DC/NYC

16 October 2025

earth on foot 22

One week, two major cities, none, at present, more unlike one another: DC and NYC.

NOW: enjoying a cappuccino at Eataly, Madison Square Park, 

Bustling by my table, a steady stream of well-dressed, frowning people. A thin man smiles faintly as he walks, chest seeming to propel him forward as if pulled by a rope affixed to his sternum’s xiphoid process. Headphones on nearly all ears—excepting a pair of guys chatting in leisurewear, and several thirty-something single women.

I feel underdressed here in my rag sweater, skinny jeans, and Sambas. A real bum. And I don’t even have the excuse of having gotten up at 6 AM to do a hot yoga class. I’m here with DK, who’s attending an annual meeting in the Flatiron District. I’ll be visiting family.

Less than a week ago, I trained from Baltimore to DC and emerged from Union Station to a strikingly empty town. I had spontaneously decided to go to the Smithsonian, then understood from its website that the entire place would be shut down the next day, due to the government closure. Slowly I realized that it could be months before I might again visit this amazing institution that has been open and free to the public for as long as I remember.

I ended up at the Hirshhorn Museum, seemingly the only one actually still receiving visitors. Julian Schnabel’s black velvet depiction of an aged Andy Warhol, Anni Albers’ expressive weaving, Berenice Abbott’s mesmerizing slow motion photos of a ball bouncing—all from the permanent collection—had me misty-eyed. How fragile, how precious, the artistic pursuit!

Outside the museum’s iconic circular structure, sat the Burghers of Calais, shoved in a corner, moved out of harm’s way during construction. They express so much with their downturned pates and enormous hands. Ah, Rodin.

By comparison, Brooklyn and Midtown are so lively!

Madison Square Park meets me with neat, luminous Larry Bell sculptures. Respectful crews clean the installations, while quiet lawn mowers navigate small patches of grass. Many cute dogs stroll their owners. A table of young professionals discusses their shower habits, eyeshadow preferences, sleep hygiene. It’s sunny, cool, and the sidewalk hums with life.

As a street vendor sets up his table, pulling artwork from a plastic tub, a tall, thin man, dressed in pink and leopard print, saunters to the trashcan. He glances surreptitiously into it, then nonchalantly moves on. Meanwhile, the globe that is the morning sun shines over us all.

When I lived in Florence, Italy, I enjoyed Renaissance art and art history thoroughly, but artistically it wasn’t a perfect match. Much as I love marble, lapis, the mad power of fresco, at heart I am, like Larry Bell, a student of light, in all its ”varying improvisations.”