World War II Memorial

Part 5 - the last one - of the adventure which began way down below.  Backdated from almost two weeks later, because I'm a really bad person.  Some things never change.

I may not have liked the Korean War Memorial very much, but I feel quite differently about the World War II Memorial.  Perhaps this is because I have a thing for fountains...

...or perhaps because I appreciate classical imagery...

If you have trouble deciphering this picture (it is a little dark), it's actually eagles in flight holding up a laurel wreath, which signifies victory and heroism.

...or perhaps because I like my monuments dignified.

The World War II Memorial is at the opposite end of the Reflecting Pool from the Lincoln Memorial, and is actually the larger of the two in terms of square footage (just compare the two on satellite view on Google Maps).  The central pool is elliptical (with embellishments) and has a massive fountain at either end with a ring of smaller fountains all around the edge:

Around the pool is a plaza, and on the north and south sides of the plaza are a large portico-type structure dedicated to the two oceans the war forced America to bridge - Atlantic on the north side and Pacific on the south (it's not appropriate to call them theaters, since no one ever refers to the "Atlantic theater" of the war).  Flanking these porticoes are rows of memorial pillars, one for each jurisdiction which contributed troops to the war effort (48 states plus the territories of Alaska and Hawaii, plus the District of Columbia, the Philippines, Puerto Rico, Guam, American Samoa, and the U.S. Virgin Islands).  Each column has a memorial wreath, which is a smaller version of the wreath with the eagles shown above (those are inside the Atlantic and Pacific arches).  Of course, I had to go find Wisconsin; here it is:

Where the Korean War Memorial tries to be too many things, the World War II Memorial is only trying to be two - memorial wall/peristyle and water feature - and I think it works.  The overall simplicity is reminiscent of the more severe federal buildings (think the Federal Reserve building), but little details like the bronze wreaths, the eagles, and the metal ropes you can see on either side of the Wisconsin column base give it a slightly more ornate edge.  I love water features, so the central pool is great, but there are other fountains in the memorial, like the two at the base of the Atlantic and Pacific arches:

I can't really explain it, but for me this monument just works.  Perhaps it's the size, which is appropriate to the largest armed conflict our country has ever been involved in.  Perhaps it's the simplicity which would be starkness were it not for the little embellishments that reminds of the architecture of the Great Depression (like the Federal Reserve building, as I said, which was completed in 1937).  Perhaps it's also that people interact with this memorial - they all go to find their state or jurisdiction and take a picture, then marvel at the fountains (because fountains always get people's attention), and then filter out either towards the Lincoln Memorial if they're going west, or the Washington Monument across the street if they're going east.  Perhaps it's because World War II, unlike Korea, is not a forgotten war, and almost everyone has a family member who fought in it, or knew someone who fought in it, or something like that.  Or maybe it's little things like a small wreath someone brought to set inside the huge memorial - a little token in the midst of the memorial to a very large war that shows us that somewhere, someone is remembering.

(For more about this memorial, click here.)

The Reflecting Pool

Part 4 of the adventure which began below.  Backdated from almost two weeks later, because I'm a really bad person.
 

You may have heard bad things about the Reflecting Pool in the past - it's moldy, it smells, it's full of ducks - and I must confess that those are all true, to one degree or another.  But it does reflect!

This is just before the sun came out (in my post on the Lincoln Memorial), hence the turbulent clouds up about the Washington Monument, but as you can see, the Reflecting Pool does in fact reflect.  Of course, when you get closer up, some of the pool's flaws reveal themselves. It does have ducks swimming in it, and the water is hardly filtered fountain quality, but there is another issue which you seldom hear mentioned:

It leaks.

That silvery thing which you see is not a piece of litter - it's actually a rather sad sandbag, attempting to block a considerably larger leak, which has dug channels into the worn dirt path beside the pool (that's another thing - why aren't there paved paths alongside the Reflecting Pool?  Wouldn't that be more aesthetically pleasing?).  As you can doubtless see, the sandbag isn't up to the job, and the pool will just leak as it pleases here and in a couple of other spots that I passed (this is on the south side of the pool - I can't speak for the north, but I imagine it has leaks as well).  Of course, it's not a problem of terribly pressing importance, since it's just a pool leaking water - it's not like the Washington Monument has begun to lean - but it is, as a friend noted, a bit disappointing.  Actually, her comment was "Eww! You have permanently ruined the image in my head with your reality."

Sorry!

The Korean War Memorial

Part 3 of my adventure which began on Sunday.  Backdated from a week later because I'm still a bad person.

The Korean War Memorial, 2:00pm

We forget that there was more to the Fifties than Eisenhower, big cars, drive-ins, and sock-hops.  From 1950 to 1953, we were also in a war.  It's a war no one remembers, but it's also a war which is technically still going on today, since North and South Korea never signed an armistice.  A thin strip of demilitarized wasteland runs across the peninsula, separating two countries which, today, are as different as night and day.  At the time of the war, however, they must not have been quite so different.

Unpleasant statistic, isn't it.

It was not a particularly glorious war for the United States and its allies from the UN, and it is not memorialized in a particularly glorious fashion.  The memorial, while it is undoubtedly meaningful for people who were affected by the Korean War, is not stupendous.  For one, I suspect that it could fit inside the Lincoln Memorial with room to spare on either side, but more importantly, it tries to be too many things at once - reflecting pool, statuary garden, memorial wall, and park, all at once.

