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The escalators made a painful, torturous sound as they descended to the platform below. The wind funneled between columns and added an eerie sound to the cacophony of noises that made me feel as if this place was not quite put together properly. It was shortly after 8 a.m. on a frigid 20-degree Sunday morning just outside of Washington, D.C.

I had come south of the Mason-Dixon line to visit my sister, who had traded the bustle of the Upper East Side of Manhattan for the relative suburban tranquility of northern Virginia: the crushing traffic, economic disparity, transient workforce, homeless, high priced lobbyists, newly minted President and staff. This was D.C. It is familiar, partly because I’ve been here a dozen times over the years, and partly because we know it through film and television. But film and television often show us the unseen view of D.C. – the Oval Office, the Pentagon briefing room, a senator’s limo. So D.C. feels at once familiar and fresh, on one hand an elegant tip to art and architecture as reflected in the great museums and monuments; on the other, this is a tourist town and it knows it.

Late Friday night we arrived in Tyson’s Corner, an area just inside the Beltway that has seen explosive growth in the last few years. That growth has snarled traffic and opened two luxury malls and many tall office buildings giving the area an urban look meshed with a suburban attitude – in other words, soulless. My sister lives in a mammoth 14-story tower overlooking a Whole Foods, among other things. The view is open and expansive, something far different from her Manhattan apartment whose view is partially obstructed by other tall apartment buildings yearning for sky.

My sister’s husband treated us to local bagels the next morning as we shared a laugh that nothing is quite like a New York bagel. We New Yorkers are proud of our bagels, pizza, bridges, taxis and tall buildings, and impossibly judge the world against a standard that will never be met. I had lunch plans with a good friend whom I had never met face-to-face. In the age of digital expression, I still feel face-to-face can be the most effective communication. We met at Lebanese Taverna, a swanky modern restaurant tucked in the bottom floor of the Tyson Galleria, an ultra-luxury mall. Fresh, hot lavash greeted us, and the hummus was fantastic. I had the mixed Schwarma, which consisted of chicken and lamb. The meat was a tad dry for my taste, but the sauces and accouterments were incredibly tasty. My sister thinks this place is overrated, but I would return. My friend works for a big media organization, and I really enjoyed talking with him about the state of media and its trials and tribulations with digital.

After lunch, we headed 20 miles west to Dulles airport and the Udvar-Hazy Center, a ginormous extension of the Smithsonian Air and Space Museum. Jaime interned for the Smithsonian and assisted with the center’s opening in 2004. Although planes are not her thing (she likes anything in Real Simple, which makes topics such planes and technology not so appealing), she had always wanted to see the fruits of her labor. We got into my sister’s brand new car and the navigation system quickly chirped, “At the next light, make a (pause) right.” We asked Jake if he wanted to name the system whose pleasant female voice told us where to go so we wouldn’t have to think anymore. Jake thought for a minute before coming up with “Navo.” Ten minutes later, Navo told us to get off at an exit earlier than the one Jeff had expected. Jeff became visibly angry, turned off Navo and curtly said “she’s wrong a lot.” A few minutes later, after getting off the highway, the road Navo told us to take intersected with the one we were on. Perhaps we should’ve trusted her. Well, at least Navo doesn’t get angry – we hope.

Although the Udvar-Hazy Center is free (all Smithsonian museums are free except for the Cooper-Hewitt in Manhattan), be warned there is a $12 charge for parking. We pulled into a parking lot next to a massive hangar designed in contemporary modernism…a stunning building. A replica control tower rose six stories above the surrounding land. You could quickly tell why they put this building here – there is a lot of land.

We went to the top of the control tower / observation viewing area for our first stop. We were barely a mile from the Dulles runways and casually watched plane after plane land. It was a beautiful late afternoon scene, with the sun slowly descending and the occasional passing cloud to break up the perfectly blue sky. In the distance, the Shenandoah Mountains blurred in a blue haze. The highest point on Long Island is a hill on the expressway, so I grew up in flatness. Mountains (even though these are hills against Rocky Mountain standards) are always a welcome distraction on the horizon.

