Yesterday a very lovely female friend of mine shared an intimate secret with me. It came to me in the form of a carefully handwritten note on a single sheet of college-ruled notebook paper. Before I continue I must tell you that this occurrence was in no way solicited by me or encouraged in any way, but once my eyes fell upon those carefully scripted syllables, arranged for eyes none other than my own, I knew that the future of my very life would be from that moment forward altered, my daily path of drudgery transmuted into a road of unexplored promise.
With a realization that the absence of my wife from the country afforded me a unique opportunity whereby every spare minute need not be accounted for, I took full advantage of the situation (as did she, in her own particular way). Yes, yes I abandoned -- nay I veritably flung aside -- my native caution and embarked upon a wild ride the likes of which none other than Mr. Toad could appreciate. I am not beyond such adventures. Did you think it was otherwise with me? Did you think that my recent matrimonial embarkation had washed me upon the brackish shoal of some bland and unremarkable continent? I assure you it did not and sorry do disappoint you if you had hoped that it did. I am always ready for the new. Out with the old and good riddance, I say! No amount of years or faithful usage induce me to feel even an ounce of loyalty. Why should I?
It is said that the passageways that link two people together are often hidden from view -- this is the lesson I learned last night as I wended my way through the dim avenues of newfound territory. Of course in the interest of preserving my friend's confidence there are secrets within secrets that must remain unto themselves but seeing as how caution has already been dashed upon the pneumatic hammer of my delight, I shall reveal that which is most revelatory indeed: the very contents (in summarized form) of that slim and singular parchment to which I previously referred and which I am sure you must be aware initiated this whole affair:
The note contained nothing less than a set of directions detailing an obscure route across northwest D.C...
Yes yes, friends. As of 8:30 p.m. last night I came into possession of one such document with all of its incredible implications. Now before your forehead screws with sullen incredulity, allow me to account for the enthusiasm I have previously alluded to regarding the utilization of this selfsame document.
You see, Washington D.C. -- our historic national capitol -- is arrayed along a series of spokes emanating from the national mall. Although this looks very nice on paper, the reality means that except for the relative calm at the center, there are 360 degrees of mayhem radiating in every direction. The spoke theme was repeated throughout the city with a series of centrally located traffic circles which must have been murderously dangerous even in the horse-and-carriage days of the 1790s when the city was designed. Today, with the roads choked by literally thousands of free-wheeling taxis, heedless diplomatic entourages, lost tourists with unintelligible maps, and buses crammed with abusive conventioneers driven by sleep deprived drivers, the roads of D.C. are positively murderous. And the fact that all roads connect at circles means that at one point in the city you must turn right to get to go from...say...Massachusetts Avenue to Connecticut Avenue. Just a bit farther up the road (without you having to change directions) you’ll have to turn *left* to get from Massachusetts Avenue to Connecticut Avenue. The Circles do another thing, as well. Since often five roads come together at a single circle, if there's an accident or a heavy volume of traffic at any spot near the circle -- all roads leading to and from the circle will be blocked. Tack on a few rambling neighborhoods built after the circle-craze (whose streets go generally cockeyed to the main arteries) and you have a recipe for a huge mess. That's what D.C. traffic is like.
So in order to avoid the whole morass of city traffic, some genius decided to make a road that circumscribes (i.e. goes around) the whole city. This road is called "The Beltway" because on the map it looks like a big donut and donuts look like belts. (Although if you eat a lot of donuts you won't need a belt, but like I said things around here are a bit screwy.) *Anyway*, the point of the Beltway is it gets you around the City.
This of course presents a problem because occasionally people don't actually feel like driving around the outside of the city. Sometimes they actually want to be taken somewhere *in* the city, which the Beltway is of course utterly inadequate at accomplishing.
So to summarize: on the one hand you have a giant, fast road that only goes outside the city, and on the inside you have horribly tangled, confusing streets clogged with innumerable taxis (etc.) inside.