 

Here you can see all but the pool, which is behind me and to the left.  Also to the left, but further up, is the flag pole (feature #5) and this:

It reads "Our nation honors her sons and daughters who answered the call to defend a country they never knew and a people they never met."

Now, I appreciate the poetic sentiment - "a country they never knew and a people they never met" is a great turn of phrase, sure - but I object to the actual sentiment.  I can understand that these men and women - American soldiers and service-people - didn't know the country and didn't get to know it (in the sense of becoming familiar with it) because they were killed, but are we really to believe that all of the Americans who died in Korea did so with such rapidity that they never met a single Korean?  I think this bothers me because by this logic - or implication, perhaps - the Koreans become faceless and without identity.  They also become passive and non-participatory, which is bogus, since South Korea deployed troops of its own, and surely the Americans encountered them, even if they didn't encounter civilians.  I don't trust M*A*S*H as a historical source, but there are encounters between Koreans and Americans depicted there, and I refuse to believe that were fabricated out of thin air, since the author of the book (which inspired the film and the television series) was in fact a doctor in Korea during the war.

In any case, between the plaques, statues, wall, pool, flag pole, shrubs, and strategically placed trees and benches, the energy of the memorial feels diffused.  The individuals components, taken on their own, are fine.  Some are quite poignant:

These are photographs of some of the Americans who died in Korea, etched into granite.  What makes this picture work for me, though, is the reflections of the living people passing by visible alongside those who have passed on.  This part of the memorial works, and the pool is nice on its own, too.  But the elements are too disparate, the energy too diffused, and it doesn't pull into a cohesive whole.  Perhaps this is appropriate, since the Korean War was a conflict which solved nothing, maintained the status quo, but failed to do more because of catastrophic miscalculation; had UN troops just defended rather than going well beyond South Korea's borders to China (almost), it seems doubtful that the Chinese would have entered the conflict and thrown the UN forces all the way back to the present border and thereby assured that nothing would change on the peninsula.  For a country which still remembered its decisive victories in the Second World War it was probably frustrating.  Appropriately - and perhaps tragically - the memorial is too.

The Lincoln Memorial

Part 2 of the adventure which began below.  Backdated from a week later, because I'm a bad person.

The Lincoln Memorial, 1:20pm

I have come to the Lincoln Memorial, although I have been here once before (briefly, when I was in the city two years ago) not because it lies on my path home - it doesn't, really - but because I like it.  I have great trouble conjuring up any sort of emotional reaction to the Washington Monument, even if it is the world's tallest phallus - I mean, obelisk - but Lincoln is another thing entirely.  Perhaps it is appropriate, then, that as I sit on the steps and write, the sun has come out properly for the first time today.

I also came to see the people.  These are not the swelling amusement-park throngs, and neither are they the emotional mobs who periodically hold rallies here or in the vicinity.  The memorial is a bit out of the way for those going to see the Capitol and the White House, and since it's at the far end of the Mall, it's not something you just stumble across on your way somewhere else.  No, these people are here to see Lincoln.

There is not, to my knowledge, any larger rendering of a human being in this city of larger-than-life figures, but almost as large as Lincoln himself (figuratively speaking) are his words, which flank visitors who enter: the Gettysburg Address, carved in marble on Lincoln's right, and his Second Inaugural Address, ditto on the left.  Some of the people take pictures of Lincoln and then step out to admire the view of the Washington Monument from the other end of the Reflecting Pool, but others step into these two wings which in a religious structure would be chapels and read the words of a man who is as close to a prophet in American mythology as one could possibly be.  But everyone, even the people who come to snap a photo and then leave, is quiet - not silent, of course - but muted, perhaps out of respect, perhaps from awe, or perhaps in deference to Lincoln, for whatever the deficiencies of American popular knowledge, everyone knows who Lincoln is.

No one thinks of the Lincoln Memorial as being particularly ornate, since our common perception is formed by the rather stripped-down versions visible on the back of the penny and the five-dollar bill, but in fact there is some lovely art here.

Even those who don't speak English know him, it turns out.  I have heard languages I can't name on the streets of the District, and this is true at the memorial too.  As I exited I passed several women in saris, some punks with pierced noses, ears, and God knows what else, and numerous others who don't fit the corn-fed, white-bread stereotype.  They were all respectful, if not religiously so.  I suspect that most of us would be when faced with something which, as amorphous as its symbolism may be, is indisputably the representation of something far larger than ourselves.

Enough writing - I need my lunch.  Away from the monument I can find some place to unpack my picnic.  And of course, I can come back here whenever I want.  Appropriately enough, this temple to American idealism is open twenty-four hours a day.

Remember this from high school?

Church Review: St. Stephen Martyr

This week's posts are part of a new endeavor - several segments of my writings throughout my adventure today.  Each post is the spur-of-the-moment piece I wrote at the location and time noted at the beginning of the post, plus some editing and rearranging.  I've decided to try this (dividing up one day's adventures into a couple of posts) because I noticed that last week's posts were vacuous and rather uninteresting - but let's face it, very little happens at work that a) is interesting and b) I can tell you about.  So we're going to try something new - let me know in the comments if you like it! 

