A Walker in the Suburbs

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 worth it most of all 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 precious 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)

On Sunday I visited Ghent, one of Belgium — and Europe’s — most beautifully preserved medieval cities. Our friend and weekend host gave us a tour of the town’s highlights, including the Cathedral of Saint Baaf, home of a majestic altar screen by the brothers Jan and Hubert Van Eyck.

The town was packed with natives and visitors enjoying the warm sunny weather on a special car-free day. That meant we were looking over our shoulders a little less than usual. We studied the ancient buildings, had drinks at a bustling plaza — and admired the views.

As this marvelous trip winds down, I’m feeling grateful for all the places we’ve visited. On Sunday, I was feeling grateful in Ghent.

Ah, where to start? Perhaps with the fact that I’ve been so busy experiencing Amsterdam that I’ve had no time to write about it.

And next, a question: How did I live so long without seeing this city?

The canals, the cafes, the casual friendliness of the people and their flawless English. The gables and rooflines, the houseboats and canal cruises. The Rijksmuseum and Anne Frank House. Our room, which is tiny. And our view, which is above.

One picture. Eighty-five words. You get the idea.

I saw the Lady and the Unicorn tapestries years ago, but I’d never forgotten them. With their rich colors, chaste lady, distinctive unicorn and ever-present coat of arms, they seemed the epitome of the high Middle Ages and courtly love.

Yesterday I saw the six tapestries again, and, thanks to the Cluny Museum, was able to sit and contemplate their beauty and mystery.

The tapestries represent the five senses: touch, taste, smell, sight and sound. In the “touch” tapestry, for instance, the lady strokes the unicorn. In the “smell” tapestry, the lady’s companion presents her with a dish of carnations.

But there is a sixth tapestry, the one you see above, and experts aren’t exactly sure what that panel represents. One clue is in the words “Mon Seul Désir,” my only desire, and in the actions of the lady, who appears to be setting aside a necklace. Could it be that she is returning a gift, asserting her virtue? Many think so, which would make free will our “sixth sense.”

My own sense of these works, after spending a few minutes in their presence, was how they could transport me to a stiller, deeper world, a world of rich fibers and innate stillness, a world as different from ours as one could possibly be.

“We’ll be harvesting soon,” said our Colmar hostess. “It’s very early this year so we’re in a state.” It’s hard to imagine this poised, multilingual woman as anything but calm and pleasant, but running a winery and a hostelry could test anyone’s mettle.

Her words confirmed what we’ve noticed on our wanderings: the grapes seem ripe and ready to pick. It’s been a hot, dry summer in the Alsace. And though our contact with the region’s famed wines has been limited, I can tell how delicious they are by watching others imbibe.

The best part of wine country for me has been discovering the Sentier Viticole, the Wine Trail. Grapes growing, hikers hiking, bikers biking — a jumble of motion and activity and joy. I wish I could have hiked forever, but that’s not very practical, is it? Moderation in all things, except, perhaps, moderation.

I loved fairytales when I was young, read them incessantly, then read them aloud to my children later on. Now I’m in Alsace, where the villages seem to have stepped right out of a fairy tale.

One village in particular, Riquewihr, is said to have been the inspiration for the animated version of “Beauty and the Beast,” which was played plenty at my house when the girls were growing up.

Set aside for the moment the 21st-century tourists who crowd this shot and imagine Belle dancing through the streets saying “Bonjour, hello, how is your family?” It’s almost a dead replica, n’est-ce pas?

It’s one of the most famous houses in the country, and I saw it yesterday, visiting on a day befitting a home perched on top of a waterfall. It poured as we drove to the house, sprinkled while we were inside, and rained again on the way back.

Apparently, Fallingwater has also been called Leakingwater, so often does the bedrock sweat and the moisture pool. Frank Lloyd Wright, who designed Fallingwater, told its owners that drips and drops are what you get with organic architecture. “Use buckets,” he told the Kaufmann family.

I suppose when you consort with a genius, you learn to be tolerant. The Kaufmann family donated the house to a conservancy in 1963, making it possible for millions of people to experience this national treasure.

What I noticed most was the sound of the place, the peaceful patter of water slipping over stone. Or maybe it was just the rain.

In years past, Garrett County has been an oasis of mountain coolness, even when the weather is hot back home. This year, the humidity is here, too. No problem, though, because there are all sorts of water bodies to help you deal with it.

In addition to Deep Creek Lake, the big kahuna, there are smaller ponds, including the one at Herrington Manor State Park, the most kid-friendly we’ve found. We headed there yesterday.

While it wasn’t the spun-sugar sand of Siesta Key, there was still a beach for digging and making sand castles, and the kiddos spent hours in the lake. Meanwhile, the adults (or at least this adult) tucked herself away in the shade and watched the scene unfold.

There was plenty of people-watching, mostly keeping my eyes on the grandchildren, who paddled and dove and got rides on a float from their oldest cousin. Their glee was more than worth the price of admission.

(These weren’t my grandkids — I’m relieved to say — but they express the possibilities of this place)

I understand why the landscapes of our birth and upbringing feel comfortable and right. What I don’t understand is how places we find much later in life feel just the same way. Garrett County, Maryland is one of those places for me.

I felt it yesterday when I drove here from Virginia, in and out of torrential rain. I felt it when I finally got close and saw the mountains rising from the mist.

I feel it now, when I’m itching to take my usual walk that skirts a cove of Deep Creek Lake. It’s more than affinity. It’s as if I’ve known this place from another lifetime. Maybe this week I’ll understand it better. I’ll certainly try.

Though my body is back in Virginia my mind is still at the beach with the sea and the shorebirds … and even with the wrack. Described as the ocean’s bathtub ring, wrack is the flotsam the waves drag in, the seaweed, driftwood, even the marine animals.

I took this picture the year my Florida visit coincided with the Red Tide, when fish were routinely washing up on shore, victims of an algae bloom that was no picnic for humans either. But the wrack is always present, usually without dead fish. In fact, the wrack nourishes marine creatures. It lingers at the high tide line, where I sidestep it when walking.

A sign about wrack at the beach entrance told me of its importance, that it not only feeds shorebirds but collects sand and births dunes. It’s where the ocean meets the land. I approach it with new respect. It’s not the wrack of wrack and ruin, of decay and destruction. It’s a sign of life.