The main part of the hanger is populated by well over 100 planes…some on the ground, some on supports and some hanging from the ceiling. There’s enough at the museum to keep you occupied a full day, if not two. Displays on everything from plane engines to space probes titillate the imagination. The center was opened to display the vast collection the Smithsonian had accumulated over the years. The Smithsonian always reminded me of a packrat neighbor whose closets and basements are cluttered with pieces big and small. Smithsonian is just as much storage as it is museum, except instead of housing random clutter, it holds historic clutter – clutter with meaning.

You can’t go in any of the planes, which was a tad disappointing even if understandable to preserve the artifacts. There are so many planes of so many sizes; I felt we were walking through a life size toy-chest. We had just visited the Intrepid a few weeks earlier, so military planes didn’t do much for us. But old bi-planes, commercial airliners, stunt planes, recreational helicopters, record-setting aviation tools and the Enterprise space shuttle kept us busy for hours.

On the way out, we passed the “Enola Gay,” the historic B-29 that dropped the world’s first atomic weapon on a city. A nearby docent enthralled us with the story of that fateful day in August 1945. Most of the crew did not know the bomb was atomic, just that it was special. They had made many practice runs into Japan before the fateful day. When that day came, the scientists didn’t know how big the explosion would be, so each man on the crew left from the Marianas Islands thinking it could be his last day on Earth. No one spoke on the way to Hiroshima. A few weeks later, the commander of the mission visited the city he felled. Half a century later, that same commander wrote Return of the Enola Gay, and I know I will be reading it.

We left the center near dusk and watched the sun set over Virginia before driving into D.C. for dinner. We ate at the Elephant & Castle, a nod to British pubs. Just like a pub, it was warm and inviting. It was quite empty, and I asked a server if this was a sign of the economy. He said no’ it’s a sign of cold weather and winter being low season for tourists. I had a 20-ounce mug of heffeweizen and ate fish and chips. A very pleasant experience. By then, Jaime wasn’t enticed by the thought of walking on the National Mall in 18-degree weather. We drove around taking in the sights. Jake really wanted to see the Supreme Court, which happens to be right across from the Capitol. We took the obligatory picture and then headed out of the city. It was eerily quiet with very light traffic, which made getting around great. We drove right next to the Washington Monument and Jake started carrying on about wanting to touch it (he was jumping up and down in the backseat). Jaime stayed in the car as Jake and I braved single-digit wind chills. By the time we were back at the car, we were winded and frozen but couldn’t stop laughing.

The next morning, I took an early morning trip on DC’s metro, taking the scary sounding escalators to an orange line platform. About an hour later, I was in Chevy Chase, DC right on the Maryland border (I have proof – see the column that delineates the District and Maryland). It is a swank area with luxury malls and Cheesecake Factories. I was meeting another friend for coffee. After coffee, I met up with the family at Clyde’s in the up-and-coming Penn Quarter. The menu is, to say the least, interesting. I opted for the waffle and fried chicken, which is exactly what it sounds like. My sister insisted it is a southern thing, but I lived in Tennessee for six years and was not familiar with it. Jaime ordered Eggs Chesapeake: crab cakes and eggs on an English muffin.

Jaime likes new experiences. She lived in the District for four months and had visited most of the free museums. So she wanted to see the Newseum, one of the most expensive museums in the city ($20 per person). I will say, you do get your money’s worth. Six stories of expansive floor space dedicated to the history of the press. From Pulitzer Prize winning photographs to a piece of the Berlin wall to centuries old newsletters to Ted Kaczynski’s cabin to an area where you, the visitor, get to deliver the news, it was intense. The museum illustrates the importance of having free and independent media in a democracy.

Night was quickly descending. We drove past the White House as Obama prepared for his first full week in office. There is such disparity in this city. Ambassadors and homeless, grocery store clerks and senators, the president and me. This is our nation’s capital.

I went to pick up my son at a local airport. He flies unaccompanied (a U.M. in industry speak). I always have to meet him at the gate, so I check in with the airline first and get a pass to go through security.

