I Walk the [Orange] Line
It was a beautiful afternoon today--clear skies and fair weather--so right after work, I decided to hang around Dupont. I wandered back into Second Story and picked up a couple of books (about which more in another entry, possibly),
I went down into the Dupont Circle metro station. Seeing that my SmarTrip card was low, I emptied my pockets of change and small money to top it up. While I was feeding the Farecard machine, the P.A. crackled to life. I didn’t hear much of it, but I caught the important bits: “Customers.....Orange Line....direction of Vienna.....delays....disabled train....Deanwood.....advised to board any Blue Line train and change at Rosslyn...”
Well, shit. I took the escalator back up onto 19th Street and considered my options.
I could get back on the Metro at Dupont, change at Metro Center, fight my way through the crush, grab a blue line train, then join another crush on the platform at Rosslyn. Forget that; two transfers was too much to ask.
I started walking down 19th Street, towards Farragut West. As I got to M Street, I realized that I might as well just keep walking. It was a beautiful afternoon, I had nothing to rush to and all the time in the world. I was wearing comfortable shoes. I needed a good walk to get my head straight, anyway.
I set off headed west on M, towards Georgetown, watching the crowds form outside bars or shops. I trudge past fashionably-dressed people spending their money in fashionable places. About a block before I got to the Key Bridge, I hear a voice call out to me.
“Sir!”
I stop. A dark-complexioned man with an accent has pulled over and rolled down his window.
“Could you tell me how to get to Courthouse?” He’s lost, and from the accent, Scottish.
“Courthouse Metro, you mean? What directions did you get?” I ask.
He read some scrawled notes off the back of an envelope. “Take M street west, cross the Francis Scott Key Bridge...”
“That’s the Key Bridge behind you,” I interrupt him, and point at the bridge spans. Traffic is flowing like corn syrup, turning left at Dixie Liquors onto the Virginia-bound lanes of the Key Bridge. He reads me the rest of his directions, and I nod. “You’re on the wrong side of the river and headed the wrong way--you’ll need to turn around and cross the bridge. That ought to put you on Washington Boulevard, and from there you’ll find Wilson, and you should be fine.”
“Thanks,” he says. “You wouldn’t happen to be Scottish, would you? You’ve got a bit of a Glaswegian accent....”
“Oh, no,” I say, somewhat abashed. Evidently, I had begun picking it up from him as we had been talking. I remembered a few Glaswegians from college. “Picked it up from a friend.” I smile, and tap the roof of his car. “Good luck!”
I cross the Key Bridge, whistling “The Star-Spangled Banner” at the setting sun as I walk. The sun is low in the sky; the Three Sisters are silhouetted malevolently in the wide stream of the Potomac at high tide. I cross into Arlington; very fit people are jogging, everywhere. At the first crosswalk, I stop next to a young woman walking a black lab. I glance down at the dog.
“He’s just like ‘oh well, whatever,’” says the dogwalker.
“I feel about the same, myself,” I say. I pat the dog on the head. She jogs on ahead. I keep trudging up the hill to Wilson Boulevard.
The Orange Line takes a straight shot down Wilson, from Rosslyn all the way to Clarendon. I trudge past tourist families--a father collects his childrens’ Farecards. A middle-aged man in a blue pinstriped suit, collar unbuttoned, tie slightly loosened, reads the CityPaper in the middle of the street. Wilson climbs straight up away from the riverbank, and I walk past blocks of condos under construction.
The gas stations show $3.00 gas. I smile; shoe leather is cheap, and fat is still free.
It’s dusk; people are settling down to dinner or a drink. The Galaxy Hut is empty save for a few drinkers, its cozy confines looking strangely cavernous. Iota stands silent. The dinner crowd hits Whitlow’s. I turn down Fairfax Drive, towards Ballston--this is bleaker territory, mostly office blocks. I cover the distance quickly; I am now walking alone. Finally, I get to Ballston Metro and down into the tunnel. The train pulls in just as I get to the bottom. Fantastic.
