Our first mistake was planning to park at the Smithsonian. The Smithsonian doesn’t have a parking lot. Whose idea was this anyway? Never fear. Susan and I dropped Betty and George off at the museum and (second mistake) drove off to find a parking lot.
This being cherry blossom season (third mistake), the traffic was bad. I drove around our great capital city for what seemed like hours, past demonstrators and tour busses and lines of school kids, until at last I saw a “Public Parking” sign with an arrow to the left. I said “shoot” because I was in the right lane. I swerved the car into an available pedestrian walking area on my right and waited for the light to turn red and stop traffic for a moment, then I turned left across six lanes.
After making detailed notes of where our parking space was, Susan and I power walked through drizzling rain the eight blocks or so to the museum– Susan taking pictures and telling me she had worn her hair in a bun so no one could grab her. Did I need to hear that?
I called Betty’s cell. She said they were just inside the museum and to the left of the big rock. What rock? I asked how she had gotten up all those steps with her walker. She asked, “What steps?” Hmmm. Another entrance - other side of the block.
That night we bought some beer and wine at the local convenience store and planned our next sightseeing day while we laughed our butts off about the “Do Not Enter” sign in the parking garage, the weird guy in the crowd, the nine dollar hotdogs, and the fact that the wine definitely needed some sugar!
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