St. Stephen Martyr
2346 Pennsylvania Ave. NW
Website

Foggy Bottom, 12:30pm

As I write I'm sitting on the campus of [the] George Washington University, passing for a student at the country's most expensive undergraduate institution - or so I was told by the GWUers I studied abroad with.  I'm inclined to believe it.

Ivory Tower?  Guys, you know that's usually meant as an insult, right?

I've just come here from the 11:00 Mass at the church of St. Stephen Martyr, a Mass unlike any I've ever experienced.  Some of my readers may know that I had originally intended to go to the cathedral (St. Matthew the Apostle) today, but after a night spent playing Battlestar Galactica: The Board Game and drinking into the wee hours of the morning (I was President Laura Roslin, which shouldn't come as any surprise to anyone), I was in no condition to haul myself all the way up there in time for a 10:00 Mass.  11:00, on the other hand, I could handle, even though Foggy Bottom is about as far away from me as the cathedral is.  I was willing to make the trek, though, because the Mass was billed as "Solemn Chant," and I had to find out what that meant.

It took me some time to find the church, since Foggy Bottom isn't a part of town I'm familiar with.  I was actually a couple of minutes late and missed the processional, but I wasn't the only one, and found a seat with ease.  Then, singing responses as I went - Solemn Chant Mass, it turns out, means everything is sung - I looked around.  "Chant" may make you think that I was in an old church, but in fact the opposite was true - see?

The church is not terribly big - I was almost in the back when I took this - but it is definitely interesting nonetheless.  If you read my review of St. Dominic and don't know me very well, you might have begun to wonder if I wasn't one of those arch-conservatives who wants to scrap Vatican II and go back to the Middle Ages.  Similarly, you might have concluded that I like my churches old - the older the better - and my music equally so.  I will admit to a preference for old church music (and other kinds of music - I love medieval and Baroque), but I don't want to trash Vatican II, and I have been known to appreciate modern art and architecture as well - I do live in a Brutalist apartment complex, after all.

What is perhaps most intriguing about St. Stephen Martyr is that its modernity, with a sleek '60s feel like some of Southwest, manages to feel old at the same time.  Perhaps this is because it is not cavernous like some large, modern churches - it feels cozy, actually, nestled up to a building on one side, with a relatively low ceiling (as far as churches go, anyway).  The size and the whitewashed walls allow you to imagine that instead of being in downtown Washington, you're in a church carved out of living rock in the highlands of Cappadocia, like this one. 

Perhaps it's also the glass.  Compare these: on the left, a window from St. Stephen, with the right, a window from Chartres Cathedral.  They both have the same blue background - in fact, this blue color predominates at Chartres, and is so famous that it's called "Chartres blue."  Even more interesting (I just noticed this now) is that both depict a spear-bearer.  How odd.


















Another comparison: the back window of St. Stephen (this is the large arch you can see from the street) and the rose window at Reims.  (I knew there was a reason I like St. Stephen's glasswork so much!)

St. Stephen (forgive the blur - I don't like obviously taking pictures in a church which isn't otherwise a tourist spot)

Rose window at Reims Cathedral

In any case, add to this stained glass a gold-vested priest, enough incense to kill an asthmatic, and a mix of medieval and modern-retro liturgical music (as in after Mass parts were written in English but before they got sappy), and I was awash in a very different experience.  I'm not sure what to make of it, really, but as I do in a church review, I'll set down some thoughts.

Location: 3.  I could walk this, if I have an hour to burn, because it's not so much far north as it is far west (I'll put it on the map soon).  I can take the metro, but it runs infrequently on Sundays - in fact, I blame the metro for making me late more than anything else.  It's doable, but far from ideal.

Aesthetics: While not a treasure-trove, St. Stephen Martyr is an unexpected find, and much prettier that it could have been.  As you can see from the tangent above, I find it intriguing, visually, although I won't be swooning from visual overload any time soon.  4.

Liturgy: I like incense, so billowing clouds of it aren't a problem for me, though I would advise asthmatics to sit in back.  As in, the last pew.  It makes me wonder, though - do they have smoke detectors in churches?
Liturgy was mostly sung, which is good because this parishes actually sings (some don't, although having good acoustics, which this church does, helps a lot).  The priest, on the other hand, needs some coaching - on multiple occasions he would begin a passage and it would take me a few moments to realize that he was actually singing it - I mean, that rather uncomfortable tone issuing from his mouth (word to describe it fail me) could have been his formal reading voice, right?  In preaching, however, he's doing fine.  Not lofty and inaccessible like the Dominicans, but quite open, friendly, easy to grasp.  I'm not sure his logic is as sound as it could be, but points for an accessible style.  His sermon gets a 3, but throw in that incense and some chanting and I'll give it a 4.

Music: Good - better than St. Dominic in terms of content, but about the same in terms of execution.  The cantor, alas, had the tendency which many female cantors do, to sing slower than the organ when being accompanied and draw out her notes; it is a way of getting noticed, because the cantor who does such a thing likes the sound of her own voice (she was also vested, which bothers me for completely different reasons which don't need to be examined here).  They have a small choir organ in back to serve them while they raise money for a proper one, and although it is small, it did an admirable job.  The choir (four people total) is good, though they need to work on their blending, and the cantor is full of herself.  Well, no one's perfect.  4.

