The Dedalus Log

Bit by bit,
Putting it together…
Piece by piece –
Only way to make a work of art.
Every moment makes a contribution,
Every detail plays a part.
Having just a vision’s no solution,
Everything depends on execution:
Putting in together –
That’s what counts.

Small amounts,
Adding up to make a work of art.
First of all you need a good foundation,
Otherwise it’s risky from the start.
Takes a little cocktail conversation,
But without the proper preparation,
Having just a vision’s no solution,
Everything depends on execution.
The art of making art
Is putting it together –
Bit by bit.
(Putting it Together: Sunday in the Park With George – Stephen Sondheim, 1983)

The morning was crisp and fresh, with a bright blue sky and few clouds. Had I been in California, I would have expected the outdoor temperature to complement this beautiful day, but not here. I’d been in Washington D.C. during late winter and early springs before – when Toñito was an undergrad at George Washington University in 1996 and 1997. So I knew that sunny days didn’t always correspond to warm weather. Although the sun glistened off housetops, tree branches, and budding flowers, gusting chilly winds kept driving the temperatures lower and lower. I buttoned my corduroy coat, lowered my chin, and pressed Kathy’s entwined arm closer against my side, hoping to generate some warmth. But I couldn’t keep my face out of the wind for long. As we turned the corner onto Wisconsin Avenue, gleaming limestone spires suddenly materialized through the bare and boney branches of the tree orchard across the street. I hadn’t expected to see the Cathedral so soon, and I certainly wasn’t prepared to see the massive building exploding into an impressionist mural of a million points of color, sparkling light, and dark shadows. Last August when we stayed at the condominium of Kathy’s sister and brother-in-law, Mary Ellen and Bill, for the Hurricane wedding of their oldest daughter, Margi (see Hurricane Wedding) – the thick, green foliage of this orchard had obstructed the church from view. On that summer morning, we had to walk an entire block up Wisconsin to find a break in the tree line and finally get a clear view of the towering cathedral.

Kathy and I had decided the night before to attend a church service at the National Cathedral, and we were both excited at the prospect. Not only had we never set foot inside this iconic structure (when we were here last, it was closed because of Earthquake damage), but I had never been to a Protestant service before. I was part of the pre-Vatican II generation who was taught that it was sacrilegious to attend non-Catholic services and we risked our immortal souls by doing so. Nevertheless, I was always curious about what took place in Protestant churches. Kathy was equally excited about going and she’d looked up the Cathedral website to choose the best time. We picked the 11:15 celebration of the Holy Eucharist with guest preacher, Rev. Dr. Samuel Wells.

I’d been inside many cathedrals in the U.S. before. In Los Angeles, San Francisco, New York, and Savannah, but none were as physically impressive or grandiose as the Washington National Cathedral. It crowns the highest point in the District of Columbia, and is visible for miles and miles. The classic Gothic architecture reminded me of the beautiful edifices of Europe – Chartres, Notre Dame, and Canterbury. However, the differences between Old and New World structures were immediately apparent. Although copied from the Gothic models of England and Europe, this American cathedral was a 20^th Century edifice. It was not constructed slowly and meticulously over generations, but was built quickly and efficiently over a period of 83 years, beginning in 1907. This was evident as soon as we entered the building. There was nothing ancient or storied in the church. The stained glass windows, while beautiful and colorful, looked repetitive, as though punched from the same press. I wasn’t swept skyward toward the vaulted ceiling of the church, because a finely meshed screen, stretching across the arches, obstructed the view. I was momentarily disillusioned by this lack of ornamentation, until I remembered that this wasn’t a Roman Catholic temple, filled with Medieval and Renaissance paintings of biblical figures, side altars with statues of saints and madonnas, or row after rows of votive candles. This was a “reformed church”, guided by the principles of Martin Luther and John Calvin, who had wanted to eliminate the gaudy excesses of the Roman church.

The organist began playing as soon as we entered the church, and the music seemed to accompany the swaying motions of people as they slowly walked down the aisles and found places in the pews. I used the musical interlude to explore the side aisles of the church, inspecting the stained glass windows as I walked along. When I joined Kathy in a middle pew, she quickly pointed at the liturgy guide she was holding.
“Look, Tony,” she whispered excitedly, showing me the names at the top of the pamphlet. “There are two women celebrants on the altar. Two women priests will be saying this mass! This is another sign that I was meant to be here.”
“Wow,” I agreed, startled at the idea of actually seeing an ordained female priest officiate at a “mass”. “This will be different,” I added.
Suddenly the organist stopped playing and I heard the unaccompanied, angelic harmonizing of a choir. The soaring and melodic sounds were not coming from the choir loft above my head, but from the back of the church. There I spotted a formally gowned choir in bright robes of white and red. The unique blending of pre-pubescent boy’s voices, mixed with those of men and women, had a wondrous effect. The sounds were soaring and beatific. It was as if a choir of angels had floated earthward and hovered in the back of the church, announcing the beginning of mass and a call to prayer. And then it began, the long and stately processional down the center aisle. Altar servers, dressed in albs and surplices led the way with cross and candles, followed by gowned choir members, boys, men, and women, and then the three celebrants and homilist, men and women. It was elegant and inspiring, and it was only when choir, altar servers, celebrants, and preacher were arranged around the altar that it hit me: This was a high mass!

In my youth, in the 1950’s, Catholic parishes offered one or two “high masses” a month, usually on Sunday or on a feast day. The mass began with a long, stately procession with altar boys carrying candles, crucifix, and an incense censer on a long chain, followed by two or three priests. The mass included a full choir positioned in the second story loft, and there were many musical interludes throughout the mass. These ceremonies usually lasted 90 minutes and I avoided them at all costs. Unlike many older Catholics, I was not upset when those long and elaborate ceremonies disappeared in 1962, with the changes of Vatican II, but I did retain a tiny nostalgic memory of those high days of ceremonial opulence. All my apprehensions and wariness about attending a Protestant service quickly fell away in the wonderful embrace of the Episcopalian liturgy on this Second Sunday in Lent, in the church officially called the Cathedral Church of St. Peter and St. Paul.

