On H Street Heading East
On H street heading East, and a crow follows suit just before 14th street NE, gliding along the morning sky so pure and light, baby blue and streaks of white. Further down H I lost sight of him and up flaps a gull with an uncertain jolt like he wasn’t prepared for the wind ‘bove the roof line. Still not awake, perhaps not prepared for the journey ahead, but moving with some grand flow of the universe, unbeknownst to him. But like a good student of time or animal with true cause, instinct and heart are birds of a feather and together we’re off on own destinies.
The morning’s sunrise was quite beautiful, in fact I don’t remember a more beautiful one. The colors at least, the picture she created would wash over the grand expanse of the skyline. I’m gonna miss this town, as I always do, but something of today would bring warmth in days to come. The clouds above my father’s car were a myriad wash of glorious colors. The clouds above 395 were a warmer fuchsia while the far off heavenly crown surrounding the National Cathedral were lightly dusted with rose and baby pink, a careful canopy to a frozen facade of blue and grey beneath. On the other end of the world towards National Airport and beyond Old Town the sun’s rays were a hot orange leading to rich red and gold, like a fairy tale illustration of navel oranges mixed with raspberries in the rain. But what the blacktop blocked ’till the 14th Street Bridge was the blinding white essence of her intense and effusive self. White.
Blinding white and I look away softly diverting my attention from the Potomac to the Tidal Basin, the Jefferson Memorial beyond these slabs of concrete and asphalt, and my head leans again towards the waterfront where Le Rivage used to be, where my father took my family out for our 14th birthday dinner, me and my twin sister and older sister and mom. Le Rivage with pink table cloths under pressed white ones. Where the waiters used to scoop up your bread crumbs with magic pens from their vest pockets. Didier M. Crespi, I remember his business card read, could the M have stood for Michele, the name of my sister but my name in French, I never asked. He always seemed mysterious but still approachable to me. Didier was French and his wife was Chinese. She would stay behind the bar making cocktails and conversation as you passed with her cheerful wide smile greeting us with a muted bow and nod of her head; he would greet us at the door and usher us to tables with effortless charm, you would walk in from the street and up the stairs through the restaurant on a cloud air. Passing china and clinking silverware like a fanfare subdued by civility and aplomb. He would pull your chair for you, wiping the table cloth and his hands together swiftly, finishing touches with efficient panache, his long delicate fingers would come together in front of his jacket, his gold bracelet and rings the only constants to his ever changing wardrobe. Nicely dressed and put together, sport coats and ties, dress shirts and handkerchiefs all coordinating and matching in some interesting yet unassuming way. He would chat with us, turning his warm countenance toward me patting me on the back, he was someone who could make you feel like the most special of guests and the dearest of friends. I wore a tie when I would visit for those special occasions to dine, this is where I learned to eat catfish, crawfish and duck liver pate. Even Ping, Didier’s wife, would treat us once in a while with the freshest of tuna delivered that morning, and sashimi I learned was a delicious delight. So many things a boy might not care to eat, but this I now know was a place of culinary comeuppance. I have been blessed in all aspects of my life, but between my father’s Slavic heritage and my mother’s Ecuadorian one I am proud and lucky to say I have a most diverse taste for food. I think it’s one of the best ways into a culture and the most telling in terms of finding differences but not surprisingly a wonderful way of seeing our similarities. It can all be boiled down to combination, preparation, and ingredients, I guess. But philosophical entreaties aren’t on my mind right now, and I finish off the last of my everything bagel.
For now the sun is unforgiving to this memory of Le Rivage, casting harsh sideways light to the distinct box arched roof, and as we pass and my eyes land on the long forgotten restaurant, memories of lessons in how to compose yourself, and perhaps how to be an adult. Now some mishmash Asian fusion joint with a Budweiser neon sign in the corner window, my heart turns away and I ask my dad to take 395 north instead of going through the federal core. My heart is heavy enough leaving home for now I don’t need to see the Monument or the Capitol, or any of the museums I love so much. The national mall will have to remain a memory for me today and we’re off on the ramp, more highway ahead. The exit to Union Station passes right by and then underneath of the Rayburn House Office Building where I worked, the first of three office buildings flanking the congressional side of the hill, before the Library of Congress and just across Independence from the Capitol dome. Across Independence, south of Constitution and my mind takes flight, having fun with puns and some more philosophy, but my heart is too heavy to hold any more and my wit falls through the cracks of these creaky buckets on my emotional yolk. Shall I let it all go and step forward into tomorrow, at least allow today to begin?
No more memories right now of yesterday and lives before, for north of the Potomac is her sister Susquehanna and the Delaware river too. And soon enough is the mighty but narrow Hudson River, the East River, and the Harlem River through. And the lovely capitol city washes back to the recesses of my mind, and I prepare my heart for the winter ahead. Connected by dashed lines and automobiles like morse code meditation they seem not far away. But atop this asphalt and concrete, these cities I love, seem like estranged family or lovers, destined to reminisce from time to time yet never the two shall meet. Except through me I suppose. And everyone else on this bus.
From H Street heading East to 95 North, to the Turnpike winding through the expanse of New Jersey, here I sit and wait for Lincoln Tunnel traffic. Another familiar skyline awaits me now. And I’m ready for her. Big and bold New York City. Here I come once again. And I am ready.
And into the tunnel I go.