Review
Location: 3
Aesthetics: 4
Liturgy: 4
Music: 4
15/20 (3.75)

Seems about right - it's nicer than St. Dominic in most ways, but its location is a real kicker.  I'm not going to truck all the way up to Foggy Bottom on a weekly basis for a mere three-quarters of a point, but it's a good place to keep in mind for that intriguing melange of old and new - or if I feel like I need some incense.

Slumming in Southwest

Today I went on an ultimately futile adventure to the post office (it was closed) which took me a few blocks from my apartment.  Normally, this wouldn't be of much note, but one of the interesting qualities about DC is that, as a friend put it, it goes from pretty to shitty in no time at all, and often back to pretty again if you keep walking.  Case in point: if you follow M St. east from my apartment, you start in pretty (where the new grocery store and office buildings are), and two blocks later you're in an are composed primarily of grungy, run-down old bungalows.  Approach Capitol St. (the divider between the Southwest and Southeast quadrants) and the little Catholic church there (which I haven't been to because its only Sunday Mass is at 8 in the blinking morning) looks rather forlorn, surrounded by an ocean of concrete, quasi-freeway, and unpretty city.  But continue on just another block and you see brand-new buildings in front of you - office towers, condos and, a bit farther on, the new headquarters for the US Department of Transportation.  On the right (south of M St.) is the new Nationals Baseball Stadium, where I saw the opera last weekend, which is quite nice.  Pretty to shitty to pretty again in the space of ten minutes.  Appropriate for the nation's capital, perhaps?

Anyway, if you were to stop in the not-so-nice bit because, say, you had to go to the post office, you would see dwellings like this.

Now, it's perfectly fine, really.  This isn't the ghetto (though I tease), but I feel compelled to note that the chain link fence makes it distinctly less pleasant.  They're humble dwellings, really, though with people loitering about outside, I was very careful not to be seen taking pictures.  Someone might have asked why, and I'd rather not explain.

Perhaps I'm an elitist snob, or perhaps these picture don't quite convey what this bit of Southwest is like.  They look fairly clean and well-kept, with few if any negative qualities aside from their smallness and plainness.  But what you can't see here is how much it feels like a warp, to go from the sleek 1960s (and brand-new development) to the...not so sleek 1960s.  This is what I mean:

There now, I'm not such an elitist pig, am I?   Is that not awful?  Now, add sidewalks in desperate need of repair, chain link fence, litter every now and then, and the sun burning down on the top of your head as you trudge along.  Not quite so pretty.

The reasons for this are multiple.  In the 1950s, and earlier, all of Southwest was slum, and had been so for a long time.  It was ethnically divided, and not pretty at all.  In the 1960s, it was decided to raze the entire neighborhood and build it anew.  North of the freeway (the "north quadrant" of the Southwest quadrant, if you will) the government built offices for its new departments (Housing and Urban Development, for example), and today the area is all office building.  The "southern quadrant" - south of me - is Fort Lesley J. McNair.  In the west, along the waterfront - where I live - noted architects like I.M. Pei designed sleek residential towers in definitive Brutalist style which, in my opinion, has aged well (other buildings in this neighborhood have not).  But in the eastern quadrant, between my neighborhood and Capitol Ave, which divides Southwest from Southeast, apparently the decision was made to construct large numbers of small bungalows and low-rise apartment buildings for low-income inhabitants.  They remain today, and they have not aged well.  If the development going on just to my north is successful (I'll provide photos at some point), these bungalows may begin to fall to the wrecking ball, since space is at a premium in the District, and a single city block could be converted into mid-rise housing for ten times more people than live there now.  For the time being, however, the bungalows remain, and the odd, run-down and semi-uninhabited feeling persists.  It is not an area I intend to frequent; perhaps its inhabitants feel the same way.

Mash-ups

One of the communications staff at work sits across from our IT point person, and periodically the two of them converse.  Since they're just a few desks away, I can't help but hear what they say, and yesterday I overheard a rather funny mash-up.

They were discussing a disused mental hospital that the communications guy had toured with a mutual acquaintance, and he (communications) related that the mutual acquaintance, upon seeing one of the dark, abandoned basements, remarked that he would like to bring his wife there - and leave her.  "Just like," the communications guy chortled, "a cask of Monte Cristo!"

Give it a minute.

It didn't take me too long to figure out that he was shooting for "Just like a cask of Amontillado," from the Edgar Allan Poe story.  How "Monte Cristo", as in the count of (Dumas) got into the matter, I don't know.

I chuckled to myself over this amusing slip of the tongue and concluded that the communications guy had simply mixed his stories.  Isolated incident, surely.

But this afternoon the two of them were talking again, this time on the topic of religion.  I missed the beginning of the discussion because I was at lunch, but when I came back Communications was expounding on saints.  I actually had work to do but overheard a mention of St. Ignatius of Padua, patron saint of lost causes.  Ai!