The liturgical divisions, sequence, and language of the ceremony were eerily familiar and comfortable for me. Mainly, I suppose, because the prayers, invocations, and responses used in the Episcopalian rite matched up perfectly to the Vatican II missal, which the Catholic Church abandoned this year. To the celebrant’s greeting of “The peace of the Lord be always with you”, the congregation still responded, “And also with you”, instead of the new, retro version of “And with your Spirit.” Another similarity was the use of two Readings from scripture before the proclaiming of the Gospel. The first reading was from Genesis (17:1-7, 15-16), whereby God gave Abraham his new name and repeated the covenant that his wife Sarah would bear a son, and he would become “the father of many nations”. The second was the epistle to the Romans (4:13-25), in which St. Paul pointed out that God’s covenant with Abraham was maintained by the righteousness of Abraham’s unwavering faith, and not through the law. Finally, the Gospel was from Mark (8:31-38), in which Jesus foretold his death and resurrection, and then outlined the steps required of men and women who wished to become his followers. The three selections contained foundational principles of the gospel: covenant, faith, and resurrection. As we settled in our pews to hear the sermon of the invited preacher, Reverend Dr. Samuel Wells, the Dean of the Duke University Chapel. I wondered how he would meld those three important religious principles into one coherent theme, and if I would find it interesting or meaningful.

Looking back on the 7 days we spent in Washington D.C. last March, I have to admit that it reminded me of the time we were in New York, only without the hotel and dining expenses. We also had the added benefit of a vehicle and total access to an apartment, so it was very convenient. We organized tight itineraries, which always got us home by 5:30 pm, just in time for sunset. The trip combined the active itineraries we usually organized for ourselves when Kathy and I travel alone, along with the comforts of coming home at night and relaxing in a cozy setting for dinner and lounging about. We were there through an experimental house-swap with Kathy’s older sister, Mary Ellen, and her husband, Bill. The same day that we flew into Dulles International on Saturday, March 3, Bill and Mary Ellen were winging their way to Los Angeles, to take up residence in our home in Canoga Park, California. We were going to spend the next seven days living in the capitol, while they traveled around the southland. In the past, Kathy and I only visited D.C. for specific, short-term reasons: Toñito’s college theatrical performances, graduations, or weddings, requiring only weekend stays in hotels and brief sightseeing excursions. Actually staying in a comfortable condominium in the Cathedral Heights section of the city, just north of Georgetown, would allow us to leisurely visit places we had never seen before, both in, and outside, the city, and to casually make up our itinerary on a day-by-day basis. We would also finally get the chance of driving in and around the bordering states around the capitol, a task we had always ceded to family members, or by using the metro system. By using my journal, guidebooks, and pamphlets we picked up along the way as reminders, I could almost illustrate our daily adventures like a coloring book of our trip.

On a late Saturday afternoon, after a quick flight across the country, our niece, Margi met us at the airport. This was the first time she had ever done this, and it was a great relief for us to have a relative pick us up and drive us straight to the condo on Watson Place. As I watched the signs and leafless forests pass by, while she and Kathy talked in the front, I noticed that we were taking a new route into the city. When I mentioned this, Margi admitted that each member of her family had their own unique route to their parent’s home, and she preferred entering along the Potomac, through Maryland. When we finally arrived at our destination, she gave us a quick tour of the apartment and an in-service of the kitchen, garage, and laundry, and invited us to dinner that evening. Kathy and I unpacked and toasted a beautiful sunset from the balcony of the condo, thanking our hosts on the other side of the country for their generosity. Later that evening Margi and Ron picked us up and took us to dinner at the Irish Inn at Glen Echo Park, just outside the city, where we got to know her new husband a little better.

As I mentioned earlier, on Sunday, we went to Mass at the Cathedral and then walked through the Glover Park area to have lunch with Brian, the youngest of M.E. and Bill's children. While walking along Wisconsin Ave. we passed the Russian embassy. There we encountered a lively pro-Syrian demonstration across the street from where the voting for Russian Prime Minister was taking place. After meeting Brian, we had lunch at Rockland’s Barbeque and Grilling Company and listened as he filled us in on the family news. He also gave us a practical orientation to the neighborhood, pointing out the easiest places to park and shop. Later that evening we tested out his information by driving to the new Safeway supermarket nearby to stock up on groceries for the week, and familiarized ourselves with the car, garage, and the neighboring streets.

By Monday, the local weather had taken a dramatic turn, and the warm temperatures of Saturday took a sudden nosedive. We were clothed in bundled layers, with neck scarves and gloves as we drove to Hyattsville in Maryland.  Kathy wanted to visit a former colleague who was now working for the Archdiocese of Washington D.C. From those administrative offices we drove to the nearby Basilica of the National Shrine of the Immaculate Conception, which was on the campus of Catholic University, on Michigan Ave. We had visited the Basilica once before, but on this occasion we spent more time wandering through the underground crypt area, inspecting the myriad chapels and shrines. The surprise event of the day was experiencing snow flurries in afternoon as we drove to see the Pope John Paul II Center, which was unfortunately closed. We saw the last of the flurries from the condo balcony, and then took a taxi to meet another nephew, Billy, and his partner Jeff at the Founding Farmers Restaurant on Pennsylvania Ave. for dinner.

I hadn’t noticed it so much on Sunday when we walked to the National Cathedral and down Wisconsin Avenue to Glover Park, but beginning on Monday night, after walking around the Basilica and through the underground crypts, that my knees were beginning to ache. Every evening thereafter they got progressively more and more sore as Kathy and I walked and climbed throughout Mount Vernon, Alexandria, the Newseum, the Pentagon, and Capitol Hill. But each afternoon we recuperated by hoisting up our legs on the balcony coffee table, and raising our glasses in thanksgiving for a marvelous day.

On Tuesday, we again drove out of the city, only this time it was to Virginia to see Mount Vernon and Alexandria. I found driving in D.C. and its adjoining states to be quite an experience. Strangely enough, it reminded me very much of driving in Mexico D.F., only D.C. drivers actually obey traffic laws and signals. However both capitols have streets that suddenly change names, and street signs that are not easily spotted or readable. Traffic is incredibly thick and dense during rush hour because most of the millions of people who work in the capitol don't actually live there. The bridge on-ramps, interchanges, and off-ramps are never labeled clearly nor marked at early intervals, so maneuvering is a nightmare, unless you are already familiar with them. What’s really irritating is to be on a major highway like the Washington Memorial Parkway and never see a marker, sign, or post identifying it. The last thing I ever want to do is find myself driving the roads outside the city at night. There are few street signs and no streetlights. One needs bat-senses to drive those roads at night. I can see now why East Coast drivers mock California highways and freeway signs for being excessive and overly informative. It’s as if California roads were marked for nearsighted tourists and map-less travelers. The only thing orderly and predictable about D.C. is the public transportation system, buses and metro, and the pedestrian-friendly layout of the city. However, despite the difficulties getting there, Mount Vernon and Alexandria were fabulous places to visit!

