To Washington and Back, Part 1

My diesel truck became known as the "tortuga" for no real reason other than "tortuga" is a fun word to say, especially if you can deliver it with a thick, dramatic spanish accent like something straight out of a telenovela. It took practice, of course, but we had practiced it plenty of times on drives to and from swimming workouts.  

True to its name, the tortuga didn't offer much in the way of acceleration, but it had a huge gas tank and could run forever or damn close to forever, especially after the transmission had been rebuilt. It was the first car I'd ever called my own and I loved the way it couldn't u-turn or fit in parking spaces downtown and how it sounded louder than other diesels for some reason.

But after close to thirty thousand miles together and plenty of repairs and fix-ups during, I knew it was time to part ways. I worried about the truck and if I could even sell it for a while and if I could if I even wanted to and then it all came together in ways that almost felt planned. My general manager needed a car to drive that could double as a vehicle for the bars and decided that he wanted to buy the truck immediately. I of course wanted to sell it. And then Dad had a truck he didn't drive often that he said I could use; a younger, faster gas-powered beauty, which Ryan and I quickly dubbed  the "tortuga negra" not for racial reasons but because the Ford is actually black. So I sold the tortuga and Kristin and I decided, at Dad's suggestions, that we would fly up to Washington DC to get the truck,  then drive back down together to Austin. Burn two bridges with one fire, as Kristin would say; not only take a nice break from real life as we drove across the country, but also dramatically improve my financial and vehicle situations. On second count, that's three burning bridges. 

So Kristin took time off school and I took time off work and we boarded a tiny plane and flew to Chicago and then we boarded a slightly larger plane and flew to Washington DC.  

On one of those flights was a woman whose arms were bigger than Kristin's legs, so I took a photo of her. When Kristin found out that I had secretly taken a photo of this woman, she gave me one of those looks that lets me know she's more than slightly disappointed. I shrugged and showed her the photo, pinching the screen to zoom in on the woman's arm.

We eventually arrived in Reagan airport and after we waited for Kristin's checked bag, Mom came and got us from the airport and took us the scenic way home so Kristin could see the monuments and what real DC looked like. 

We came in the house and dropped our bags and almost instantly a shepard's pie came out of the oven. Artists often leave a tiny signature of sorts in a bottom corner of their paintings to help ensure that they receive credit for their work (among other reasons). Dad butchered that same artistic principle and carved his initials into the center of the mashed potatoes in the hope of taking credit for making the pie itself. It was nice to see that not much had changed since I had last been home, not even my shamelessly oportunistic father. 

Though we have come to realize we are both annoyingly indecisive, Kristin and I decided to stay two nights in Washington, in part so Kristin could have a day walking around the monuments, but also so we could enjoy the dinners which always seems to involve salad and wine, which are things we have both decided we enjoy. 

We picked a perfect day to go sightseeing; warm but pleasant, with one quick burst of rain that didn't last long at all and didn't even really get us wet. We took our time, took a few photos as well, but the highlight for me was the wandering and the chatting and the holding hands.  All the memorials and monuments are within walking distance of one other, so Mom dropped us off by the Washington monument and Kristin and I looked at our photocopied map and made our way to each, stopping at one point to sit beneath a willow tree and look at the ducks at I used to feed as a little boy, though now there are signs that tell you not to feed them. 

 

A part of the World War II memorial is this wall of stars, where each star represents 100 men either killed or missing in action from WWII and in front of the wall/fountain, the words "FREEDOM ISN'T FREE" are carved. I looked at the wall for a while and finally decided that the all the neatly arranged stars missed the point, that somehow a gold star didn't do justice to the men it symbolized, that their lives were much more than a star and some phrase that's been said so often by every single presidential candidate for the last two decade that it doesn't really mean anything anymore or at the very least doesn't mean anything to me.

There is another wall yet to be built, though perhaps instead of stars they'll use flags and I can't help but wonder why we still fight when there is no mystery in how it all ends. And somewhere in all of this I think of those pictures of Lilly smiling at Jack and how much of a shame it is that all those stars and flags were men once and could be men still but they are dead now because freedom isn't free when all along they should have been at home watching their little sons and daughters discover that they could chew on their feet for the first time.

The Texas pillar at the WWII monument. Each state has its own. 

My personal favorite, the Korean Memorial. 

Pretty sure I tried to convince Kristin this was the Jefferson Memorial,
though she wasn't having much of it. 

Not bad for an iPhone photo, I thought. 

Lewis and I on the metro home.  

Eventually we both agreed that we'd seen enough history and memorials and that we really needed was some good scotch and wine so we took the metro back home, which Kristin thought was rather cool. I can't ever ride the metro without thinking of Joe, partly because Joe has all the stops on the red line memorized as well all the stops on a few of the other lines as well. I don't know why anyone would want to memorize those stops -- there are plenty of maps to remind you of all the stops -- but Joe knows them all by heart and if you knew my brother you'd know that it makes perfect sense for him to know something as useless as the order of metro stops of a city he doesn't live in anymore. 

We got back home and had one last dinner -- the barbecue -- and it was wonderful, simply wonderful. 

I had a lump in my throat when I said goodbye to Mom and Dad the next morning because if I had a choice I'd never say goodbye to them again; instead they'd live nearby and we could do this, the barbecues and the dinner conversations, as much as we wanted. 

As we found our way out of the city, I think Kristin could tell where my mind was because she squeezed my hand a few times and smiled but didn't say anything. The miles passed and we left DC behind and soon all that was really left was the music playing over the speakers and in the front seat was the girl who still makes my stomach drop and ahead the road stretched for as far as I could see, though I knew it went further than that.