DC, my heart

Today, members of my Renaissance and Baroque Women Artists class went to DC to see some of this art in person.  As we got off the train, one friend said, “Smell the air…it’s so clean.”  And it was.  Another noted that pedestrians are given 45 seconds to cross the street.  “You don’t see that at home,” she said.  So true.  People can take their time crossing the street in DC.

Later, as I ventured temporarily away from the group to see a Civil War art exhibit at the American Art Museum, I made the mistake of walking through a street fair.  Without touching anyone, I weaved through the crowd, intent on finding the front door of the museum.  One person said, “Geez, slow down already.”

When I came out of the museum, I heard “When the Saints Go Marching In” and saw these guys doing their thing, the audience clapping along to the beat.

It was just so Southern.  So feel-good nice.

I felt odd and sad and nostalgic and a bit repelled, all at the same time.  It’s been ten years since I lived in DC, the last home I’ve known.  My heart is sore writing this.  Was life really this much easier, living in DC?  Is New York really that hard?  I think the answer is ‘no’ to the former and ‘yes’ to the latter.  And I’m now so aware of how my DNA has rearranged itself to be in New York.  My heart may never be quite the same.