Before ever visiting Mount Vernon, I assumed it would be a sumptuously, ornate mansion, much like Hearst’s gaudy castle, San Simeon (Xanadu, in the movie, Citizen Kane), in California. So, I was pleased to discover that I was completely wrong. George Washington’s Mount Vernon plantation was very reflective of the Cincinnatus type of selfless, general-farmer that he wished to emulate. It was a neatly laid out, working farm, with a simple, utilitarian manor on a hill. The mansion had the feel of a large bed-and-breakfast, with many, many bedrooms to host the endless stream of visitors who came visiting the first President of the United States from Europe and the other 12 colonies. Although a large dining room was added to the west wing of the house, which also served as a ballroom, the real entertaining must have been done from the back porch of the house, with its beautiful vista of the flowing Potomac. I especially enjoyed the walk around the grounds before and after our tour of the mansion. We explored the gardens and stables, and then walked down a long, shaded, dirt road to the tomb of George and Martha Washington.

I didn’t realize how solemn and reverential the wooded enclosure was until the docent of the tomb shushed a gaggle of noisy elementary school children. They had burst out of the woods, running and laughing, but fell immediately silent at the sight of a tall, trench-coated black man with upraised arms and stony face.
“Please,” he rumbled in the Old Testament voice of a prophet. “This tomb is hallowed ground where the remains of the dead are buried. Respect is required at all times.”
In shocked bewilderment, the six children, along with their two adult chaperones, listened in awe as the docent went on to explain how the bones of George and Martha Washington laid in the two sarcophagi, lying side by side in the vault, and the family remains rested in the back. Two boys knelt in Tebow-like fashion, with heads bowed and their elbows resting on one upraised knee. It was a sober and reassuring reminder that this place was not an interactive children’s museum, but the public cemetery of our first president.

The drive back to Alexandria on the George Washington Parkway was much more relaxing after having already traveled it once. We paused at a few spots to take scenic pictures of the river and two historic forts on the shore, and finally stopped for lunch at an Irish pub called O’Connell’s on King Street. Then we spent the next two hours exploring the Old Town section of the city, visiting the Marina, The Torpedo Factory Art Center, Market Square, and Gadsby’s Tavern, where the retired President Washington held his last military review in 1799. The drive home was thrown into high relief when we missed the Rock Creek Parkway turnoff from the Arlington Memorial Bridge. Suddenly we had to quickly ad-lib and make our way, nervously, through Foggy Bottom, around Washington Circle, along M Street, and finally up Wisconsin Ave. to Glover Park.

On Wednesday we forsook our private vehicle and took the city bus to Pennsylvania Avenue where we met Brian to explore the Newseum. I’d been mildly curious about this news museum since learning that George Stephanopoulos filmed his ABC Sunday morning show, This Week, there. I wondered how they got that marvelous shot of George, with the Capitol building in the background. Kathy, however, had always been especially eager to see it. We hadn’t gone last summer, because I insisted on going to the inauguration of the Martin Luther King Monument instead, so on this trip the Newseum became a priority. With Brian as our guide, we started with the Berlin Wall exhibit on the bottom floor concourse, shot up the elevator to the 6^th floor terrace view of Pennsylvania Avenue and the Capitol, and then proceeded to work our way back down, floor by floor. I have to admit now that while it was a long and exhausting tour to fit into one afternoon, it was a truly wonderful experience.

Brian really did a great job of shepherding us quickly and efficiently through the almost overwhelming number of exhibits in the museum. His most impressive moment came when he boldly walked into the cordoned-off Pennsylvania Ave Studio, where This Week with George Stephanopoulos is filmed, and received permission to photograph the set and background. While all the exhibits were interesting, I especially liked the Berlin Wall, the Pennsylvania Avenue Terrace and Front Page Gallery on the 6^th Floor, the 9/11 Gallery on the 4^th, the Pennsylvania Ave Studio on the 3^rd, the Interactive Newsroom on the 2^nd, and the Pulitzer Prize Photographs on the First Level. When our knees and feet finally wore out we took the subway metro to Dupont Circle where we lunched at the Circa Restaurant. After separating from Brian, we bussed back to Cathedral Heights. Later that afternoon, after catching a second wind, we drove to the Cathedral for one last visit, so we could walk around the grounds, climb to the Pilgrim’s Gallery for a 360° view of D.C., and tour the underground crypt area. As chance would have it, we also managed to catch a practice session of their magnificent choir in the church. I must confess that I was so impressed with the Cathedral and the Episcopalian services, that if I weren’t Mexican, I’d be very tempted to convert.

On Thursday, Kathy and I again started our day by taking the Wisconsin Ave bus to Pennsylvania Ave and getting off at Washington Circle. From there we walked to the Foggy Bottom Station at George Washington University (GWU), and then took the Metro to the Pentagon. There we met Billy who had arranged a tour of the highly secure center of American military power. I found out just how tight that security was when a military guard, armed with an M-16, stopped me while taking a photograph of Kathy riding up the metro escalator. I quickly learned that photographs were not allowed in or around the Pentagon, even as background shots. Thankfully, he only made me delete the offending photographs from my camera, and then we were free to go. Inside the Pentagon we met up with Billy and his friend, Master Sergeant Bert Gillot, the Non-Commissioned Officer (NCOIC) for Protocol for the Joint Chiefs of Staff, who took us on an hour-long tour of the Defense Department establishment. Our last stop of the tour was the Pentagon Memorial Chapel, which was built at the point of impact where American Airline Flight 77 hit the Pentagon on September 11, 2001. It was the site where the military community came to leave flowers and other symbols of respect and mourning after the tragedy. Only after thanking Bert and Billy for their tour did we find out that the only access to the Pentagon Memorial was from outside the building. We had to walk halfway around the five-sided, public building to find the spot where Flight 77 struck the Pentagon. We stayed for a long time, reading the inscribed messages on the memorials and plaques, and wandering between the barren trees, stark memorial benches, and pools of flowing water. It was a sobering experience, and it took us a while to change mental gears and head back to the metro station. After studying the schematic subway map, we finally decided to take the Metro to Capitol Hill and tour the Library of Congress.