The woman at security looked at my license – run-of-the-mill New York State issue. Then she noticed an assembly of four letters located at the bottom left of my pass. The 19th letter of the Roman alphabet arranged four times in a row signified I was special. She took out a hilighter and made several marks on the paper. And then wrote another SSSS in big, bold neon letters. She motioned to her co-worker to cover her post so she could escort me. We walked, her eyes on me the whole time. She instructed me to put my items in a bin. Then I was taken to a metal detector (actually kind of cool, I guess, as I was allowed to bypass the line). I was asked to step into a waiting area. A well placed sign informed me of my right to a private and personal search. After two minutes, my searcher came and escorted me to the search area. He was cordial and polite and asked how my evening was.

Only days before, my girlfriend and I had watched a 60 Minutes piece about the TSA. The department recently issued new uniforms to make agents look more official and required employees to attend seminars about treating the public in a more friendly manner. It seems to be working.

My searcher was even apologetic. He scanned me from head to toe and everywhere in between. Two pieces of glass sandwiched me; I was on proverbial display as a 21st century man dealing with the clash between private liberties and public protection. After a short while (and after another agent thoroughly looked through every pocket of my jacket), I was sent on my way to the gate.

The 60 Minutes report had gone on to say there are people who feel the current procedures are nothing more than window dressing, designed to look good but questionable as to their effectiveness. Just look at the nine Muslims kicked off an Air Tran flight for casually mentioning where the safest seat on a plane is located (a common conversation with no real answers…the safest place on an airplane is any seat on a plane that does not crash).

As I walked away, I did not feel violated, given the courtesy and respect with which I had been treated, but I also didn’t feel any safer. It took several minutes of work by five employees to verify I was not a threat. Did the others going through security feel safer that they had passed through with me, or scared they may embark on a plane with me? Either way, I was just an innocent dad picking up his eight-year-old son.

Wednesday evening
7:22 pm
77th street between Columbus and Central Park West

A giant Smurf sat before me. Puffy in its belly, the bright blue contrasted well with the burnt ember sky of a Manhattan evening. We had gathered, along with thousands of others, to witness the inflation of the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade balloons.

There were the Macy’s stars, a perennial favorite dating back half a century. Pikachu, one of Jake’s favorites, hobbled on his side waiting for his chance to burst forth from his sleep and have his 2 1/2 miles of fame. The Energizer Bunny was listless and had ceased to go and go and go. It too would have its chance to fly and shine for two minutes the next day as it crossed Herald Square and faced the army of television cameras waiting for it and the other dozen or so as-big-as-skyscraper balloons.

It was impressive to see them up close, their size diminishing mine. This year, Jake and I had traveled with my friend Leslie and her 8-year-old son Jason. Jake and Jason were typical third graders, running as fast as possible to see the balloons…and then, just as quickly, moving on to the next.

We reached the end of the block and had a choice to make: Continue through the throngs of sightseers, or to head home having filled our balloon quota for the year. Jake and Jason were tired and slightly bored (ingrates), and short of an exploding balloon or one the size of the Empire State Building they were done
being impressed. We stepped below street level to travel the underground caverns back home, but not before one more glimpse of the Giants of the Parade desperately waiting for showtime a mere 13 hours in the future.

Thursday Morning 9:49 A.M.
35th Street and 6th avenue, 21st floor

The breakfast feast was impressive. A cake the shape of a turkey…cookies and brownies…dozens of bagels and spreads in every flavor. But this all paled in comparison to the view. That delightful gift to the eyes is why we were here, an outpost 200 feet above Manhattan’s floor with a window directly overlooking Herald Square.

My good friend and great person Brian Golding was the gracious host of this amazing parade-viewing party. It was surreal to watch the parade on TV and simultaneously see it outside the window. The Smurf we had seen last evening was barreling down Broadway hoisted by dozens of little blue creatures determined not to let him fly away.

The best part was we were warm. No crowds to swim through, triple layers not needed. Perhaps the most famous parade in the world and we had box seats. Another guest at the party regaled about the time when, as a cub scout, he had marched in the parade. It was cold and the parade route interminable. By the time his little legs had reached Herald Square he was exhausted…and nauseous. For a moment, I felt a twinge of empathy for those now marching…but a broad smile flashed across his face. It was a good memory.