I got a seat all the way home.
I went down into the Dupont Circle metro station. Seeing that my SmarTrip card was low, I emptied my pockets of change and small money to top it up. While I was feeding the Farecard machine, the P.A. crackled to life. I didn’t hear much of it, but I caught the important bits: “Customers.....Orange Line....direction of Vienna.....delays....disabled train....Deanwood.....advised to board any Blue Line train and change at Rosslyn...”
Well, shit. I took the escalator back up onto 19th Street and considered my options.
I could get back on the Metro at Dupont, change at Metro Center, fight my way through the crush, grab a blue line train, then join another crush on the platform at Rosslyn. Forget that; two transfers was too much to ask.
I started walking down 19th Street, towards Farragut West. As I got to M Street, I realized that I might as well just keep walking. It was a beautiful afternoon, I had nothing to rush to and all the time in the world. I was wearing comfortable shoes. I needed a good walk to get my head straight, anyway.
I set off headed west on M, towards Georgetown, watching the crowds form outside bars or shops. I trudge past fashionably-dressed people spending their money in fashionable places. About a block before I got to the Key Bridge, I hear a voice call out to me.
“Sir!”
I stop. A dark-complexioned man with an accent has pulled over and rolled down his window.
“Could you tell me how to get to Courthouse?” He’s lost, and from the accent, Scottish.
“Courthouse Metro, you mean? What directions did you get?” I ask.
He read some scrawled notes off the back of an envelope. “Take M street west, cross the Francis Scott Key Bridge...”
“That’s the Key Bridge behind you,” I interrupt him, and point at the bridge spans. Traffic is flowing like corn syrup, turning left at Dixie Liquors onto the Virginia-bound lanes of the Key Bridge. He reads me the rest of his directions, and I nod. “You’re on the wrong side of the river and headed the wrong way--you’ll need to turn around and cross the bridge. That ought to put you on Washington Boulevard, and from there you’ll find Wilson, and you should be fine.”
“Thanks,” he says. “You wouldn’t happen to be Scottish, would you? You’ve got a bit of a Glaswegian accent....”
“Oh, no,” I say, somewhat abashed. Evidently, I had begun picking it up from him as we had been talking. I remembered a few Glaswegians from college. “Picked it up from a friend.” I smile, and tap the roof of his car. “Good luck!”
I cross the Key Bridge, whistling “The Star-Spangled Banner” at the setting sun as I walk. The sun is low in the sky; the Three Sisters are silhouetted malevolently in the wide stream of the Potomac at high tide. I cross into Arlington; very fit people are jogging, everywhere. At the first crosswalk, I stop next to a young woman walking a black lab. I glance down at the dog.
“He’s just like ‘oh well, whatever,’” says the dogwalker.
“I feel about the same, myself,” I say. I pat the dog on the head. She jogs on ahead. I keep trudging up the hill to Wilson Boulevard.
The Orange Line takes a straight shot down Wilson, from Rosslyn all the way to Clarendon. I trudge past tourist families--a father collects his childrens’ Farecards. A middle-aged man in a blue pinstriped suit, collar unbuttoned, tie slightly loosened, reads the CityPaper in the middle of the street. Wilson climbs straight up away from the riverbank, and I walk past blocks of condos under construction.
The gas stations show $3.00 gas. I smile; shoe leather is cheap, and fat is still free.
It’s dusk; people are settling down to dinner or a drink. The Galaxy Hut is empty save for a few drinkers, its cozy confines looking strangely cavernous. Iota stands silent. The dinner crowd hits Whitlow’s. I turn down Fairfax Drive, towards Ballston--this is bleaker territory, mostly office blocks. I cover the distance quickly; I am now walking alone. Finally, I get to Ballston Metro and down into the tunnel. The train pulls in just as I get to the bottom. Fantastic.
I got a seat all the way home.