Amazingly enough, with all our planning, driving, and traveling about, the only time Kathy and I got into a snit was at the Library of Congress. I wouldn’t call it a fight, exactly, or even an argument. We didn’t so much disagree, as we simply failed to clearly express our needs and feelings. Before leaving the Pentagon, Kathy said she wanted to eat lunch before exploring the Library of Congress. She hoped to find a restaurant near the Capitol South metro station before proceeding further. My mixed feelings and suppressed thoughts bubbled up as we exited the metro station and I pointed at the nearest restaurants.
“Hmmm, they look pretty crowded,” I said, sounding very pessimistic.
Suddenly Kathy retorted, “Fine then, lets find something to eat at the Library of Congress.”
I hadn’t meant my comments as a criticism or correction to her original idea, but rather than trying to explain, I simply said, “Okay,” swallowing my misgivings of finding a cafeteria at the Library. Looking back now, I should have expressed those doubts and insisted on going to the nearest restaurants and waiting for a table, if necessary. As it turned out, in questioning the security screening guard at the door, Kathy discovered that there were no food facilities at the Library. Kathy then hemmed and hawed about staying or going, going or staying. At first we left the building, only to return, and then we left the building again. By then I was annoyed and frustrated by all this indecision, and my own unwillingness to complain. Kathy’s hunger seemed to be in conflict with her need to satisfy my desire to see the Library. All of these factors were making it impossible to decide on a clear course of action, and preventing me from taking any interesting photographs of the building. Another security guard finally directed us toward a dining area one block away, and we walked to a small diner nearby. That should have been the end of the story until I foolishly expressed my simmering annoyance.
“You know,” I said, unwrapping my napkin from the silverware, “maybe it would be a good idea if we went off on our own tomorrow”. Kathy’s look of wounded pain gave me a momentary pause, but I pressed on. “It’s not like we haven’t talked about the possibility of spending some time on our own. You even mentioned that you want to explore Georgetown.”
Despite my attempts at rationalizing the remark, I knew it wasn’t a nice thing to say, and I saw how she was stung by the frustration and annoyance it conveyed. Kathy stopped talking and said nothing more for the rest of the meal. The stillness was deafening – especially since it had never happened during our entire trip. I regretted my words, but I also knew that at that point, more explaining wouldn’t help. I made a few polite attempts at conversation about the décor of the restaurant, but Kathy wouldn’t respond or engage me, and we ate in silence.
At the conclusion of the meal, Kathy finally looked up and sadly said, “Did you know how awful your statement made me feel?”
At that instant, all I could manage to do was nod and say, “I realized that this wasn’t the best time to say something like that.”
Thankfully, Kathy took that oblique comment as an admission that my words were meant to wound, and she forgave me. The black cloud of hurt-anger passed over us, and we resumed our plans for the afternoon by walking back to the Library of Congress.

The Library of Congress was truly a surprise. I had always assumed that it was primarily a working academic and scientific book room, with lots and lots of desks, tables, and stacks. I did not expect to find an architectural and historical wonder, filled with exhibits, galleries, and art. We gazed at the Great Hall, with it sculptures and murals, toured the second floor exhibits called Creating the United States and The Thomas Jefferson Library, peeked into the Main Reading Room Overlook, and then explored Arts Galleries on the Ground Floor. At the bottom level we happened upon a tunnel that led underground to the U.S. Capitol Visitor Center, on the other side of the hill. We laughingly decided to extend out tour to include the Capitol building, and then took the Metro back to GWU. The next day we actually did decide to spend some time on our own.

On Friday, Kathy went shopping in Georgetown and I took a long walk down Wisconsin Avenue, investigating interesting sites, and taking photographs along the way. I decided to start with Dumbarton Oaks Park, and, if I could, the nearby U.S. Naval Observatory. However, since experiencing the tight security of the Pentagon the day before, I didn’t actually think I’d be able to get very close to the Observatory. You see, although there is a large telescope on the grounds, the site is not an observatory in the traditional sense. It’s actually one of the oldest scientific agencies in the U.S., commissioned by the government for the primary purpose of producing Positioning, Navigation, and the Official Time for the U.S. Navy and the U.S. Department of Defense. Along with those vital functions, the Observatory has also been the official residence of the Vice President of the United States since 1974. So at the back entrance to the Dumbarton Oaks Park, I was surprised to discover an unimpeded walking path that led directly to the rear of the Observatory, and then paralleled the security fence all the way to the Massachusetts Avenue entrance. There, I clearly saw the dome-shaped observatory as I walked along taking photos, and I was a mere stones throw away from the Vice President’s home (well, maybe not that close). When I had my quota of pictures, I retraced my steps to the rear entrance of the Dumbarton Oaks Park, and followed the clearly marked hiking trail that ran along a creek.

It was refreshing to walk along a wooded trail, lined with trees, brush, and wild flowers, and hear the trickle of water flowing over rocks and gravel. The time alone finally gave me a chance to take pictures of the wild daffodills that were starting to bloom, and an opportunity to reflect on our visit to D.C. It was a restful counterpoint to a trip that involved so much action, with tours of museums, churches, and structures of steel and cement. It was there, as I stopped for a moment by a wooden bench overlooking a meadow, that I finally took the time to unpack some of the feelings and reactions I had been storing up over the last week. I thought of people and relatives we had met, the places we had visited, and my unkind words to Kathy on Thursday. Like the murmuring gurgles of the nearby creek, the words of Dr. Wells’ sermon began bubbling in my mind, intertwining themselves in and around my actions and impressions of the last week. Using my recollections of the homily, and a printed version I found on the Internet, I was able to reconstruct aspects of the talk below.

