Monday dawned as Monday does: slow and bleary. I was supposed to have awakened the other houseguest, Scott, at 6:15, but I have no recollection of my Palm going off -- I was dead to the world. When I finally did start swimming towards consciousness, around 8:30, he was nowhere to be found, so I can only presume he was somewhere useful. I heard Manny's sons complaining vociferously about the inevitability of day care, chose to ignore it, and came around again when the house was quieter.
I waved sleepily at my hostess and offered a good morning. The plan, apparently, was that once Andy had returned from dropping off the wee bairns, we would have some pho for breakfast, then head into DC proper for such sightseeing as we might before the train took me away from all this at 1:05 PM. I nodded amiably at all this, and sought the shower.
The Land o' Confusion has been added to by its inhabitants over the years, and as such not all the facilities are as insulated as they should be -- much to my chagrin, the downstairs bathroom was reminding me of that Gaia's Voice gig in Texas, where we all woke up to find the water bottles had frozen in the night. Unfortunately, the only answer to that was to brave it long enough to get some steam going... which I did. Once clean (in body if not in mind), I performed the now-familiar ritual of Repacking All My Things, and we trooped off to Pho 75, near the University of Maryland campus.
What is pho? It's a clear beef broth soup, laden with rice noodles, topped by various and sundry cuts of meet, then garnished with a heavy hand of green onions and cilantro. Most places will offer side garnishes of bean sprouts, basil, and lime wedges, as well as a few sauces. Mostly, if you're starting to feel a cold coming on, it's welcome stuff: not spicy of itself, but it certainly can be prodded that way with the Fire Engine Red sriacha sauce, whose bottles always prominently display a rooster for some inscrutable reason. I prefer the complex flavor of hoisin sauce, myself, although Manny prefers to mix the two.
Pho joints spring up in two predictable places: Vietnamese neighborhoods (as it's a dish of theirs), and near college campuses (lots of food! Cheap!). We were in the latter, and enjoyed breakfast thoroughly. Then off to the city!
Having been born and raised in Cleveland, where Washington is but a day's drive away (on a scale with Los Angeles to my Bay Area readers), I'd already done most of the required tourist stops: Smithsonian Air & Space, the big-name monuments, et cetera. Most notably, they'd been covered in a three-day field trip our Catholic school put on when we were in eighth grade. Mind you, the most memorable part for us was when our teacher was three hours late getting back to the bus after a free afternoon on the Mall (a lawn with the Capitol at one end, Washington Monument at the other, and the Smithsonian between) because she'd been wandering around the back side of the American History Museum in profound sugar shock: she was my first exposure to diabetic complications.
Thankfully, no such complications dogged our heels as Manny and I checked our parcels at Union Station and attacked the one thing I'd've loved to see but hadn't: the Library of Congress. We had just enough time to hustle down there, take a tour, and go back before the train left, and I intended to do exactly that.
The boughs hang bare in the District of Columbia: early March there still sees Winter deep in negotiations with the coming Spring. There were surprisingly few pigeons as we cross the matted dried grass between the Capitol and its library, but crows were in abundance, their calls and responses resounding among the unbudded branches.
Across the street from the Jefferson Building, the first and main building of the Library, I grabbed a picture:
It's next to the Supreme Court Building. You know, where they pick the president.
Manny counselled, however, that the tours started down the street the other way, in the James Madison building. It wasn't half as pretty, really: an imposing unadorned brick, save for unlovely squared-off pillars trough which one gained entry. The only redeeming feature was the sculpture of flying books you could see above the main doors, between the pillars.
A nasty surprise awaited when we arrived: the metal detectors, we expected, and I was actually surprised that my backpack, bristling with electronic gear that included an opaque-to-X-rays titanium Palm case (that should look suspicious), passed muster -- but Manny's folding knife was adjudged too long and was confiscated. We thought it more than a little odd that a knife bought in the District and at a real store would violate their three and a half-inch standards, but the policewoman staffing the post wasn't in a mood to be conciliatory -- and if the choices are to confiscate the hardware or get arrested over a pocketknife, Manny let it be confiscated. We passed within.
A few steps later, as it really was my fault this had happened, I steeled myself... and gave Manny my Swisstool. It was only right, after all, though I feel naked without it.
