admired for their hip urbanity —think Capitol Hill and Georgetown — were once planned. And besides, how can I fault developers for paying attention to how people live, to adding town squares and storefront windows, to isolating and replicating the ingredients of urban charm?

Kettler has heard all the criticisms of these faux downtowns, the Post article says. “But he sees a naturally evolving plot: Driving through the Village at Leesburg, he is happy to see that the young trees he planted a few years ago are a little taller, that there are more people hitting treadmills at L.A. Fitness, that there are more people on the street. ‘When you put the camera on and you put the actors on the stage, it looks like a real place.'”

The article doesn’t answer the question, “Is a city still a city if it’s in the suburbs,” but it does plead for more time. Cities are a work in progress. It may just be that we’re pioneering something new here a few miles from my house. That what began as an experiment of urban density in the suburbs is giving us something we all want and need.

It may be. But when we decide whether and when to leave our suburban home, one thing is for sure: Reston Town Center will not make us stay. 

The original Reston downtown: Lake Anne.

Beauty

Beauty

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From childhood on, we are taught to distrust appearances. “Don’t judge a book by its cover.” “Beauty is only skin deep.”

But in my few days at the shore I’ve thought a lot about the role beauty plays in our attraction to a place. Ruling out the way we feel about our hometowns (in which case, perhaps, the reverse is true — the beauty flows from the inside-out knowledge of the city, town or patch of land we call home) — don’t we often choose to be somewhere because of the view out a bay window or the way the light colors the sky at sunset.

Something in these physical details speaks to us, calls our name, and we will spend the rest of our lives trying to figure out why.

Tenderness

Tenderness

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To belong to a place means that you feel tender toward it.
You are concerned for its welfare. When you return to this place after an
absence short or great, you are surprised by the feelings it evokes in you. You
were not aware that you missed it, but you did.
The little things you
notice now, the parade of ducks that create a traffic jam because motorists
wait for them to pass (and this doesn’t irritate you), the sea grass
that waves in the breeze, the antics of the sandpipers, the lugubrious horseshoe
crabs (are they living or dead?), the egrets that look like an Egyptian
hieroglyphic, the section of the beach that is sealed off by ropes to allow sea turtle eggs
to mature in peace (and this doesn’t irritate you, either) — all of these
familiars are made precious by repetition and knowledge.
And that view from the bridge, it still brings a gasp of delight. But now you look forward to it — because you know it is there.
Capitol Hill Walk

Capitol Hill Walk

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A lunchtime stroll up New Jersey Avenue to the Capitol, the grounds and plantings and pleasant vistas of which (I now realize) are thanks to Frederick Law Olmsted. Now that I’ve read his biography and learned this fact, I think of him often when I walk by. No wonder my eyes rest so easily on the west front, are led so capably to the dome. He planned it that way.

But the Capitol was not my destination. I walked around it to East Capitol Street, past the Folger and down the shady brick sidewalk to Lincoln Park.

If Mall walks are about the grandiose and the touristic (the grand edifices of the National Gallery, Natural History and American History Museums), Capitol Hill walks are about the domestic and the personal. Artful arrangements of zinnias and marigolds; the fluttering miracle of an overgrown butterfly bush; a fountain accessorized with a kitschy artificial deer (out here in the suburbs we have enough of the real thing, thank  you very much); and dry cleaners, markets and drug stores tucked away on inconspicuous corners (no tacky neon signs here).

My mind wanders: If we lived here, I could walk to work. We would mow our grass with a push mower, grow roses and herbs in large clay pots. And that balconied turret, that’s where I’d write.

The Capitol Hill walk is also about fantasy.

A photo of the Capitol that is old and out of season and that convinces me to bring my camera along the next time I take a lunchtime stroll in the city.

A Year Ago Today

A Year Ago Today

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It was an ordinary late summer afternoon, silky air, the sort of day you wished you didn’t have to spend inside. And, as it turned out, many of us didn’t have to.  Because at 1:50 p.m. we were turned from our homes and offices onto the street by a 5.8 magnitude earthquake.

Though we later learned we should have sheltered in place under our desks (ignoring every protective instinct we had), we headed outside.  And for the next few hours the streets of D.C. were filled with panicked and then (once we got used to the idea) bemused office dwellers.

I had leapt from my chair without purse or cell phone but (strangely) with the Diet Coke I was holding when the building began to shake. For the next hour I frantically tried to reach family members on borrowed phones. At home I found broken china and a closet ankle deep in photos, papers and clothes that had been shaken off their shelves.

The earthquake happened a year ago today. A year of record heat and drought — with the occasional hurricane and derecho thrown in.

The tremblor seemed strange at the time. But strange is becoming commonplace.



The “D.C. Earthquake Devastation” photo that made the rounds on the Internet last year.

To Be In Benin

To Be In Benin

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Today Suzanne visits the town of Toura, Benin, West Africa, for the first time. It’s in the far north of the country, in the Alibori region near Banikoara and close to an elephant migration route. She’ll be teaching English to middle-school students there for the next two years. It’s the first time a Peace Corps volunteer has served at this school.

The purpose of the visit is to meet people, visit her hut and see what she’ll need to order or buy to make herself at home in Africa.  Then she’ll return to Porto Novo for more language study and training before she starts teaching in September.

One of the big questions on Suzanne’s mind is how far the well pump is from her hut. She’ll have no electricity or running water so this is not an insignificant question. Already I’ve been turning on the tap less often, reusing sudsy water, thinking more about what goes down the drain. There’s no way to ship it to her, of course. It’s purely sympathetic. A futile attempt to be in Benin with her.

When I do a Google image search on Toura, what comes up most are pictures of wells (water portals) like this one. Image: watsanportal.org.

Mad Dogs and Englishmen

Mad Dogs and Englishmen

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The older woman was driving slowly, opening her window as she rolled to a stop. She probably needed directions, I figured, so I walked up to the car.

But no, she was shaking her head and wagging her finger even before she spoke.  “You’re going to make yourself sick out here. It’s too hot to be walking,” she said. “Take care of yourself.” And that was all. I nodded and smiled, mumbled something like, “It’s hot today, isn’t it?” She closed her window and drove away.

And I had just been thinking what a pleasant day it was. High humidity, yes, but breezy and bearable. So I steadied my pace a little, thinking again about the time of day (yes, it was 1 p.m. — not the best time to be out) and the simple neighborliness I’d just witnessed. In all my years of walking through the neighborhood, this was the first such interaction I’d had.

Suddenly, I was feeling all warm inside. And it wasn’t from the walking.

Night Swim, Again

Night Swim, Again

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It was almost nightfall. The air was balmy, and a crescent moon grew brighter with every stroke.  I’ve been swimming a lot this summer but never this late. Our dinners have been long, our evenings full. Last night was the first chance to paddle through the mysterious waters of the suburban pool after dark.

There was the same dignified man I remember from last year, doing his quiet breast stroke. He hasn’t changed, though the guards have grown younger. There too was the windmill slowly spinning and the faintest breeze ruffling the leaves in the high branches of the oaks. The thwunk-thwunk of the tennis balls in the adjacent court was the only sound I heard, other than an occasional splash.

I end the day tired and calm. An advantageous combination.