I suppose for one who isn't Catholic (and I suspect Communications Dude isn't), the saints are a bit mystifying, in which case I would recommend that you refrain from pronouncing authoritatively about their various characteristics.  But to clarify for the record, there are three different saints in this mash-up:

1. St. Ignatius of Loyola, a Spanish (Basque) knight and founder of the Jesuits, patron saint of soldiers

2. St. Anthony of Padua, a Portuguese Franciscan who spent most of his life in Padua, Italy, and is patron saint of lost things (not causes)

3.  St. Jude the Apostle, one of the original Twelve, who is the patron saint of lost and desperate causes

Now, I suppose one could confuse Ignatius and Anthony, since they're both Iberian and monks, and Anthony with Jude, for being patrons of lost stuff, but mixing all three together is bewildering to me.  I can't help but wonder if CD has a proclivity for these sorts of mash-ups, and I'm a wee bit ashamed to admit that I may start listening for them in the future...

Tuesday Potpourri

Nothing large enough to devote a whole blog post to happened today, but I do have two observations.

First:

I did absolutely nothing productive at work today.  This is because no one had any duties for me, so after attending the morning briefing, I went and sat at my desk.  All day.  Around 10:30 I resorted to pulling together a master list of all the acronyms I had come across in an incomplete list, training, and everyday use, which lasted me until lunch.  Once I finished that (1:30-ish), I read and subsequently finished the book I had brought (around 3) and then tried to figure out what to do with my remaining hour and a half.  To keep my brain from shutting down entirely I went onto the website of the French newspaper Le Monde and occupied myself reading the news from Europe than none of the American media report (nor, apparently, the BBC, whose new format drives me crazy).  I left ten minutes early, figuring no one would miss me.  And I'm getting paid for this (!).  Apparently I'm to be given assignments tomorrow.  I never thought I would say this, but thank God!

Second:

Bagels again.  I went to the grocery store to pick up some more (and some cream cheese, milk, and so on, since they're actually on sale for once) and was promptly undercharged for my bagels.  (I didn't discover this until I returned home, so don't chastise me for not getting it sorted out - my feet hurt.)  Why was I undercharged?  Because the cashier apparently thought they were rolls (39 cents a piece, rather than 59).  I am forced to conclude that people in this city just don't know what bagels are, which is bewildering, since it is a city, after all.  How very strange.

I'm a roll, apparently.

Church Review: St. Dominic

(Backdated from Monday evening.)

After a couple of tries writing this post, I finally have both the presence of mind and pictures to pull it for for real.  So here's my very first church review - if I can get this figured out, I'll be able to put a marker for the church on my map (see the "Map" tab if you haven't checked that out already) and link it back to the post.  We'll see. (EDIT: It works!  Squee!)

St. Dominic
630 E St. SW
Website

St. Dominic, you'll be unsurprised to learn, is staffed by the Dominican Order (also know as the Order of Preachers, from whence comes their Latin name, Ordo Praedicatorum, and its suffix, O.P., and as Black Friars, on account of their garb: black mantle over white habit).  The Dominicans are, of course, the same order as the infamous Torquemada, who ran the Spanish Inquisition, but 21st-century Dominican friars are a much tamer sort.  Those who preach here have abandoned the black mantle and now wear simple white habits, and the majority are far too old to plausibly call down the wrath of God on unrepentant heretics as their predecessors once did.  There's always at least one bent old friar sitting across from the presider at Mass and technically concelebrating, although this consists entirely of wheeling his walker over to the altar during the Consecration and murmuring along with the priest...

I'm am getting sidetracked, as I often do when talking about the Church.  How many intricate, fascinating, and vexing two-millenia-old theocracies do you come across on a weekly basis, huh?

Anyhow, a review of St. Dominic is what we're here for, and I shall deliver.

Location: This is the closest Catholic church to my apartment (there are some assorted flavors of Protestant closer, but that won't do me any good), so obviously it gets a 5 out of 5 for location.  In fact, all I have to do is take 4th St. straight north until I pass under the highway, and then hang a left and walk two blocks.  It's about fifteen minutes, and as I approach I see the photo above.

Aesthetics: Walking into St. Dominic you are first struck by the size - it is not a small church.  It doesn't feel quite as large inside as it looks outside (it's very long, but not all of that length is visible in the nave), but it's quite tall.  I reckon it may be just a trifle smaller than the cathedral in Green Bay where I was once a pontifical acolyte (it takes special training to serve a Mass for a bishop, believe it or not).  The principle feature of the church is its lovely stained glass windows, which are reminiscent of pictures I've seen of Chartres Cathedral, famous for its "Chartes blue."

I apologize that the quality isn't better, but I generally shy away from taking a camera into a church which isn't obviously a tourist attraction, because it looks like I came just to take pictures, which isn't the case.  With a camera in my phone, on the other hand, I can plausibly claim that I came for the Mass (which I did) and then was overwhelmed by the beauty of whatever I'm photographing.  Overwhelming these windows are not, but when you consider what they could be (American religious stained glass is somewhat lacking), they're not too shabby.