Sitting in the Cathedral, I was brought quickly to attention at the very beginning of the sermon when Dr. Wells posed two challenging questions from the pulpit: “What’s the Christian way to behave right now?” And, “What does it mean to be God’s companion, but at the same time to live in the world?” Having noted the themes in the three earlier readings, I was anticipating that Wells would answer these questions by either concentrating on Abraham’s great faith, or expanding on Christ’s message, that “if any want to become my followers, let them deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me.” Instead, I was surprised to discover that he chose to concentrate on the fact that he was preaching in the National Cathedral and addressing a congregation who probably dealt with laws, litigation, and power. Dr. Wells stated that we could not lead a double life, inhabiting two worlds, the secular and God’s world, at the same time. He proposed instead that we lived in only one world, but needed to speak two languages: the language of contracts and the language of covenants. The idea of contracts went back to the days of Thomas Hobbes and John Locke, when they imagined a time when human beings had no way of trusting one another or holding one another to promises. These philosophers supposed an original agreement whereby everyone gave up some of their individual rights in return for peace and security. This “social contract” created a civil state to protect people’s rights and arbitrate disputes. The dominant word was “contract” – a voluntary agreement between two parties that creates an obligation that can be enforced. But, Dr. Wells insisted, there was another, older language that went back before the language of contracts. This was the language we found in Genesis in the Sunday’s reading – the language of covenant. Genesis describes the covenant God made with Noah, Abraham, and Moses. The whole dynamic of the Old Testament story is of whether God would be faithful to these covenants, even when Israel constantly broke them. These two languages, however, were also very different. Contracts cover limited matters and are a way of keeping them under control, while covenants are about powers that we can never truly hope to control. Covenants are about the most precious things in our life: Who will be holding your hand when you die? Who do you turn to when you are at a crossroads in your life? What gives you a sense of community and belonging, and makes you feel understood and at home? Contracts require a third party to whom we can appeal, but parties to a covenant have no court of appeals. There is not compensation for breaking a covenant, because the covenant was never a means to an end. A covenant, Dr. Wells pointed out, be they between friends or relatives, churches or neighbors, are ends in themselves.

However, Dr. Wells warned, we should not simplistically characterize all contracts as worldly and covenants as heavenly. Instead, he stressed, that we needed to be wary of the one and aim for the other. He noted that Christians often mistakenly start by assuming a covenant with a person without taking the time and care of getting the contract right. “Let’s get the contract right”, he insisted, “and not rush into a covenant.” He guessed that this confusion between contract and covenant uncovered a big part of our misery in life: going through the motions of relating to one another as if we’re in a covenant, but the reality was we felt that the other person wasn’t keeping the terms of the contract. In conclusion, Dr. Wells summed up by advising us to “take contracts seriously, but never assume we can run our whole lives by contracts. Instead, try turning contracts, slowly but surely, into covenants. Contracts can give us security and trust, but only covenants can bring joy and delight.”

While sitting in the Cathedral pews, I at first understood the sermon to be a very cerebral analysis of contracts and covenants. However, now in the shaded solitude of Dumbarton Oaks, the ideas came back to haunt me. Looking back at my interactions with Kathy, relatives, and friends over the course of the week, I realized that the language of contracts and covenants, that Dr. Wells described, was really a way of communicating and maintaining quality relationships with people. In too many marriages, families, and friendships, the belief that they are firmly based on the bonding covenant of love, becomes a license for expressing destructive opinions, statements, or actions that wound or cause injury. In fact, loving and caring covenants can only exist when they are based on the bedrock of fair and just contracts. The same is true for relationships – be they commercial, civil, or familial. When Dr. Wells advised us to “get the contract right”, he meant for us to establish and maintain relationships that are fair, honest, and just. From that beginning, the relationship can grow and evolve into a covenant wherein our actions should always guided by care, empathy, and love. I’d slipped up with Kathy on Thursday. I’d forgotten the fundamental principles of a relationship (contract): being honest and open about concerns or doubts. Instead, I let my feelings simmer and stew, allowing my annoyance to grow into anger that finally found expression in a mean and hurtful statement, that threatened the mood of the entire day. I hoped that I had learned something from Dr. Wells in Washington D.C., the hub of our nation's laws and contracts, that while we aspire to maintain loving covenants with friends, relatives, and spouses, we must “take contracts seriously”, and treat those same people with fairness, honesty, and respect (For the complete text of Dr. Well’s sermon, link to: "There’s Two Ways We Can Do This”).

When I look back on this trip and ask myself, “Why did we do it?” The answer is, “Because we could!” Our current state of retirement and part-time work allowed us to trade homes with Bill and Mary Ellen so we could visit D.C. without the restricting constraints of time, hotel, and expenses. I will confess that of all our stops, the most enjoyable visits were to the National Cathedral and Mount Vernon. The Mass on Sunday, with our follow-up visit to the Cathedral on Wednesday really wowed us. I had considered framing the story of this trip about Lent, but I eventually realized that any tale of this visit had to center around the National Cathedral on a Sunday afternoon, and the language of covenants.

If you are interested in seeing more pictures of our travels around the Washington D.C. area, click on the links below to access my Flickr Albums:

2012-03-03/10 Westchester Place

2012-03-04/07 National Cathedral

2012-03-05 Basilica of the National Shrine

2012-03-05 Catholic University

2012-03-06 Mount Vernon

2012-03-06 Alexandria

2012-03-07 Newseum

2012-03-08 Pentagon

2012-03-08 Library of Congress

2012-03-08 U.S. Capitol

2012-03-09 Dumbarton Oaks

2012-03-09 Georgetown

Start spreading the news,
I’m leaving today.
I want to be a part of it,
New York, New York.
(New York, New York: Fred Ebb and John Kander)

A trip can be a vacation, and a vacation can be a trip, but the activities of each can be very different. While lying on the glistening beaches, and lounging on the white, patio deck chairs of Ventura, reading countless books, stories, and novels, I was struck by how different this trip was to our December visit to New York (see NYC 1: A Helluva Town). One is so tranquil and relaxing, while the other was active and exciting. That momentary reflection brought up a series of images from our adventure in Manhattan, and reminded me of my failure to finish the story of the trip. Since I’d promised myself to do no writing while in Ventura, I suppressed the urge to begin composing. Instead I concentrated on reading the works of Flannery O’Connor and vowed to finish the New York story when I got home. The following is Part 2 of our New York trip:

