It is interesting watching your kids become parents.

I had the opportunity to witness the phenomenon in person just twice since the Arrival last November- and he was out on an adventure yesterday at Rosemary’s Thyme Bistro in the DuPont neighborhood yesterday. What a kick!

Actually, it was an adventure for all concerned. The young grand baby was catered to magnificently, and impressed the crowd with his cooing, demonstration of gripping, kicking and the slightly bemused look in his blue eyes.

A heart breaker is that kid.

I had no idea what to think. I dislike going to the District, as I have told you ad nauseum, but DuPont is here my son and his wife had their first date, where he proposed and she accepted. They wanted to have brunch and catch up with some dangling acquaintances. Me being one of the dangling parental appendages, I was delighted to have a chance to see them. They came down from their home in the Midwest to attend a wedding, and to demonstrate that Baby Dock can really travel.

News and Weather on the Eights informed me that it would be a magnificent day- with one slight problem. The Cherry Blossom festival was going to make surface travel to DuPont problematic. Unless I took the Metro, of course. I used to do this all the time, and if this summer is going to be the last tango in DC, why not?

Feeling clever, I drove the police cruiser over to the Ballston Mall and parked in the Monthly parking area that is normally closed to transients during the week.

It is weird being retired. It felt like Sunday, like totally.

I walked through the World’s Crappiest Mall and out to the street to stroll up to the Metro Station at Ballston-Marymount. The breeze was brisk, and I was dressed business casual for some reason. It felt like a special occasion, I suppose. Throwing myself into public transportation meant having to think for a change.

Did I still have an old Metro ticket? I used to buy them in $20 increments so I would always have one in the wallet, but let that habit die. I think I had a five-spot, since cash is another thing that is disappearing, and stopped at the machine to purchase one. There was a throng on the platform, and many were clearly novices at all this.

My heart sank. Sunday-feeling Saturday or no, this was going to be an adventure with our vibrant diverse culture I spend most of my time avoiding. True to my misgivings, when the Silver Line train running in the direction of Largo arrived, it was jammed. I assumed it was going in the direction of Largo- I mean, I have never been aboard one of the Silver line trains, but where else could it go? I only needed to get downtown and switch to the Red line in the direction of Shady Grove for a couple stops, so I edged into the throng and tried to find an overhead bar to grab onto.

Age creeps up on you and I had a moment of vertigo as I clutched the bar and attempted not to fall on the short Japanese girl who was traveling with her family. Cherry Blossoms, I presumed, but between the crush of people and the periodic stops in the dark tunnel “We are stopping momentarily due to a train ahead at the platform!” I pulled the phone out of its holster on my belt and saw it was going to be close, depending on how long I had to wait at Metro Center for the northbound train.

We eventually made it, and the transfer only featured emerging on the wrong side of the platform the first time. My leg was hurting, and there were people in Rangers hockey Jerseys going in both direction, by which I surmised that the Caps were playing that afternoon, the Nats were probably in action, and the city was bustling.

I jumped off at DuPont and found the escalator to the north exit. I can’t walk up the stairs, and allowed the Walt Whitman quote carved on the portal slowly reveal itself as we rose, framed by a deep ultra-blue cloudless sky:

Thus in silence in dreams’ projections, Returning, resuming, I thread my way through the hospitals;
The hurt and wounded I pacify with soothing hand,
I sit by the restless all the dark night – some are so young;
Some suffer so much – I recall the experience sweet and sad,…

It’s lifted from the last section of sometime D.C.-resident Walt Whitman’s The Wound Dresser,” from his landmark poetry volume Leaves of Grass — had there been more room at the top, we might have been treated to the end of it:

(Many a soldier’s loving arms about this neck have cross’d and rested,
Many a soldier’s kiss dwells on these bearded lips.)

Since DuPont was the heart of the old Gay district, I thought the inscription was both arch and interesting.

At ground level, I suddenly remembered just what a cool town this is. The architecture is human scale, and the row houses all unique, with Romanesque turrets and faux battlements. I crossed Connecticut Ave heading northeast, and marveled at how the streets were filled with dog-walkers, joggers and people suddenly liberated from the gray gloom of winter.

