Hot Dogs and Heated Floors: A Trip to D.C.
It was nearing four PM when both of our phones decided to go dead, clearly just as exhausted as Ella and I. We were sitting on the exit steps of the National Gallery of Art, nearly two miles from our hotel (which, might I add, we had no real clue how to get to.) Perhaps we had lingered just a bit too long in the sale section of the gift shop (we love a good deal), or maybe it was the late-autumn heat that had set in that weekend— either way, our tired selves had made a big mistake letting our phones die. With no Uber capabilities, walking back to our location-less hotel seemed to be the only option our tired minds could conjure up.
As we silently wandered, searching aimlessly for our hotel, I thought back to one of my early trips to Washington D.C. as a kid. My father, grandmother, and I had taken a trip in the summer heat to visit my Great Aunt after her husband’s passing. Owning an incredible brownstone within walking distance of the Mall, my Great Aunt Judy was unknowingly living my dream. At the time, truthfully, I didn’t even realize it was my dream. I’m pretty sure I was planning on being a big-shot movie director, so my future lay ahead in California. As happens with aging, my plans and dreams rearranged themselves, and now I dream of owning (or at least renting) a brownstone just like Judy’s. I remember very little about how she had the place decorated, but I do remember she had a big dog and heated kitchen floors. In my young mind, there was a definite correlation between these two factors. Such a big dog was deserving of a warm nook to sleep in. That, I thought, was a certainty.
Being the child I was, I didn’t care to see any of the usual D.C. sights. I couldn’t be bothered to stand in front of the Capitol Building with awe, nor did I want to be in the presence of a giant version of Abraham Lincoln. Who, I thought, gave a shit about a stone man, or a big building? I especially had no interest in visiting D.C.’s art galleries, which happened to be a must-see for my father. With family connections to the airlines, my dad was able to fly up to Washington D.C. on a whim as a child, and would spend his days wandering through the aforementioned art museums. This was bizarre to me. If you found yourself in D.C., wouldn’t your first (and only) stop be the Smithsonian Zoo? For some unknown reason, I had decided to fixate on seeing the pandas here, and, naturally, threw a hissy fit to ensure the zoo would be added to our D.C. itinerary. I have no idea why I became entranced by the idea of seeing these lethargic creatures, but the black and white beings remained at the forefront of my mind during our stay in the capital.
The day we had scheduled to visit the zoo was a particularly hot one. As I now know quite well, the heat in D.C. can be brutal. We wandered through the zoo pathways, voyeurs in the lives of animals ranging from flamingos to warthogs. The animals all appeared to be melting under the summer sun. Truthfully, I felt as if I was melting as well. Considering I had put up such a fit to get the zoo on our itinerary, I thought it would be best to keep my complaints to myself. Nearing the end of our animal explorations, we reached the panda exhibit. Despite my heat-induced fatigue, I sprinted up to the enclosure and began my search for the giant creatures. After a first round of glances, and then a second, I realized I couldn’t see a single damn panda. When I asked my dad where they all were, he noted that they were likely hiding in the shaded caves, escaping the scathing sun. Well, this sucks, I thought to myself. “Can’t you do a panda call or something to get them to come out? Can we throw food at them? I bet they like hot dogs or slushies,” I pleaded. These, of course, were fruitless requests, and I left the zoo cursing the summer heat for hiding away my precious pandas. On our way back to the brownstone, I started to wonder if my Great Aunt Judy’s dog would benefit more from a self-cooling kitchen floor instead of a heated one. Given my father’s overheated exhaustion, I decided I’d put this ingenious idea on the back burner to bring up later.
On our walk back from the National Gallery of Art, I felt no different than those overheated pandas from the zoo. We were in the city the day the 2020 presidential results were released, and the streets were flooded with celebrating people, dancing on nearly every corner. Streets were closed off as well, which certainly didn’t help in our directionless search for our hotel. Given the distraught look on our faces, we started to get odd looks from the celebrators in the street. They must think we are Republicans, I told Ella, after a drunken dancer’s eyes lingered on our sullen faces. Sadly, these street voyeurs didn’t think to give us hot dogs, slushies, or anything of the sort, and we continued on our exhausting search for our hotel through the crowds.
Miraculously, we stumbled upon our hotel after what felt like eons of wandering through the city. Collapsing on the squeaky hotel mattress, I felt a sense of exhausted peace. It was peace, nonetheless. Hours earlier, in the National Gallery of Art, Ella and I had stood before Van Gogh’s famous self portrait. I remembered my father dragging me to the National Gallery of Art the day after our trip to the zoo. Being an artist himself, he took time to get acquainted with each piece and appreciated it in its entirety. Being the kid I was, I was antsy after the first few gallery rooms. As I twiddled my thumbs in the impressionist section, I my eyes landed on Van Gogh’s self portrait. I recognized it from my Elementary School art class. I walked over from the museum bench to get a closer look. Each brush stroke was so thick and deliberate. It was truly beautiful. With my father standing beside me, I began to cry. Seeing the painting for the first time since that trip, now an adult, made my eyes well up again. I didn’t want to cry out of the blue, surrounded by strangers in the gallery, so I put my tears to the side for a while. I felt a sense of saddened peace. It was peace, nonetheless. So much had changed between then and now. I had grown up, and my childhood, it seemed, was in its final stages.
I often worry that my childlike wonders and obsessions will leave me with age. I worry that I won’t ever experience that same sense of awe that I did, standing in front of that Van Gogh painting with my father, or the same obsession I had with seeing the D.C. pandas. I worry that those odd passions will leave me as each year goes by. In many ways, I operate as a voyeur of my own memories, always watching what is just ever out of reach in my mind. I’ve realized, really, that returning to a place, or a painting, isn’t the same as how it was when that memory was made. Nothing I can do can recreate that feeling of being so young and naïve, staring in awe, experiencing life, or, in this case, Van Gogh, for the first time. I love obsessing over these little moments— sometimes to the point where I forget to enjoy the moments I am living now. Staring at the hotel ceiling, I snapped out of my regressive daydream and looked around me. Wasn’t this moment enough? Laying next to my best friend with the setting sun streaming through our single hotel window, I felt a sense of childlike wonder. How lucky am I, to experience this? After a long rest on our squeaky hotel mattress, we reentered the hectic streets to dance with strangers, voyeurs to the life and memories we were building, here, in the present moment.