Fumbling with my gloves and trying to locate my reading glasses and pocket map, the subway train jolted into motion and I watched the station sign glide away. It was mercifully warm on the train. The heat and proximity of other bodies were finally erasing the frigid memories of the arctic-like winds that whipped up 8^th Avenue and swirled around Columbus Circle. Sitting in the closely packed train, I was starting to get some feeling back into my fingers and face. Balancing the glasses on my nose, I checked the station stops on the map as we rumbled along the No. 1, Red Line traveling uptown toward the Bronx. Street number by street number rolled by at each successive station stop, and I alerted Kathy when we approached 116^th Street. We carefully began the long and elaborate rite of adjusting scarves, gloves, and earmuffs so we would be ready to exit quickly and confront the ensuing cold. This would be the furthest northern excursion on our Manhattan trip, and I was still a little unsure of myself on the subway. When the train screeched to a halt, we bumped our way out the door with the crowd, and surveyed the well-lit, tiled corridor that ran both ways along the tunneled track.
“Which way do we go?” asked Kathy, watching passengers scurry in both directions along the shiny corridor.
“Ummm, let’s follow them,” I replied, nodding at three young girls wearing colorful knit caps that covered their ears, and long, bright, checkered scarves that dangled to the waists of their tight blue jeans. “They look like students”.

We trailed behind as they passed through a bank of turnstiles under an exit sign marked 116 Street Station/Columbia University, and then disappeared up a flight of stairs. We soon emerged into the sparkling glare of the most brilliant morning we’d experienced in New York. A blast of frigid air quickly greeted us, giving testimony to the accuracy of the Times weather forecast which called for temperatures in the low 20’s, but a wind chill that promised to make it feel like 0 degrees. While burrowing my nose deeper into my scarf, I still managed to spy a wide, blue banner on the side of a building, with the name Miller Theater - Columbia University lettered in white.
“Kathy,” I called, in a muffled voice.  “I think it’s this way”. I tried sounding confident, because I really didn’t know where “it” was, or what “it” looked like.

Columbia University was a mark on a map next to a subway station and streets. I didn’t know what it looked like or how to enter. We were on a wide, unmarked city street, lined with multi-storied, grey and brownstone buildings, offices, and apartments. The street had the same compact and vertical downtown look that you saw everywhere in New York. I imagined that Columbia would be one of those archaic, urban, metropolitan universities that were constructed with a scarcity of contiguous land and space – the two most prized commodities in New York. The campus probably looked like George Washington University in Washington D.C., a loose amalgamation of brick and mortar halls, offices, and dorms scattered throughout the city, with no central meeting ground. Walking toward the banner, we saw that the building was actually the front of the Columbia School of the Arts, which housed the Miller Theater. Next to it was a high barred fence with a guard kiosk that looked like the fortress entrance in the Guns of Navarrone movie. The only hint of academia was the addition of two large, marble pillars, with Greek statues on pedestals. We entered the wide gate and walked along a shadowed passageway, between two looming, brick buildings. Breaking free of the chilly shadows, at the corner of the buildings, we were suddenly greeted by an exuberant expanse of bright sunshine and colorful open space.

Decorated with wide ribbons of sparkling red and white walkways, and large, green tracts of seemingly endless grass, the vast central Quadrangle was bordered on all sides by gleaming examples of classical, scholastic, and modern architecture. At first, I was entranced by the sheer scope and beauty of this Elysian vista, and then forgotten memories began popping in my mind. I knew this place! I’d seen it filled with students and protesters in countless photos, newspapers, magazines, posters, and on movie and television screens throughout my college days. This was the mythic home of student civil disobedience, a hub of the civil rights struggle, and the flashpoint of the student anti-war movement and the college strikes of the late 60’s. While the University of California in Berkeley ushered in the rights of free speech at college campuses, it was on this Quad, on these steps, and in front of these buildings that they were iconically depicted in actions, print, and pictures. However, I never made the connection between Columbia and this campus, and I certainly never expected anyplace in the city of New York to look like this! This emerald isle in the middle of Morningside Heights was beautiful!

I stood lost in those nostalgic thoughts of long ago days, when another blast of frigid air brought me back to reality, and reminded me that bright, sunny days didn’t mitigate the freezing temperatures of New York in December – especially on these heights. Asking Kathy to pose for some quick photos on the steps of Low Memorial Library, we suddenly heard the faint musical tinkling of her cell phone.
“Hold on,” Kathy said, clumsily digging it out of the folds of her overcoat with her gloves. She looked at the front plate for a moment, and then announced, “It’s Mike. Look, I’ll take this, but you go on.  I’ll get back with you in a bit”.
Kathy moved out of the wind, toward the shelter of Kent Hall, and I climbed the steps of the library to take pictures of the Alma Mater sculpture, and other parts of the campus. The call from her brother Mike, a lawyer working in Manhattan, wasn’t unexpected. Kathy had informed him of our trip weeks ago, and we were planning to visit him on Wednesday at his law offices over Grand Central Station. A few more buffets of chilly winds convinced me that I had my quota of open-air photos, and I walked rapidly to join Kathy, who had finished her conversation.
“What did he want?” I asked innocently.
“To change our plans,” she snapped. “Oh, I didn’t mean that,” she reconsidered. “He called hoping that we could see him today, because he’s finishing up early and won’t be coming into the city tomorrow. He’d like to catch the last train to Connecticut and get an early start on his vacation”.
“Hmm, that presents a problem with Jonaya’s mom coming in from New Jersey,” I pointed out. “Can we manage meeting both of them on the same day? I’m not even sure which train Judy’s taking or when she’s arriving.”
“Well, what did you expect me to do?” Kathy replied in frustration. “I told him I’d call back. What did you want me to tell him?”
I held back the rising bile of a snarky retort and took a breath instead. This was the first discordant note on our trip. Until that moment on the windswept commons of Morningside Heights, everything had gone as we wanted, planned, or improvised.
“You know,” I said instead, “this is going to be fine. This will work out. We need to see both Judy and Mike today, and we’ll make it work. Did Mike say what times were good for him?”
“He said he could wait as long as 7 o’clock,” Kathy replied. “Then he needed to catch the last train to Connecticut”.
“Okay,” I shivered. “Well, we have all morning to figure something out. In the meantime, let’s find the Student Union or someplace warm and sit down.” I sounded more confident than I felt, but I couldn’t believe that this unexpected turn would lead to some upsetting family disaster.