Walking back to the subway down an empty 6th Avenue was hypnotic. The street was
blocked off to all but local traffic, barricades holding back the masses. A
block away, tens of thousands had gathered for a huge show and here it was
quiet…a moment of solitude in Metropolis.

Friday afternoon, 3:16 P.M.
17 Mott Street, Chinatown

After 45 minutes we had finally gotten a table. The sizzle of frying beef and smell of noodles permeated the air of this tiny bodega-of-a-restaurant. I was introduced to Wo Hop by my brother, and have been hooked ever since. Before long, heaps of sesame chicken, beef chow fun and mushroom fried rice rained down from the Chinese food gods.

Wo Hop is below street level, and the line often extends past the stairs onto the street. We waited on the stairs…a tired, hungry Jakob protesting the queue. The night before, our good friends Denise and Adam had hosted us for Thanksgiving, a wonderful, traditional meal of turkey, stuffing, sweet potatoes and cranberries. But we were turkeyed out, and good Chinese is always a fine alternative.

Earlier that day, Jake and I had ventured to the Lower East Side to visit the Tenement Museum, a restored building depicting immigrant life at the turn of the 20th century. The building had closed to tenants in 1935, and the museum’s founders came upon it in the 1980s and decided to restore it. Two hundred fifty-square-foot apartments served as homes for up to nine people at a time. I was enthralled as every detail had been given thought to recreate apartments from the 1880s, 1910s and 1930s. Jake got a little bored but he was especially fascinated with the bathrooms (outhouses in the backyard).

After our delicious Chinese extravaganza, we ventured to the South Street Seaport, a mall built on a pier thrust into the East River between lower Manhattan and Brooklyn. It was one of my favorite places as a kid and still is…despite the plans to build a bigger open space along with a 45-story luxury hotel/condo and other high-end developments. At least a few blocks with 19th century buildings and cobblestone streets are forever preserved. Change is the only constant in a big city.

Saturday evening, 5:31 P.M.
Greenport, Long Island

The last tentacles of light were far in the western sky. This sleepy village on Long Island’s north fork was preparing to buckle down for a late autumn/early winter evening. All but a few stores were closing for the evening. We had come here, 90 miles due east of the Big Apple, to find an ice skating rink we had chanced upon two years earlier. The rink sits in a grassy field on the beautiful harbor with lights twinkling across the bay. This year, the rink was not yet up. A disappointed Jakob made his feelings known.

We had begun the day at Calverton Links, a sprawling golf course near where Long Island splits in two. It was chilly, and the driving range was not heated. But it was wide open rolling grass, a pleasure to eyes that had been fixated on the urban jungle for the last few days. We lasted about 13 holes on mini golf before we succumbed to the cold.

We ate lunch at one of our favorite restaurants, The Cooperage Inn. Jaime is always excited for the opportunity to eat at this classic American-style restaurant. The French onion soup was outstanding, and fresh, hot bread greeted us. We wolfed down penne a la vodka and a hamburger. A perfect meal before an afternoon of wine tasting.

We were heading to Lenz Winery when Jaime spotted an interesting sign with hints of modernism. We stopped at Bedell Cellars, a beautiful winery with a heavy emphasis on Merlot. The tasting room was warm and cozy and had three levels in a modern-style barnlike room. There were fireplaces and couches and it resembled a living room. I discovered I do not like Merlot very much, though I could see their wines were made with quality and care. Lenz winery had a more traditional tasting room with an impressive entrance. The wines there were excellent and the old vines cabernet was particularly tasty.

We ended up at Greenport and discovered the ice rink had not been built yet. Sunday would be filled with relaxing and a friend’s dinner. But this night, we watched the descending sun and walked among the boutiques of the town and felt as if we were on vacation. Jaime remarked that none of the ice cream stores were open, so when we came upon one later in the evening we had to stop. Ice cream for dinner is always acceptable.

