High School Pre-Reunion

Friday I bade my family’s new-ish Texan homestead Dancing Oaks farewell to attend to my dearest Washington, DC; my class reunion awaited. Fortunately I had the pleasure of touring my dad’s “man cave” as my mother puts it. Sometimes I swear they do more projects than 2007 Dubai. Its nice to see Dad continue to realize his engineering education. It would certainly be classier to call it a “lodge” but I think my mother’s moniker will do. Unfortunately, I left the ranchito prior to my mother returning from her Black Friday activities. There was a Tom Tom to be purchased, and she was to have it for an amazing low low price. Thank you Walmart.

Hugs and besos, and off I go to the 100 mile trip back to my Houston abode. Somehow I managed to forget to pack my trusty iPhone headphones AND charger. What was I thinking? The rolling hills slipped by with the eager assistance of my new La Roux and Jay-Z albums (not as euphoniously divergent as one would initially postulate). I pondered when on earth I was going to get back to regular gym outings, a possible sky trip, healthcare reform, and of course how despite my high levels of planning (i.e. my airline seat choices, hair product bottling, highway traffic determining, magazine placement, and Netflix DVD choice) I still forget something silly.

Vroom. Eeek.

I quickly dropped off nonessentials, picked up headphones, and of course bathed my patio garden in some refreshing water before locking apartment three up again. My journey to the airport was actually fully restricted to neo-soul with Jill Scott and Erykah Badu. Car park. Shuttle. Security. Gate. Some texts reached notables announcing the abdication of my presence in Texas. Schwoosh. Off I go. I thankfully was near neither airplane talkers nor need of nap and made quick work of the Economist, Car and Driver, and a bit more of the Fountainhead (which I have officially be reading forever).

I cannot relate the protest of my entrails as we got the runway with the alacrity of a Tiger Woods press release. Not. Good. It was nice to walk with a sense of purpose again as I chucked some slow walking passerby on the airports moving sidewalk. To be fair, the nature of the Texas Medical Center is no less than fast-paced. Multiple Thanksgiving brunches, lunches, snacks, naps, and dinners can take its toll on an economic use of time. Nonetheless, I gleefully emerge from the cavernous vault that is the Foggy Bottom/GWU Metro station and head to New Hampshire and M Streets where my hotel awaited. Some quick coordination with Dave yielded a very promising pre-party near the U Street corridor. I quick shower relieved me of any superficial weariness. Scarf. Long johns. Amber Ale. A quick thank you to the Google gods. Voila. I arrive at U Street and 17th. Dave would arrive in moments to deliver me the rest of the distance to the house party.

It was nice to see him again. TEN years since our high school graduation. I can only say with any confidence that we’ve hung out reasonably in the last 4 months. Its strange, some people you would be remiss not to spend more time with. He apologized for his inebriation. Within the hour I apologized for joining him with mine. This was all in the setting of a buzzing house party full of Asians (à la Micke)...and a 50 year old Dutch woman. My adopted status as a social butterfly courtesy of my six years in Texas was tempered by my previous status as uncongenial courtesy of my nine years in the DC Metro. Fortunately, most of the Asians there unburdened me by either fully engaging me or benignly ignoring my presence. I did enjoy learning about flip-cup, development of media materials for the American College of Cardiology, and of course who the 50 year old was. Apparently, a large gaggle of Asians were out imbibing that evening for a “Century.” My liver shutters at the thought of what THAT may be. In any case, the older Dutch woman revealed herself to be one of the Asian’s mother. Huh. Imagine that. She was kind enough to deliver the gaggle to the present party. Mystery solved. Dave shared some new developments. Apparently its become de rigueur to get a MBA in this economy. We also discussed some parallels in our lives with upcoming changes and of course waxed lyrical about high school shenanigans.

At the time, having strawberry yoghurt wasted in your lap is...not that funny. Somehow that changes with time. We shared a French class senior year and joked about the (useful) pain that we experienced there. He further caught me up with developments with other friends of course. A divorce, a doctor, and an updated roster of Asians were some highlights. Someone insisted on opening a window (it was a bone-chilling 36 degrees outside) and I quickly retreated to better interior climes opposite the Dutch woman. I noted to myself that these are a curious and interesting people the Dutch, the few that I’ve met. I may have to see the country that produces them. They were among the first to issue us debt to fund our American Revolution against the British; perhaps I’ll have to check them out.

The hours slipped by and my hunger betrayed my desire to stay much longer. Dave expressed a desire to get some rest and avoid unwanted consequences the next morning. He offered a great all night pizza place a block away and we parted ways and the inky darkness. Baffeto's was my beacon beyond the cold, glistening road bathed under those nauseating yellow street lights. The clerk followed me in. Perhaps he’d just finished a cigarette or just wanted some air. In any case, I didn’t know, nor could I decide if he were Ethiopian or just a Pakistani. Immaterial as my stomach growled in protest to my dithering. “Italian sausage special.” I realized that asking for recommendations was as useful as asking Americans their thoughts of healthcare reform beyond vapid vitriol.

