This is a holiday weekend and today is Labor Day Sunday.
The day began with the usual newspapers-the Times and the Post-and the stories. Some people seem to have a tough time getting along, especially the folks at the eastern end of Pennsylvania Avenue. Checked my emails and saw the usual backlog of rants about illegal immigration and a Kenyan President from people who probably can’t find Kenya on a map.
After that, the Missus and I went into The City to see an exhibition of Latin Music in America at the Smithsonian. We went early, we thought, but there was still no parking. I might add, “as usual.” It seems that for Labor Day USA most of the world decided to visit the Capital of America. I might again add “as usual.” There is a lot of construction and renovating going on and for some reason those activities eat a lot of parking-“as usual.” My fallback parking for almost any destination along the Federal Mall, Pennsylvania Ave or Chinatown is the Social Security parking lot near Capitol Hill. It was blocked off for Labor Day activities. It figures.
Everywhere you looked it seemed that Chinese, Japanese and Korean tourists were flooding off of oversized busses to see and be photographed in the Capitol of America-as usual. Sometimes, we get Vietnamese tourists from Toronto, too. Lots of school kids from all over America, as well, not to mention the meld of locals who have journeyed from equally far places to make this home.
We gave up looking for parking because we can come back on a non-holiday and went up to the Eastern Market. It was packed, too-as usual. While the families on the Mall come from all over the world, most of the immigrants at the Eastern Market come from the Caribbean. Some come from Philly and New York. These folks tend to be the venders-painters, sculptors, wood workers, and jewelry makers. We bought obscenely sweet peaches, tomatoes so strong and fresh that they created sores in my mouth, fresh watermelon, fresh jalapenos that even smelled hot, crisp apples so sweet you could sweeten your tea with them, head cheese, thick sliced to order bacon, “streak of lean” salt pork, freshly cleaned croakers and a bouquet of flowers for the Missus. After that, we went home.
So far, it had been a good day.
Late this afternoon, I talked the Missus into a stroll through the parks and along the Riverwalk. We walked down to the river and rambled around Oronoco Bay Park. The usual late afternoon couples on the benches were there and, the usual compliment of young men with young dogs playing catch with Frisbees was there, too. The geese were sitting like a battle group of oversized battleships watching the folks on the observation platform watch them, waiting for the occasional breadcrumb. The ducks, mostly Mallards about a third the size of the geese, had discovered some toddlers with teething crackers along the walking path. Sure enough, their patience was rewarded when some of the kids held out their cookies to share.
From there we wandered up to Founders Park past lovers sharing late afternoon kisses under the trees overlooking the river. The usual athletes passed us in both directions. Some jogging, some running, some seemingly sprinting. At Founders Park, the usual Old Town residents were walking their pony sized dogs and standing in groups here and there exchanging tall tales about their pets, and the food they feed them and the shampoo they use. Mothers and fathers pushed baby carriages and some let their toddlers streak across the grass. One such young man saw his chance when placed on his two feet and he sprinted forward about 15 feet into a Sunday afternoon pickup volleyball game in the sand pit. His nanny got him before he got too involved.
There were many recently immigrated American families in the park, too. They come from faraway places like Somalia, the Sudan, all the countries across the Sahel (the northern parts of the Congo, Uganda, Nigeria, Niger, and Senegal) as well as Ethiopia and Eritrea. Others come from El Salvador, Guatemala, the Caribbean and even Mexico and Texas. Still more come from Indonesia, Southeast, east and Northeast Asia.
Most of the men wear European style trousers and shirts, but occasionally you will see an older gentleman or group of gentlemen wearing the Arab kaftans or a traditional shirt. The names of the clothing varies from country to country.
The older women and some of the younger women, Muslim or Christian, from the African and Southwest Asian countries, as well as some of the South and Southeast Asian countries tend to wear traditional dress on these national holidays in the park. Muslim or Christian, older women and married women from across the Sahel (that region on the south side of the Sahara Desert where the desert transitions to grassland and forest), tend to wear headscarves. Some wear more than one headscarf. Some of them wear the traditional Arab hijab others wear a variation from their country.
Some are short and slightly built with reddish brown skin and black hair, some seem to my eyes to be coal black with coal black hair, others have polished ebony skin with long willowy limbs and some seem to have been burned to charcoal by too many decades in the desert sun. Some are more sturdily constructed.