It happened this weekend. For the first time, Jakob beat me in a sporting activity. We played a pickup game of baseball and he won 11-6. I could try and reason it out and say I wasn’t trying as hard or I was pitching softer to him than he was to me. But it doesn’t matter. He is getting older…and so am I. He gets stronger; I get rounder. Little kids make you feel young. Big kids make you feel old. At least I can still beat him in golf…for now.

It was a Tuesday afternoon in New York City. It had been raining that day – buckets had descended from the heavens – but a break in the clouds allowed for a brief picnic.  Jaime and I decided to go to Madison Square Park to visit a Manhattan Institution – The Shake Shack. An unassuming small building on the northwest corner near 23^rd Street and 5^th Avenue attracts hordes of people every day in good weather and bad. The line can sometimes wrap for two blocks as the masses salivate at the thoughts and smells of cheeseburgers, fries and shakes. On Tuesday, the line was fairly long given the weather. Armed with already-read periodicals, we found an empty bench and sat down with our Shake Burgers, black and white milkshakes and fries. I enjoyed bite after bite of greasy goodness. The smells sweetened the palate and permeated through the air. I could see why so many people from so many places travel so far to eat here. But apparently the Shake Shack is not just popular with people…the New York City native wildlife also have a sweet spot for this place. A rather fat squirrel approached me looking for a fry handout (must appreciate its trans-fat free goodiness). I quickly rebuffed him (her??? not sure of squirrel anatomy, nor would I look). He didn’t want to take no for an answer. This went on for a few minutes. He finally darted behind a bush, and when I turned to say something to Jaime, the squirrel leapt back onto the bench and grabbed my milkshake, which was just inches from my leg. I did some air swats and he recoiled. He bit right through the top of my milkshake. Should I drink it? Is it safe? Does it have squirrel cooties now? Before I had time to answer this important question (a wasted milkshake is a travesty), he leapt back up, grabbed the milkshake with his teeth and dragged it about five feet away, where he proceeded to shake its contents all over the ground. I stood up dumbfounded and could not move. I decided against going toe to toe with this critter for fear I could lose. Jaime suggested I go back to Shake Shack to see if they would give me a second shake to replace the one the squirrel had stolen. I decided this was fate’s way of telling me I was done with my sugary ice cream heaven in a cup. A native New Yorker stood by watching all of this. We agreed it must be non-natives who come to Shack Shack, think the squirrels are cute and feed them fries. We had escaped from the clutches of squirrelliness and only a milkshake had to pay the price – this time.

I started this Saturday as I had the last four…with an ambitious bike ride. I had to be home around one pm for some errand-doing, so I set off at 8:45 heading toward the ocean. My plan was to take a loop through Brooklyn. I didn’t realize the full loop was almost 50 miles.

My first adventure happened at the bridge connecting the mainland to the Rockaway peninsula in Queens. Apparently there was road work, and a shuttle van was picking up walkers and bikers and transporting them the mile across the span. I was a little disappointed that all my miles would not be human-powered today…but I don’t remember the last time I was asked to put my bike on back of a van and come along for a ride, so I did.

The van driver was very pleasant (I didn’t catch his name). I got into a conversation about when the repair work would be completed (I will probably try another ride there this fall). He told me they were about finished, but since the contract wouldn’t expire for two months, they would slow down the project. He said there’s funding for that long and the men need the jobs to support themselves.

Last week, the Governor of New York came out and pretty much said we were broke. Mayor Bloomberg announced the possibility of massive cuts, and we are in a “positive growth” recession. Here at this bridge, able workers completed a project ahead of time and under budget (presumably), but they will “linger” a little longer to keep collecting a paycheck. On one hand, the city and state could use that extra month of pay, supplies and other monies for other projects. On the other, the economy is soft, and some of these people may not be readily able to find other work. Interesting philosophical question…It reminds me of state colleges and other institutions that have “use or it or lose it” budgets that cause people to act in their own-self interests and quash the concept of sacrifice for the team.