Unfortunately, the windows are offset by the altar.  Take a look at this and tell me what you see:

I'd like to direct your attention to the line of columns on the right and their style of ornamentation, and then the ornamentation in the sanctuary.  Now, if I tell you that the style of the columns is the style throughout the church, except in the sanctuary, what does that tell you?  Nothing?  For shame.  Here's what I've surmised.  This is a Dominican church, and has been for more than a century (check the history page on their website).  The Dominicans are conservatives, and this building dates from the late 1800s.  That little minimalist back altar, then, is obviously not original, and the stencilled pattern behind it isn't either.  Now, once more piece of information for your consideration: the Second Vatican Council.  Vatican II shifted the focus of the liturgy from the back altar (which, at the time, was the only altar) which was faced by the priest to a smaller front altar, priest facing the people.  And lastly, in the 70s and 80s there was a fashion among churches to go minimalist and modern, in an attempt to get the youth, who were leaving the church more than they ever had before.  So you put the pieces together; this is what I think happened:

Some church planner or something decided around about 1970 that in order to better appreciate the spirit and intentions of Vatican II, the church ought to be remodeled, and the (now unused) back altar be taken out.  In its place they put a small, minimalist back altar which serves no practical function at all (some churches have the tabernacle set into the back altar, but here it's off in a chapel on the altar's right, parishoner's left).  To fill the empty and blank wall space left by the excision of what was undoubtedly a large and ornate altar (perhaps like this picture from a church in Ohio before it was renovated), this planner ordered a dull stenciled arch pattern, which screams 1970s at me (hence my timeline).  It also screams "I'm not creative in the slightest!" at me, which is what bothers me the most.  The rest of the church is quite nice, and the big, empty space with boring stencils and a minimalist hunk of who knows what underneath those drapes is like a missing tooth.  No, more like a missing jaw.  3 of 5 for aesthetics, since that missing altar is what you spend your time looking at during Mass, not the windows or the side chapels.

Liturgy: From the Order of Preachers you would expect some excellent preaching (Savonarola, whose sermons inspired rebellion and the Bonfire of the Vanities in late 15th century Florence - he actually ruled the city for a few years before being excommunicated and executed, was a Dominican), but I have so far been largely unimpressed.  Perhaps this is because I am coming from a distinctly liberal church in Chicago where the pastor, a Carmelite, often struck a chord with me (social justice and ecclesiastical accountability were two of his favorite themes), or perhaps this is because these old Dominicans, who don't do much mission work, are less in touch with the surrounding community than my Chicago Carmelite, who did do outreach work, was (he is now working in the inner city in New Jersey, which only goes to prove me point).  There really hasn't been anything good or bad about the homilies, and I've been to Mass here every weekend since I moved and have heard several different preachers.  3 out of 5 for precisely middle of the road.

Music: Ah, yes.  I had wanted to talk about this.  I have quite a few thoughts on liturgical music, which I'll spare you, but suffice it to say that I am largely unimpressed with modern Catholic music, and St. Dominic, unfortunately, uses materials from Oregon Catholic Press (OCP), the foremost publisher of post-Vatican II Catholic liturgical materials, including music, in the country.  The vast majority of what is in OCP's hymnal is, in my opinion, either insipid, unsingable, boring, or repetitive, and sometimes a combination of several of those characteristics.  The [tiny] choir does a good job, and unlike other churches I've been in, the quality of the music is quite good, but the actual music being sung is generally uninspiring.  I'm also bothered by the choir's director, who serves as the song-leader as well, because his singing style can only be described as braying - very brash, loud, and not terribly pleasant.  I'm also opposed to what he does with some of his consonants, but that's neither here nor there.  The music isn't bad, but it's not good either.  3 out of 5.

Review
Location: 5
Aesthetics: 3
Liturgy: 3
Music: 3
14/20 (3.5)

3.5 sounds about right - St. Dominic is a bit above average, since the location is so good, but the music and liturgy are unremarkable.  Still, it's convenient, and I suspect I'll find myself going there often for that reason.  But I intend to explore other churches as well, to see what treasures I may be able to uncover!

Opera in the Outfield

Perhaps one of the best artistic ideas I've encountered in a while is the Washington National Opera's "Opera in the Outfield."  If you remember that I live near a baseball stadium (I did mention that, didn't I?), you'll probably be able to piece together what the phrase means.  If, however, you're lazy (I refuse to believe that any of my readers are stupid), I'll put the pieces together for you.

Opera in the Outfield combines two things Americans love - being outside and free stuff - with a third thing more Americans ought to love: opera.  The outfield in this equation is none other than the outfield of Nationals Park, the baseball stadium five minutes from my apartment.   The National Opera had the brilliant idea, three years ago, to put on a free live telecast of the Sunday matinee of their first opera of the season (too many "of's") and, naturally, let people come to see it.  And do they ever.

 So, on a hot, sun-streaked afternoon, I walked over with my married friends from UChicago, K and R, was joined by their friend M, spread blankets on the luscious grass of the outfield (what do they do to it?  It's amazing!) and slathered on some sunscreen to enjoy our front row seats at the opera.  This was out view.

Just to be clear, those black stripes didn't actually appear on the screen - for whatever reason, my phone picked them up.  Probably couldn't handle the sun, now that I think about it.  But what should be noted is the size of that image on the screen, compared to the size of the image you see from the top balcony at the opera house (I haven't been to the Kennedy Center, but I can conjecture).  What I mean to say is that it was a far superior view to anything we could have afforded at the opera house itself, and furthermore, the cameras gave us close-ups that we couldn't have gotten unless we had been in the first few rows of the orchestra.  Surprisingly, the sound quality was quite good as well, so we didn't suffer through static for three hours (longish opera, plus two intermissions).