It. Scent. Is. Of. HEAVEN. As I was chatting with VK, who was unfortunately stuck in the bowels of the hospital, I was greeted with an unceremonious delivery of a pizza box as I lazily learned over the counters facing 18th street. Perhaps they have become immune to the olfactory delight that greeted me and the leggy loitering Persians. Wow. It was my plan to walk the 1.3 miles back to the hotel as I have previously, but anything that would have adulterated the current state of the pizza was intolerable. I exchanged pleasantries with VK via my fully charged iPhone, explained the situation, and promptly hailed a cab. HE was Pakistani and pleasantly continued his conversation via his Bluetooth headset as we rolled toward the Renaissance M Street Hotel. His breaks squealed and chassis rumbled as all good DC cabs should. I hopped out but it seemed I couldn’t walk fast enough. Double doors. Concierge. Elevator button. Wait. Curious nearly oval elevator. 7th floor spills in front of me. Door. Keys. Wallet. Jacket. NOSH.

I couldn’t have predicted how delicious those six slices were. Pleasant satiety enveloped me and I quickly went off to sleep. Tomorrow would be our ten year high school reunion. What lay ahead?

Non Sequitur

VK and I ventured to get some tacos from midtown's Taco's-A-Go-Go. Delightfully tacky yet unrefined.

Touring Towers

It was Abby (AKA Abena), one of the ‘Brits for Obama’ contingent that campaigned with my parents in Ohio some months ago. She kindly inquired if I would be available that evening for a tour of Parliament and perhaps a drink.

Great! Recently there has been a great deal of scandal and worry surrounding MPs and spending. I’d gathered that theses Parliament office workers were more than busy as of late, so I was very surprised to hear from one of them.

The irony of the evening is that I arrived at the visitors gate of Parliament promptly at 6:15pm. I was to meet Abby inside. I approached the guard and inquired if I may pass, as he was blocking my path. I couldn’t tell if his response of “I’m sorry its closed now” was saccharine, sarcastic, or seemingly genial. In any case, I feigned ignorance and cordialness and called Abby.

She flew around the corner and I could see her frenetic energy out of the corner of my eye as I took some more photos.
“Are you Cecil?”
Abby was a shortish, smooth-faced, and round Ghanaian. She would be my guide for the evening.

At first? Yeah, it sucked. After the initial thrill of being taken in to a separate entrance wore off, I began to realize that she probably hasn’t given a tour before. Just prior to introducing me to some colleagues at one of three Parliament pubs, she intimates,
“You know, even though I’ve worked here for all this time, I guess I don’t really know much about this place.”

Duh.
Worst tour ever.

But, as we say in Texas, “Bless her heart (add ample diphthong here).” We breezed by some of the most amazing stone and gilded ceilings that I’ve ever seen. We trampled hastily over well-worn marble floors. We glided by immaculately glistening stained glass. Intermittently we would stumble upon a 17th century statue of some notable, and I’d hear a light British-kissed voice inquiring, “Hmm...what does the plaque say?”

Then we began to meet the Diaspora. A thin Afro-Caribbean security guard brightened at the sight of Abby, introduced himself and then showered me in Jamaican patois. I caught maaaaybe 70% of it. My blank stare and staccato response betrayed my ignorance.

“Sorry, I see one of us and then I get going.”
Inside I agreed, though my words said, “No, not at all.”

We exchanged pleasantries that I had since become unaccustomed to since being in relatively staid England. He was warm and pleasant, and reminded me why I love my people so much.

Abby hesitantly asked if this gentleman had keys to the crypt. He said he didn’t but pointed us in the direction of a fellow officer that did and eagerly obliged. We immediately began our decent in the cold, twisty halls below the most ancient part of the Houses of Parliament. A large wooden door swung open to an incredible gilded chapel. To call it gorgeous would be an understatement as to call Houston summer-sun warm would be also in error. The other security guard related to us a small morsel of its history, but needless to say I don’t think I was supposed to take pictures.
Good tour.

We began our ascent again and spilled out into the ancient Westminster Hall Abby began her entreaties of completing the tour as we entered the Common Hall. Her knowledge and likelihood of a better performance was dismal. As a last ditch effort, she kindly asked another guard if he knew anything about the Hall.

To begin, his name was Minty. He was the sort of gentleman that you’d imagine that had a favorite pub, noshed proudly on English food and English football wins, and was seemingly ambivalent but deeply devoted to his wife. He was a Londoner.

Minty at first teased us with a little knowledge of our surroundings.