Fascinating thoughts…but I had many more miles to ride. The van dropped me off right in front of a funeral home. A loaded hearse was preparing to take its occupant on his its final journey. I wondered if I should take a different route, but that street led right to the ocean, and I didn’t know another way…so I turned down my iPod and rode slowly hoping my actions would be a sign of respect. The street dead ended at the ocean and New York City’s Surf Beach. About half a dozen wet-suited individuals tried to coarse what they could over the minimal two-footers lapping on the shore. I quietly ate my buttered roll and snapped some shots of the persevering surfers. California this ain’t, but life always finds a way, especially when there is a passion involved. I briefly thought about myself and surfing. I’ve always loved the ocean but never attempted the sport. There are a lot of things I have never tried. But often not for lack of effort. Just not enough time in a day, or too many other interesting things to do. I recently read an interview with world-famous Laird Hamilton who compared surfing to all of life’s challenges:  ”Go big or go home,” he wrote about never half trying anything. “Be Determined,” he continued.  It was an apropos metaphor for life, and here I was witnessing it firsthand. These intrepid spectacles knew the ”perfect wave” would never come…not the 20-footer with perfect form allowing one to glide seamlessly along the water. Instead, a series of imperfect waves were there for their choosing.

I pushed on mile after mile and made it into Brooklyn. I pushed past Floyd Bennett Field, a defunct airfield that had a big place in New York history. In 1933, it was the nation’s second busiest airport. During that same year, on July 15, Wiley Post flew around the world in seven days and set a record for fastest flight around the world. Five years later, Howard Hughes and crew did the same feat from the airfield in three days. The next year, Idelwild, which would become LaGuardia, doomed Floyd Benet and it was closed.  Today, a semi-pro football league has taken up residence, and the area also boasts a recreation center. Its mighty airfields lie fallow and provide sanctuary to many birds. Nature is reclaiming this land, and most of it is now under the auspices of the National Park Service. 

About two and a half hours after I left home, I reached Coney Island (I am slow and take lots of pictures). I had the token Nathan’s hot dog with mustard and ketchup and rested my weary legs. I still had more than 20 miles to get home. I quickly left and traveled through a blighted section north of Coney Island. Coney has been in the news recently because of redevelopment plans. Like so much of this city, Coney could one day become gentrified. Gone will be the grit and grime…in its place, Banana Republic and McDonalds. Progress is chain stores and pretty landscaped public spaces. Conformity. Homogeny. Historical preservation is nice when it is convenient…and altogether bothersome when it stands in the way of a 40-story tower. I want grit sometimes…I want places that don’t look like every other place. But that is a story for another time.

I traveled north to head home and was hit after a few miles with a stiff wind coming right off the ocean. The sky grayed and growled at me. The city obscured behind rolling clouds and even Lady Liberty hid behind incoming fog. The wind blasted me and slowed me down to a near crawl. Here on my bike in Brooklyn, I was vulnerable to the elements. If it rained, I’d get wet. The sky grew more threatening and I debated whether or not to continue. But I had errands and they were on a schedule and would not wait for Mother Nature’s melee. It started pouring as I turned to take the subway home. I observed people outside a gas station running as fast as they could from their cars into the safe confines of the store and then back out again to minimize their contact with the rain. I don’t blame them. But I also feel sorry for them. Being drenched is part of being alive. Not being in control of your environment at all times is enthralling. I rode the half-mile to the subway station and was completely soaked. A couple of people had improvised a tarp over some produce they were selling at the corner. They look frustrated and tired. Another disappointing day among disappointing days. I picked up my bike and walked down to the subway. I didn’t wait long and quickly got a seat. It was freezing in the car. People came in and out of the train carrying umbrellas dripping to the floor. I played a game on my ipod because my ride would be long…but I would be dry. I arrived at my station one hour later. The rain had cleared by the time I got up and out. The sun was peaking out, and it was nice again.  It wouldn’t take long before the world again looked as if it had never rained in the first place. I glanced down to my odometer and 31 miles stared me in the eye. I had not reached my goal for the day. I had to bail to the subway…and I couldn’t even ride over the bridge myself…and the rain had stopped me in my tracks…literally. And then I remembered one of Laird Hamilton’s rules:  Keep things in perspective. Even not paying your bills on time is nothing compared to being 80 miles out to sea when a gale hits without any help. I was 31 miles out…and I had the New York City subway. I smiled.