Visiting relatives is the bane of all travelers hoping to have an enjoyable time in a new city. Relaxed and flexible sightseeing is meant to be fun and enjoyable, but scheduling family visits can be an arduous obligation that can highjack a trip’s itinerary. Instead of spending free time exploring a city, one loses time with family reunions, contrived family tours, and dinner parties. Anticipating this, Kathy and I hoped to only visit two critical individuals on this trip – her younger brother, Mike, and Judy, the mother of Toñito’s fiancé, Jonaya. Mike lived in Connecticut, and Kathy had originally arranged to visit him on Wednesday while touring Grand Central Station. I had spoken to Judy that morning, and agreed to meet at Penn Station later in the afternoon. We had never met Jonaya’s sole living parent, and only knew that she lived and worked in New Jersey. Mike’s call had suddenly narrowed the window of opportunity to meet both parties comfortably, especially since we didn’t know when Judy was arriving at Penn Station. She was supposed to notify us by cell phone when she was on her way.

Holding a cup of steaming tea, Kathy returned to the cafeteria table heaped with our undone overcoats, scarves, hats, and camera case. I was staring intently at our convenient concierge city map with its colored grid of train lines and subway stops.
“The Times Square Station is our transition point between Penn Station and Grand Central Station,” I announced, believing that by mastering the public transportation route I was controlling the situation.
“Do you still want to go see the Union Theological Seminary?” Kathy asked, sitting next to me and gazing at the outstretched map. “It looks like it’s just up the street on Broadway.”
“I don’t really trust the scale on these maps,” I replied. “We could end up walking for miles, and it’s really cold outside. No, I say we finish up here, shop for souvenirs in the Bookstore, and head to Penn Station. We can explore that part of town while waiting to receive Judy’s phone call”.
“I agree,” Kathy said, sipping her tea. “But let’s stop at the hotel first. We need to pick up Judy’s gift and I want some warmer clothes”.
The rest of the morning went smoothly. We found the Student Bookstore at the bottom of Lerner Hall and then retraced our steps to the 116^th Street Subway Station. Riding back to the hotel on the Red Line, I was beginning to feel warm and confident.
“Do you know our stop?” Kathy warned, watching me pocket my concierge map.
“Yeah, we get off at Columbus Circle. It’s easy,” I replied, leaning back in my seat. So easy in fact that fate stepped in to remind me of the penalty for hubris. Not bothering to double-check the street numbers as we rode along, I didn’t realize that 59^th Street was another name for the Columbus Station stop.
“Aah, Kath,” I said quietly, watching the doors hiss close, as the tile sign reading Columbus Circle roll past. “I think we missed our stop.”
Jonaya’s mother called once we had doubled-back to our stop and returned to the Essex House. She was catching the train from New Jersey and would arrive at Penn Station around 3 o’clock. For the first time since receiving Mike’s call we relaxed. It looked like we had plenty of time to meet Judy’s train, have lunch somewhere, and then proceed to Grand Central Station for our rendezvous with Mike. However, a new panic emerged when we walked into Penn Station.

I always thought that Penn Station was the ornate and monumental train station pictured in the movie, The Glenn Miller Story, and commemorated in his song, Pennsylvania 65000 (containing the famous lyrics, “You leave Pennsylvania Station ‘bout a quarter to four, read a magazine, and then you’re in Baltimore”). I was wrong on all counts. Those lyrics are from the song, Chattanooga Choo Choo, and Pennsylvania Station was nothing like I expected. It was certainly massive, but in a claustrophobic, ant farm kind of way. Penn Station was a riotous and confusing place. It’s low ceiling, multi-leveled corridors, stairways, and plazas were jam packed with people, vendors, and wave after wave of rushing commuters. I learned later through Wikipedia, that it is the terminus point of the American Northeast Corridor, an electrified rail line system that runs south to Washington D.C., and north to Boston. Amtrak operates the intercity trains that go through this hub, while the commuter rail lines are owned by the Long Island Rail Road (LIRR) and New Jersey Transit (NJT). The station also services six New York City subway routes. It is the busiest passenger transportation facility in the United States, and by far the busiest train station in North America. Grand Central Station may have the magnificent name, but it is third-rate in the number of passengers it services daily. Kathy and I shook our heads, and stared up in slack-jawed bewilderment at the blizzard of track numbers, destination names, and times listed on innumerable Arrival/Departure boards mounted on walls.
“We need to ask somebody,” Kathy finally said, turning to me with a glazed look in her eye. “I have no clue where to go”.
A security guard eventually directed us upstairs to the New Jersey Transit office, where I asked a ticket agent where we could meet the 3:30 train.  To my surprise, she said she didn’t know because trains from New Jersey came in at all times and on different tracks. I reported this confusing bit of information to Kathy and resigned myself to staying alert to recognize a woman we had never seen before. During this nerve-racking wait, I noticed one amusing phenomenon. Over a period of time a growing crowd of people would assemble, standing about and looking up at the departure monitors. Suddenly, and without warning, they would all stampede in one direction. As they rushed by I could hear individuals calling out, “Track 7, track 7, it’s leaving from track 7”. This bizarre sight was repeated two more times while we waited there. Eventually (and while I had wandered off looking for another waiting area) Judy called again, saying she had arrived and was waiting for us at the subway exit to Madison Square Garden. We hurried to that exit, quickly went up a flight of stairs, and halted when we heard a husky call out, “Tony, Kathy, Kathy, Tony,”…. Judy had found us.