The dress materials vary from culture to culture and country to country, but in the Horn and across the Sahel, brightly colored body wraps made from voile cloth tend to be the universal fashion. This day in the park was no exception but today there were also Indian women and other women from South Asia-maybe even Sri Lanka and Bangladesh-wearing colorful “saris” and equally colorful head wraps. Most of these women are probably Hindu’s or Buddhists. Things change in America, though, and many of the younger women, and girls, were not wearing traditional clothing.
Judging by the languages I overheard, our local Asian immigrant communities were well represented by families of tall thin Koreans interspersed with shorter Vietnamese and other apparent Southeast Asian immigrants. I overheard, a few Chinese and a few Japanese, too.
The women sat and talked and the children either climbed along the rocks and in the trees at the river’s edge or sat and listened. The old men sat together speaking quietly, some sat silently, watching their families, perhaps maintaining a protective vigil.
Of course, the rest of us, the European Americans and the African Americans were there as well.
The Torpedo Factory occupies a good-sized plot of land between Founders Park and King Street. Fittingly enough, the Torpedo Factory used to be a torpedo factory. In addition to the artists resident in the Torpedo Factory, there are a few high-end knickknack shops that peddle local history and George Washington icons. There is a small marina, a food court and a Chart House restaurant, and, if you are interested, commercial tour boats on the river are available, too.
Today, the marina was crowded with a similar mix of people eating ice cream cones and drinking ice-cold water that they purchased from a street vender. A blues playing and singing guitar man sat in the shade of the Factory on a stool with an open box in front of him, strumming his guitar, pedaling a tambourine, and alternately blowing into a blues harmonica and singing. The box was for folks to toss coins and dollar bills into. He seemed to be doing well.
A few yards away a group of very old black men was singing spirituals to a bluesy beat-in a cappella. I see these men in D.C. a lot, especially in the Metro Station at the Federal Triangle and the Smithsonian. They are good and, judging from the over flowing hat before them, they make good money. As they sang, their hands, feet and bodies moved in choreographed unison. I hate to be ethnic, but an older white woman stood in front of the Missus and me, abruptly bouncing up and down, trying unsuccessfully to keep with the beat. On one hand, I suppose she may simply be the courageous victim of a central nervous system disorder who refuses to give up. On the other hand, she reminded me of the jokes that my wife, sons, and granddaughter tell about me when I try to dance.
This is something you might want to keep in mind if you are contemplating an inter-racial or inter-ethnic marriage. But then, that perhaps is a topic better held for another story.
We walked through the crowd in the breezeway and came out at Union and King to the music of a man strumming an electric ukulele. He looked like he may have been Hawaiian or at least Filipino and he had a nice voice, too. He too had an almost full box of money in front of him.
Walking up King Street, we came across a young girl-about 14-playing the violin. It was hooked up to an amplifier. She played a tune that was fast and devilish and then metamorphosed into a sweeping climbing swooping piece that climbed like an eagle and dove like a hunting falcon, and the sound was sweet and clear and pure. She was clean and healthy, drug free and nicely groomed and had obviously studied formally and, judging by her apparent age, was probably still studying.
The open violin case looked like it didn’t have a dime in it.
Go figure.
So we moved on through the surging tide of humanity that eddied and burbled around the lamp posts and parked cars and sidewalk diners. We breathed in the aromas of fresh pizza, steak, fried fish, fried calamari, cold ice cream and cold beer.
On the next corner, a man struggled to play an out of tune sax. Folks walked by and dropped coins into his cup.
In the town square another old wino tried his hand at a cappella rock and roll: Johnny Be Good! He had coins in his cup, too.
From there, we walked on home. It had been a good stroll-about a mile and a half.
Tonight, just before the early evening thundershower, I took a cup of hot tea to the roof. The air was soft and warm but cooling down. The vista from that perspective includes Washington-the Lincoln Monument, Washington Monument, Congress, the Library of Congress-Bolling Air Force Base, the water tower at Andrews Air Force Base, crime ridden South East Washington, and the Woodrow Wilson Memorial Bridge on one side. On the other of the building, you can see Arlington, Falls Church and points west.
The streets below were still filled with strolling couples and running athletes and I knew from experience that there were still families on the Federal Mall and probably the Eclipse across from the White House, as well as Founders Park.
I thought of the young woman playing her violin on King Street, her music beautiful but seemingly unappreciated.
In spite of the lack of coins in the girl’s open violin case, I think I agree with all of these immigrants and international visitors.
America is a good place to be.