The opera was Verdi's Un Ballo in Maschera (A Masked Ball) which tells the story of the King of Sweden, madly in love with his advisor (and friend's) wife,  and surrounded by treacherous courtiers who plot to kill him.  When the friend finds out about the king's forbidden affection, what will happen?  (Answer: it's an opera, so there will be dramatic arias, betrayal, bloodshed, and all those other fun things.)  I won't tell you what happens, and I won't link you to Wikipedia either.  If you want a spoiler, you'll have to go get it yourself.  Interestingly, the tenor who sang the role of the king was the same tenor whom I saw sing the title role in Verdi's Ernani back in Chicago last fall (Salvatore Licitra, who is quite good).  Ballo is better than Ernani in that its plot is more believable, but the two share the fate of not having broken into the popular consciousness like some of Verdi's other work (I'm thinking of Aida, of course).  Still, good music, with great visuals, and excellent company, plus the added bonus of being outside in all that glorious sunshine.  Lots of Vitamin D there.  Of course, if one does not apply sunscreen properly, one might end up pink.

Not that I would know anything about that.

My Kitchen

(Backdated from Sunday night.)

It has been a long and arduous process, but I have finally wrestled my kitchen into submission and turned it from sticky, greasy, dusty, and inhospitable to a workable - if still imperfect - space.  Remember the blueprint?

The kitchen is in the upper left corner.  Now, remember that this was the kitchen in which Mom spent hours cleaning the floor with pure ammonia because nothing else would get off the wax so she could get to the dirt underneath, among various other horror stories.  Well, now it looks like this:

Plush and swanky it is not, despite my champagne tastes, but it's approaching pleasant.  I must, however, give credit for the rug to my friends from the university (K and R, the wife and husband pair who have made my time in Washington far more enjoyable than it would have been alone).  They got a pair of them in Morocco, and have one in their own kitchen, but didn't need the other because the rest of their apartment is carpeted.  They very kindly lent me the other rug of the pair until I get something of my own for the kitchen floor, which will probably be a while, since it's not a very high priority.  If I get rugs, it'll be for the living room first, because I've got to do something to kill that echo.

Anyhow, as you can see, I've got a nice pot rack, a full sized oven (hooray!), an ancient refrigerator/freezer (but they still work!), a dishwasher (which I don't use) and a built-in microwave, which I was a bit leery of, but have grown to appreciate.  I don't have to press start unless I'm using "time cook" - otherwise I can just press "2" and off it goes for two minutes, which is enough to steam frozen vegetables for my dinner.  I've also got a funky turquoise folding chair (its mate is currently on desk duty - as in, it's my desk chair), the granite-topped kitchen cart I mentioned way back (at least, I think I mentioned it), and a spice rack of my own construction to the left of the oven.  When one has limited space and limited funds, one is forced to become creative.

Here's a close-up of the part where I spend most of my time:

It's definitely a one-person kitchen, and what's perhaps most displeasing about the whole thing is that vast swathe of counter space in front of the toaster, which because of its location isn't really usable, except as a home for the dish drainer when I have dishes to be dried.  Underneath it is, of course, the Black Hole of Calcutta, which is another vast region of unusable space, and not simple because it's inconveniently located, but because I can't physically reach it.  I'm thin, but not that thin.

Along the wall under the cabinets are old cork mats (too small for place mats, but not really thick enough to be trivets) with paintings of various London landmarks on them.  And is that a fish?

Why yes, yes it is.  I got it in Williamsburg (at the Pottery) and intend to drink it sometime - with friends - when I have a good reason.  I hope the wine is good, but even if it isn't, I'm keeping the bottle.

Good Morning Baltimore!

Today I was in Baltimore for some training and had the opportunity to visit the old Customs House, which is an architectural jewel from the early 1900s.  I took some pictures of the paintings and other pretty things in what was once the great hall where ship captains would come to present their manifests and declare their cargo, which I promise to put up soon (tomorrow), so check this space again.  Tonight, however, I need to catch up on some sleep.

On a slightly related note, when I mentioned that I would be spending the day in Baltimore, one friend remarked "Don't get shot!"  I didn't, but today someone else did.  What's particularly disconcerting is that on our way to the customs house we saw helicopters hovering over a neighborhood off to the east - I'm almost certain that this is what they were watching.  Creepy!

EDIT (Saturday): Here are the pictures from the Customs House that I promised.

The Baltimore Customs House is a large building from the early 1900s (under construction from 1903 to 1907) in fine Beaux-Arts style.  In the early 1900s the United States was beginning to wake up to its role as a great power, and so all along the East Coast monumental customs houses like this one were constructed, so as to impress the European captains who would put in with goods from Europe.  The great powers of Europe had at the time a tendency (which some believe European nations still possess) to look down on the United States as provincial and backward.  Beautiful customs houses was one way the US attempted to remedy that (another was hosting massive public events like the 1893 World's Columbian Exposition, more commonly know as the Chicago World's Fair).

Most of the Customs House is now office space (it is no longer used as a customs house - that stuff goes on at the sea- and airport - but the main receiving hall, where those captains would come to declare what they had on their ships, has been preserved, although it was carpeted at some point).  Nevertheless, it is gorgeous.

Stepping through the tall, hardwood doors, the first thing that strikes you is the monumental scale of the room.  With the ceiling easily forty feet above the floor, this room was obviously designed to impress.  And because the ceiling is so high up curiosity naturally gets the better of you, so you look up...

