District City

I was surprised by the capitol building - I had been reading Lorrie Moore's A Gate at the Stairs so my brain was in Madison mode. Spun backwards in time, possibly because this time of year I always get nostalgic for school, I was taken back to the long stretch of East Washington Ave., gazing down at Wisconsin's capitol building. For all I knew, I could have been on a street called East Washington. That was one of the first things I noticed about D.C. : lettered streets. Eli later told me that the letters run north and south, the numbers go east and west, and the state-named streets go diagonal.

"A trifecta grid," I deducted.
Eli looked at me and smiled, always charmingly agreeable. "Indeed."
I'm not sure how this fit into the trifecta grid, but on the outskirts heading downtown while I was still on the Megabus, I saw two signs notating criss-crossing streets: NEW YORK AVE. MONTANA ST. I smiled.

Upon arrival at their adorable apartment, Caitlin, Eli and I went out for a midnight walk to see those monuments I had heard so much about. We zig-zagged our way to the White House, which glared beautifully of it's name--but was significantly smaller than I'd imagined. We discussed whether or not presidents switch bed frames and mattresses when they move in...then stolled on, to the Washington Monument, a stately phallus encircled by quiet-flapping American Flags where we took pictures of our silhouettes against the white brick. Gazing approvingly at Abe, we decided that our eyes were larger than our feet, and it was 2:30 am. So we snagged a cab, ate some Whole Foods cereal, and called it a night.

Awake at my stiflingly normal Scholastic morning hour, I slid off the enormous blow-up bed and headed to the living room. There, I lounged with Stella, the cat who, with her deep eyes and stretching paws, silently convinced me that he was the reincarnation of Marshmallow. Running my fingers through her fur, I was taken back to some of Marshmallow's greatest adventures and his momentous life. My mother had rescued him from a crotchety, abusive man whom I've always pictured in my mind as the male version of Cruella DeVille. We received him and his Bigglesworth-esque being with Mattingly love: the sort with unmentioned intensity -- love in the way people love sunsets, fall leaves, and stars -- an appreciation that renders one wordless. Marshmallow was of a different realm, that we were sure of. He ate catnip and tripped like an 18-year-old Madisonite on mushrooms for the first time, escaped out the door to find adventure, returning with more knowledge of my yard than any of us had, along with about 17 burrs. We frequently gave him haircuts that made him look like he'd just been electrocuted, but his ugliness only made us love him more. He had a hold on us, perched on my dad's armchair-watching him watch TV, sprawled out on the end of my daybed in the late-afternoon light, asleep under the tree on December 25, peaceful as the snow piling up outside.

Eli woke me from my reverie with Stella, instructing me to shower up, bagel up, and get out there! After a stroll through Georgetown, which reminded me of a combination of Cambridge, MA, and Newport, ME, Caitlin and I took our D&D coffees to the docks. We laughed at our spontaneity, strapped on our sea legs and boarded a kayak on the Potomac River - ignoring the ambulance which had just rushed off with a man on a stretcher who had just capsized in his kayak. Battling imaginary sharks, non-imaginary currents, and flimsy biceps, we made our way down to the backyard of the Lincoln Memorial, where we snapped photos and giddily talked about boys.

Back on shore, we relived our time in London and Madison (something we do quite frequently,) and licked our fingers clean of Potbelly and memories. We grew somber at the Vietnam War Memorial, the World War II fountain, and the oversized Abe, who seemed watchful to see if Jenny might run through the reflection pool, her long blond hair blowing in the wind.

Haggard and headed home, we decided to have a looksee at the landscape of the White House backyard, where we looked on as Sasha and Malia Obama skipped around on the grass with the innocence that only a Saturday afternoon in Eden might exude. They threw a tennis ball for Beau to fetch and my goosebumps got the best of me. To be them, wow. And I thought my dad was cool.

On the $8 bus ride home, my eyes lulled closed to Damien Rice, my nose tried to ignore the wellrank odor of other passengers' take-out, and my mouth gaped open as it always does on sleepy rides home. My brain remained vibrant, though, with dreams of Ninja Turtles, crazy foxes, and the Watergate Scandal.