Okay Dad, you told me so. Those annoying rolly backpacks that I scoffed at would've saved me pains in the back, shoulders, and feet. But I am a man. With sore arms that will hopefully be stronger when I try to carry these bags in Dublin.
The humidity here in D.C. reminds me of high school in Florida. And makes me sweat like a pig. (Have you ever seen pig sweat? Me neither. But I assume if the pig was wearing a shirt, it would be soaked like mine.)
Travelling alone is a new experience. I've done it many times, but not for two whole days. I don't even know what to think about what I'm doing...like I'm not that excited, I'm just kinda spaced out. I'm enjoying myself, but my voice sounds funny when it pops out, and I feel kinda people-starved.
That being said, my lingering visit to the National Museum of Art (well, two visits, after I missed my train) was much less interesting than the colorful mosaic of people I saw today. I heard probably five languages before I finished breakfast this morning, including one "Shizer" from a girl who scalded her hand in the hostel kitchen. But the best moment by far today was provided by a little guy in the Museum of Natural History: ¨¿Tío, qué le pasó?" ('Uncle, what happened to him?' he says, pointing to the limp gazelle draped over a branch in front of a salivating leopard.) This was of course followed by an awkward silence in which Tío decides whether or not to respond with the gruesome truth.
The pigeons from Union Station garage say hi. They were pecking under my shoes trying to get at my cracker crumbs. Crazy birds.
In case you didn't know, Raphael definitely painted this picture where a mischievous baby Jesus is trying to reach inside the Virgin's blouse. Oh, the Renaissance. I have a really hard time believing that all these nudes were artistic and had nothing to do with Italian hormones. As feminists have pointed out, why are they all women then? Sexuality is such a powerful thing, but it seems almost impossible to portray it without cheapening it. Maybe that just reflects how powerful it is. Or how messed up we are.
Modern art is interesting. I saw one piece (a video) where this artist had set up a huge chain reaction where things like baking soda spilling across the floor tips over a table so it knocks a tire into a bucket that starts a balloon car. Cool. But most modern art reminds me of Elliot talking about 'shape without form' in the Hollow Men. It's...intellectually interesting...sort of...but it has little pathos, because it has no recognizable forms, only shapes, only colors, like letters without words. It almost seems like modern artists are deconstructing the idea of progress by proving that man is actually regressing and has nothing beautiful or important left to say. Shame.
Seeing old friends is refreshing. It feels like I have a couple lives behind me sometimes. But I can only live one at a time, and tomorrow, it's on to Dublin. Peace.
From September 2008
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