He talked about the ceiling with its many symbols, he sprinkled minor dates and peoples, and shared a simple joke or two. I ate it up. As did Abby. Seeing an opportunity, Abby kindly asked if we could see the House of Commons. He eagerly obliged and walked us there.

The talked about EVERYTHING. About Churchill, about the rebuilding of the House of Commons after the War, about the ceremonies involved in the Queen’s annual visit, about ‘modesty drapes.’ He discussed the origins of the word “tally” that was born there, and the phrase “toe the line.” I was enchanted. I wouldn’t call myself a history buff, but a thorough understanding of origin is oh-so-much fun. Abby, Minty, and I laughed and sighed in awe.

Minty was quite the history buff and hilarious in a high school teacher sort of way. He whisked us to where they vote, to the venerable although seemingly anachronistic House of Lords, to halls, corners, plaques, and even regal dressing rooms. He explained the British Royal family tree with the assistance of the many paintings on the wall with the clarity and hilarity of Maury.

BEST TOUR EVER.

“Well, we should say hello to my friend before we go. Do you have time? I warn you he’s a bit off” Even if not entirely true, he could have asked for a kidney and I would have said yes.

We joined another guard with who he’d been working with for the better part of two decades. Within 10 minutes he showed us his tattoo, Mayhem I think it was, (on his upper arm) and graced us, without hesistation, to his passionate and riotous performance of a NUMBER of his favorite bands song. He cajoled into joining. In a surreal moment, I thought, “Yup. I am karaokeing in Parliament.” Not your average evening. We talked of Obama’s senatorial visit to the Houses of Parliament and debated if Obama shaking your hand counts as “meeting” him (we for our karaokeing friend it did). I hadn’t laughed that hard in a house of government in quite some time. Our friend insisted that we take photos in his hat with his new (beautiful) Blackberry. We obliged.

“Oops. Its 10! We’re no longer paid to be here! We’ll see you later!”
And just like that, off they went after hearty hand-shakes. Thus concluded the evening, never to be repeated again.

I'm Just a Lucky So-and-So

So the day started innocuous enough. I had an early afternoon free and decided that I would remain in my decision to do as much exploration as possible. I’d already purchased my hat; this had freed considerable mental capital, so I made my way to Coventry Gardens. I stumbled upon store after store of posh threads that contained items that were well beyond my pocketbook. Another Paul Smith store teased me we further sartorial delights. I even managed to stomach an Abercrombie & Fitch look-a-like store. I’d pretty much decided to venture back to the flat, when voila!

Neal’s Yard

Tucked just beyond the street in a tiny courtyard beyond an alley layed the former residence of Monty Python, delicious vegetarian fare, and an excellent perch to do some more people watching. After requisite picture taking under the watchful protection of my new hat, and a quick seat at a café table, I was (eventually) accosted by a waiter.
“Are you vegetarian?”
I stumbled, “Uh...no, but uh...”
“Then I suggest these.” He turned to the back of the menu phlegmatically and began pointing to their ‘non-veg’ fare.
“Hmm...that sounds good, how about the quiche?”
“Excellent choice.” He quickly disappeared.

The meaty quiche was...palatable. In any case, it was a beautiful afternoon. I considered a desert, but decided that I’d better get the bill since the service took a remarkably long time.

I failed at taking a photo of a delightful 60 year old with red leather boots and matching hair, but low and behold:
I’ll call her violet. Violet was reading a newspaper near some important statue, her husband dutifully and eagerly looking over her shoulder. I’ve never, ever, seen someone match their skirt, to their, purse, to their cardican, to their earings, to their HAIR. Well, besides in some parts of Atlanta, but I digress.

I continued my sojourn to an art supply store that was housed under a canopy of chimneys.

My ring tone, I’m Just A Lucky So and So, chirped through my new skinny jeans (gasp). I struggled additionally to receive the change from the purchase of a hilariously British card. “Hello?”

Yes We Did

Above is a poster by Lance Wyman who was commissioned for the above piece. Its practically de rigueur for artists to be involved in this past election, but I'll take it. You may remember Lance Wyman as the guy behind the Olympic Mexico 68 Posters.

In any case, its nice to proud of the leader of the free world again. We'll see where this takes us. It seems like everyone has an opinion (1, 2, 3). Mine? Its nice to have smart people running the country.

Non Sequitur

Chamberlain and I were joined by our favorite future pediatric interventional cardiologist at one of my favorite haunts in Houston, Poison Girl. And no, you're not imagining things. That is in fact a giant and rather ironic/anachronistic Kool-Aid Man with his similarly enormous 80s compatriot, Cabbage Patch. I needn't say more. Just go.

And a Happy New Year.

There are absolutely no words. My only hope is that you had as an amazing send-off to 2008 as I did....but I doubt it.