Update: Manny got them to measure it again the next day, only the sharpened edge as is appropriate according to DC law, and it's only three and three-sixteenths inches, therefore street legal, and Manny is once again reunited with her Menace to Law-Abiding Society. She's shipping my Swisstool home, and I shall be appropriately clad in the tools of my station once more! Huzzah!
Unfortunately, the tours had moved back to the Thomas Jefferson Building, and with one thing and another there was no longer time to meet it; a real shame. Next time for sure! However, we cruised the Library's Bookshop of Literate Kitsch, and I picked up a few presents to have shipped home.
Back, then, to the train station, for noon was upon us, and it's recommended you be there a half-hour before your train is scheduled to depart, in case of Shit Happening.
The Acela Regional is not the high-speed rail system that Amtrak has spent a lot of money hyping. Rather, it's an express electric-powered train comprised of a renovated series of Viewliner coaches, an improved Café Car, and a couple other small amenities. One of the other passengers on the way north had glowing things to say about the Acela Express, which is the shiny new train, but alas was not included in the Rail Pass, so I would have had to pay extra for it.
I was unsettled at several points along the journey north when the coach power flickered out of existence and the coaches ran on batteries for anywhere from a couple seconds to a couple minutes in one disturbing instance. This remained a mystery to me until we were nearly to new London.
At a five-minute layover in New Haven, Connecticut, I assayed the weather outside. While in DC, it'd been warm enough for a windbreaker to do, Winter wasn't even letting Spring into the mediation room further north: the snows of last week's nor'easter still covered the ground in irregular blotches, and it was much colder! With a couple quiet curses, I wrestled my bag into an open position and hauled out the heavy winter coat I was hoping not to need until the Midwest -- and it was most welcome. I opted to wear the Fuzzy Ht from my garb instead of the normal hood as an identification aid -- mildly odd hats make a better impression than Yet Another Anonymous Hood, I think.
The attendant announced New London. I gathered my things and loitered in the vestibule for awhile with the attendant, whom I asked about the odd power drops. Amtrak had sent her to a five-day class on all the rail system upgrades, and the bottom line was that this was called a 'phase break,' not that she remembered what that meant, exactly. We agreed that naming your evil made the passengers calm down, which was the important thing, and a few moments later we pulled into New London, Connecticut.
Unfortunately, Business Class was in the rear of this train and hanging out in the middle of the intersection beyond the station proper! The attendant had to help me down with my bags, and I trundled back to the platform to meat Patricia and Dave, tonight's hosts. Yes, Bay Area Crew, another Dave.
I towed my wheelie-bag up to them and smiled. Not many at the average commuter station have people waiting for them with quite that expectant look; it makes my job easier, even if I've never seen the people in person before. I had promised to bring a bottle of mead with me, and had failed to find any, so in return I offered to buy dinner for them -- which they were happy to permit. Seafood, naturally -- I had a hankering for exceedingly fresh lobster.
We dropped my bag off at Patricia's house, and drove to Mystic, Connecticut, the source of today's whimsical title. Unfortunately, the party of forty had ordered the last lobster before our order could be accepted by the computer, so I had to settle for a swordfish steak. The raw bar assortment was lovely, though -- I was particularly fond of the (cooked) crab claws. The waiter unfortunately didn't get the hint that bringing me more would surely smooth my ruffled feathers about the lack of lobster.
Dessert was apple crisp a la mode, because they were out of chocolate mousse cake -- another casualty of that party of forty. Nevertheless, the food they had was quite excellent. When the bill came, and I looked at it, Dave and Patricia insisted they help pay -- and Dave produced a hundred-dollar bill. Sheesh.
Another excellent gift awaited me when Patricia and I returned to her house (Dave lives nearby with his wife, dogs, and children): she'd made me a set of runes from terra cotta, painted green. Wow! I was floored, and respectfully stowed them in my pack for the journey home. Patricia keeps a tidy house, with ample room for guests, and is a consummate hostess. I felt immediately at home. I let her know about the seiðr workshop Vingolf was plotting for later this year or early next, and Patricia was delighted to hear about it. Diana had also sent me with a packet of Troth fliers, specifically with Patricia in mind: I said as much and handed her one, which pretty much floored my gracious hostess.
We stayed up entirely too late, giggling about this and that, but my cold was catching up to me; I was exhausted, and crawled happily into my futon. Tomorrow, back to New York...
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