Robin was standing out in front of the restaurant and wanted a hug. He was a high-school pal of my son, and I enjoy him a lot. We caught up on the sidewalk, but my leg was bothering me and I suggested we get a bloody mary and sit down- if they had a bar, that is, and entering the rich wooden interior, there was. And there was a party in the back room. We walked back and saw Dane and Erica, who had wed after college. Erica was just back from two months in Singapore, and then we were off on Lee Qwan Yew’s demise, and the Long Bar at the Raffles hotel and spicy cocktails and mimosas.

I almost forget why we were there until my son called and asked where we were. “In the back,” I said, “Where are you?”

Confusion ensured, but it turned out a table on the patio was more fun, and we were able to talk and oogle the Guest of Honor, who was ensconced in his ATV-model stroller. I can say, in all grandfatherly modestly, that he may be the most talented young man I have ever met.

I had forgotten just how labor intensive the little beings are. By turns he was bounced, fed, changed, crooned to, and rewarded us with an occasional radiant smile and a glimpse of his brilliant blue eyes. Really cool.

Robin is a card, and always the center of attraction. He is back from a stint in California, which resulted in an extended conversation about the nature of the Left Coast, and just how different the cultures are between the coast. Being on the newly vagrant and hip U Street corridor, he is two blocks from a Trader Vic’s and loving life. The kids talked about now being thirty-somethings, and Erica seemed to enjoy holding Baby Dock and comparing notes with my daughter-in-law. Robin mentioned a social phenomenon he called “Day Drinking.”

Apparently this is an activity conducted by the dissolute, who spend the afternoon in some beer garden and arrive at someone’s house completely trashed and proceed to finish it off. “Strange behavior,” I said, waggling a finger at the waiter for another drink.

“What’s the plan? When are you going back?”

My son frowned. “Nine o’clock flight.”

“National?” I asked.

“No , BWI.”

“Oh, was thinking about coming down to see you off if it was Reagan.”

“You love us, but you don’t love us BWI worthy.”

“Damn straight,” I nodded and took a sip of my drink.

When it came, the food was good- I had the eggs Benedict, thinking of the ones that Tracy O’Grady pumped out for Easter Brunch, which were luminous and richly ladled with house-made hollandaise sauce. These were not that, and my son demonstrated a mastery of the menu by ordering an entrée the like of which I had never seen: Pide .

His plate arrived covered with a fresh thin-bread topped with onions and tomatoes and cheese, two eggs and Turkish dipping sauce. I gave myself to permission to eat some of the delicious fresh bread that came for the table.

Pedestrians on the street and the miracle of the babe made it a marvelous event. At length, Dale announced he had a tee-time across town, Erica had something in Logan Circle to do, and Robin wanted to meet a friend at DuPont Circle. We paid the check, the kids insisting on splitting it. Times being what they are, I acquiesced to their courtesy. The parents packed up Baby Dock in his rolling contrivance and we walked slowly back down to the Circle, where the homeless guys sat on the benches, kids were selling lemonade from the fountain in the middle and young people were throwing Frisbees with carrying degrees of success.

Baby Dock was showing signs of discomfort, for which a bottle was the only rational answer. I held a blanket over Mom and babe to shield them from the sun, Robin found his buddy, and once the contents of the bottle were consumed, the kids announced that they had to depart to get ready for the wedding at five. I kissed my grandson on the forehead, embraced my son and his wife and turned and ambled toward the Metro Entrance.

On the way, I saw The Front Page, a place I used to hang out when I worked downtown at the Bus Station. I decided that one drink to ponder things couldn’t hurt. Plus, now I know that there is a name for it.

I read email on the phone, and then decided I would walk down toward the White House and maybe the Army-Navy Club. I thought that Robin might be onto something. I saw the city as clean-washed and magical; the cool restaurants with tables out front filled with people who were happy to be alive and out of doors.

Dammit, so was I. I even got a bit of a sunburn.

Copyright 2015 Vic Socota
www.vicsocotra
Twitter: @jayare303