Enter Clay Sails, student and daily commuter to D.C. from the northern suburbs, veteran driver from a large Southern California city where the freeways actually take you to locations you might actually want to go (albeit occasionally at a reduced speed due to excessive SUVs).
I am forced to utilize this Beltway against my will every single day. I skirt the outside of the city for a certain length of time before plunging in at a point closest to where I need to be and work my way along roads that seem to go in every direction but the one I actually need. Every time I have sought to find a direct path across the city I have been stymied by a profusion of obstacles both temporal and permanent -- many of which I have previously mentioned -- but one significant one that I have not: Rock Creek.
Rock Creek which, for those of you unfamiliar with the area, is in a long, skinny mill valley surrounded by a municipal park. For you Civil War fans, Rock Creek was the waterway Confederate Jubal Early followed on his famous 1864 raid. For Early it pointed like an arrow straight into the guts of the city. He was going from North to South. For commuters trying to cross the city West to East, it sits like an impassible wedge right across any street you might conceivably choose to follow. It is in fact its very obstinance that earns it the derision of activists and urban planners, for it acts as a nearly insoluble wall between the rich neighborhoods of Northwest and the poor neighborhoods of Northeast.
So you can see how a route through this formidable terrain would be to a D.C. commuter something akin to what the Northwest Passage was for Henry Hudson (not quite a quicker way to get to Asia -- but a quicker way to get to Columbia, Maryland).
My lovely female friend had to write her secretive instructions by hand because an electronic copy could be too easily copied and distributed, which would attract the attention of other commuters and diminish its utility. Since she uses this route every day -- even last night I suppose -- I am honored at her confidence and will guard the details of her secret jealously.
The park itself is populated mainly by trees and -- my friend says -- "deer" which I understand to be a type of skinny cow that doesn't produce much milk. Sometimes the park is populated by cops hunting for corpses, such as in the recent, tragic Chandra Levy case.
There are other things to do in the park besides merely drive through or hunt for corpses. For example, you can supposedly ride "horses" along the creek. (From what I gather "horses" are very tall cows that can run very quickly.) Why anyone would want to ride a horse instead of a a car through this park is beyond me -- the sound-system on a horse leaves a bit to be desired and you never have to put a diaper on a car. But who am I to judge what people do with their time when they're being obdurate and old-fashioned? The park is a wonderful vestige of what the area used to look like before progress wiped it out. It provides, as my friend says, a "moment of zen" in the midst of her daily commute. In addition to this, of course, it provides her -- and now me -- with an alternate route for my daily commute.
When I first moved to this area, well I first lived in Baltimore, but *then* moved into this funky old mansion in the country owned by Guy Brashears: a lovable, gun-toting, tanning booth brown, Reagan-loving nudist. That's a different story. Quite a good one, too. Remind me to tell you sometime. But the point is, we moved to this mansion and I had to commute across D.C. to Georgetown. It was a long, arduous way down country roads and Constitution ave, past the National Mall, the White House, etc. until the road dissolved into the remnants of the Foggy Bottom river shanty, at which point I was forced to take an inordinately intricate and very likely unknown passage through side streets and shady neighborhoods until I reached my place of employment. This route of mine, developed over several weeks of trial-and-error (with more error than trial) was subject to change at a moments notice due to road closures, timed one-ways, and civil demonstrations -- but it soon developed into a beautiful, elegant, passage that got me where I needed to be and avoided the hellish mess of Pennsylvania Avenue, K Street and DuPont Circle. There was no comparable "moment of zen" in this route of mine -- and it was in fact a highly precarious negotiation of quick lane-changes, backtracking, and aggressive driving (I was the "anti-Taxi" -- I never let those fuckers push me around). But it was still a beautiful thing, that route. Almost brings a tear.
Big, puffy snowflakes have been falling all day. I will soon test my new route in inclement weather. If you don't hear from me shortly, its safe to assume I'm lost but don't call out the dogs. Chances are I'll just be settin' down there by the riverside skipping stones (which is very easy to do on a frozen creek). Ciao.