We crossed 7th Avenue and found a restaurant inside the Pennsylvania Hotel. There we talked for about 90 minutes, getting to know each other better, and sharing stories and insights into our children. After saying goodbye to Judy in front of the hotel, Kathy briefly considered taking a cab to Grand Central Station, assuming it would be the quickest way. However, one look at the mile long waiting line at the taxi stand convinced her that my subway route would be faster. We returned to Penn Station, climbed aboard the train to Times Square, and in a flash caught the connecting shuttle to 42nd Street. In less than 20 minutes we were standing under the vaulted ceiling of Grand Central Station. Compared to Penn Station, this terminal was an airy breeze. The hallways were vast and open, with gorgeous chandeliers, beveled windows, and sweeping stairs. Kathy had visited Mike in New York before, so, after promising me that we would return to the hall so I could take pictures, she led the way through the spacious concourse toward the Met Life Building. In the lobby we approached the security officers who checked our ID’s against the visitors list and issued us temporary badges with our digitized photos. Mike’s office was on the 48^th Floor, overlooking Park Avenue. The view from his office window was a panoramic, uptown vista of the city, with the Hudson River on the left and the East River on the right. He took us on a short scenic tour of the city from different offices and lobbies and then we headed downstairs for drinks at Grand Central. Michael Jordan’s bar was full so we settled for an Italian tavern nearby. Looking out over the vast concourse, Kathy and Mike chatted about family and kids, while waves of people moved through below. After exchanging news and information for about an hour, Mike left to catch the 7 o’clock train to Fairfield and we wandered about the lobby terminal absorbing the sights and taking pictures.

“My goodness,” I said, collapsing into a vacant subway seat, “this day went remarkably well.”
“I would never have predicted it this morning,” Kathy agreed, sitting next to me. “Everything worked out perfectly.
We finally met Judy and had plenty of time with Mike before he caught the last train home. Now we just need to dress for dinner and make out 9:30 reservation.”
“Does everyone eat dinner this late?” I asked, checking my watch. “I can’t imagine anyone else being in the restaurant at that hour.”
“9:30 is a very civilized time to eat in New York,” Kathy explained. “Plus, it gives us plenty of time to get back to the hotel, shower, and dress. You can even mix a cocktail for us while we relax”.
“The best thing about Marea is its location. It’s so close, we won’t have to wear all this arctic gear,” I said, unwrapping my scarf and pointing at the thick layers of clothes I was wearing. “I’m wearing a blazer and regular shoes tonight. What kind of restaurant is it, anyway?”
“I think it specializes in Italian seafood cuisine. The concierge said it was new, but very good”.
“Well, we’ve been pretty lucky so far,” I added.

A big challenge we faced on our four-day visit to a new city was food. Where does one go for dinner and drinks, especially in a metropolis with such a storied culinary reputation?  The system we used was pretty basic: we asked the advice of people who were familiar with the better restaurants, we researched the available literature and the Internet, and we were observant and lucky. Kathy was really good at all these things, and I complemented her. She immediately got the ball rolling by emailing her brother Mike about our visit and asking him to recommend some good eating-places near the Essex House on Central Park South. He quickly gave us a range of locales and menu prices, and his mentioning of P.J. Clarke, near Lincoln Center, was the reason we ate there on our first night. Kathy was also great at picking the brains of the hotel concierge for ideas and reservations, and searching the hotel maps and magazines for possible restaurants. I was good at observing our surroundings as we walked or traveled through the city, and taking note of the closest, or interesting places to dine and drink. In fact, on Sunday night, while walking back to the hotel from Lincoln Center, I spotted Rosa Mexicano, a Mexican restaurant, at which we dined the following Monday. Although we had to wait for a while in the bar, we met a pair of interesting Colombians who were entertaining a guest from Mexico. The Mexican meal more than made up for the delay, and later we caught a taxi to the famous Algonquin Hotel, where we had a nightcap at its Blue Bar. Another fortuitous occasion was walking past Marea, on Central Park South, on our way to Columbia University that same morning, and deciding to make a reservation for dinner that night.

Lightly dressed for a change, we entered the mutedly lighted, amber-colored lobby of Marea, and were greeted by a crush of over-coated and fur-bearing men and women, crowding the entrance. The restaurant was packed (so much for my thought that no one ate at 9:30)! A host and hostess were speaking to the guests, listing reservations, and predicting the seating times, as a more elegantly dressed maitre d´ (or owner) peered over their shoulders, giving them advice. We gave the hostess our name as a tall, skinny man, in a very expensive suit, pushed passed us demanding to be recognized. He had no reservation, but was insistent that his identify, or that of his party, should be reason enough for the maitre d´ to seat them immediately. As the hostess blushed at the rudeness, the maitre d´ never changed his serene expression or his calm voice. He verified our reservation, told the tall man that he would see what could be done for him, and instructed the hostess to seat us near the oyster bar. The oyster bar was away from the crowding in the main dining room, and looked like an elegant lounge, with tables and cushioned seats lining a shell incrusted, marble wall. I ordered a martini from the elegantly dressed and efficient waitress, and we listened to her dining suggestions, while inspecting the menu. We probably should have gone with the recommended “Four Course Prix Fixe” meal of “Crudo, Ostriche, or Antipasto/Pasta/Pesce or Carne/ Dolce,” but instead made our own individual selections. Each course came with a eloquent presentation by a smartly dressed server, and a detailed description of the plate and its preparation. We had a delicious appetizer of scampi, and then I selected a pasta dish called Fusilli, with red wine braised octopus and bone marrow. The server explained that the chef, Michael White, cooked the mirepoix (combinations) in a big pot with baby octopus, Sangiovese, and tomato purée. He then simmered it until tender and the sauce becomes thick with flavor. The result is mixed with a serious amount of seared bone marrow and twirls of house-made fusili. The marrow emulsifies and acts as butter in the sauce. It was delicious! Kathy and I slowly and deliberately savored our meals, and kept smiling at each other over our culinary discovery.

We finished the day’s adventures by debriefing over nightcaps at the bar in Nino’s Tuscany, a restaurant half block from our hotel. There we reviewed the events and actions of the day, and congratulated ourselves with a toast. We had survived the frigid weather, successfully traveled in an unfamiliar city under pressing time constraints, enjoyed the company of family and friends, and still managed to relax and eat a marvelous meal in an unexpectedly fine restaurant. All that and it was still only our second full day in Manhattan!

Two more days would follow with excursions to the Metropolitan Museum, Times Square, the Empire State Building, and Greenwich Village. A light, morning snowstorm, that covered Central Park in a frosting of white, capped off our trip on the day we departed. It was a glorious way to say goodbye to an impressive city, and a remarkable adventure.

If you are interested in seeing the complete photo album of our trip to Manhattan, check my Flickr account at: 2009-12-27 to 31: New York.