...and see this...

...and this (click it to enlarge if it's not clear).  This is the central portion of the mural which is partially visible in the photo above this one.  All the painting was done by Francis David Millet, who (I was told) also did the paintings in the Wisconsin State Capitol, although I can find no corroboration of this assertion.  Millet was a talented Classicist and was friends with Augustus Saint-Gaudens (known as a sculptor).  Reading through his Wikipedia entry suggests that he was quite an interesting guy, apart from being a talented painter.  As I browsed, I came across this photo of Millet in his studio:

Guess what he's painting?  That's right - the ceiling for the Customs House!

Painting is not the only interesting feature in this jewel box of a room.  There's excellent Beaux-Arts metalwork reminiscent of the monumental style in banks that existed around the same time:

There's also exquisite plasterwork and molding surrounding those paintings, the likes of which you don't often see in this country:

Now, all this beauty has to be tempered with a bit of tragedy - isn't that always the case - and although you'd think that this room being closed to the public and unused is tragedy is enough, there's another unpleasant twist of fate associated with this room.  Millet wasn't active for much longer after he painted this room.  Why?  Because he was on the Titanic when it sank in 1912, and was one of the 1,517 people who drowned as a result.  And look what he put above the door that leads to the rest of the Customs House:

Look familiar?  It does look like the Titanic, doesn't it.  But if you were paying attention to my chronology, you have by now realized that although it appears to be the Titanic, it can't be, because the Titanic sank on its maiden voyage in 1912, and this building was finished in 1907.  It's not the Titanic, but it's another ill-fated ocean liner much like it.  Clever readers will know that several ships fit that description, among them Titanic's sister ship, Britanic, but it didn't exist before 1907 either.  It is in fact the Lusitania, which at the time of the painting was the largest ship in the world, and a pinnacle of engineering.  Millet had painted ships throughout history all around the room (you can see two of them at the top of the picture), ending with the most modern example, Lusitania, above this door.  What's tragic is that Millet died aboard a similar ship in 1912, and three years later Lusitania was torpedoed by a German U-boat off the coast of Ireland and sank in just eighteen minutes, killing 1,198 of the 1,959 passengers and crew.  This was one of the factors which eventually dragged the United States into war against some of the very European powers the Customs House had been built to impress.

Funny how these things happen, isn't it?

Duly Noted

The charismatic and funny woman who runs the training program I was at today (and will be at tomorrow and Thursday) released us two and a half hours early, so I toddled smugly home and went to get some groceries.

"What are these?" the cashier asked me as she picked up the cloudy plastic bag containing four vaguely round doughy things and appraised it quizzically.

"They're bagels," I said.

Silence.

"Fifty-nine cents a piece," I added.

She scanned them through.

Apparently, bagels are something of an exotic item in these parts.

Workin' 9 to 5

...or, actually, 8 to 4:30.  But never mind the specifics - I'm a member of the work world now!  I get a paycheck now!  I have a desk, and a phone, and a computer!  Of course, I can't get on the computer yet because I'm not in the system yet (which means no e-mail), but I'm sure I'll find something to do!  Why sure, I'd be happy to read the org chart, the Who's Who PowerPoint, the daily briefing, and a few other things - hand them over!

Two hours later: I'm boooored.

And so it was.  So it is with most first days working for the government, I imagine.  I did eventually make it into the computer system (it took until 3), but I still don't have e-mail.  Never mind - I'll be somewhere else for the next three days getting trained, and everything should be in order by the time I get back on Friday.  One would hope.

There's really not much to say, so instead of blathering I'll head to bed to get some much-needed rest.  But before I go, a fun fact - did you know that the federal government still uses Microsoft XP?  It's true, and they'll probably use it until it becomes unusable - none of this "upgrade every time something new comes down the pike" business.  Microsoft XP on a desktop - I feel like I'm an undergrad again!

EDIT (Tuesday afternoon): Unless you've been talking to me recently about my YouTube explorations, you may not have figured out why I titled this post in this manner (that is, why I didn't write "working" as I normally would).  This is because I've been on a musical kick; see below.  Should I be embarrassed that I actually like this stuff?

Introducing Church Reviews

 One of the most exciting things about moving to a new city for someone like me is the opportunity to try out new churches.  When I say that, I means "parishes within a given religion" (papistry, in my case), not different religions.  In Chicago I would have had to try different religions in order to sample different churches since there was only one Catholic church within any sort of reasonable distance from my apartment - a church, I feel bound to add, with which I was quite satisfied.  But now that I'm in Washington, I get to start over, looking for a new church.  This time, thanks to functioning public transportation and the far higher degree of walkability (new word) Washington possesses, I've got lots of options.  Just go to Google Maps and put in "Catholic churches near Washington DC" and quite a few pop up.  For someone who grew up in a city with a Catholic church count in the single digits, all those possibilities are tantalizing in ways you non-practicing people probably can't imagine.

What's also interesting is that, given Washington's age, many of these churches have had time to develop coherent identities.  For example, St. Patrick's (where Teddy Kennedy used to go to Mass) is the Irish church, Holy Rosary serves the Italian community, St. Mary Mother of God has a Tridentine Mass (Latin) at 9 on Sunday mornings and a Mass in Cantonese at 11:30.  St. Stephen Martyr's 1:00pm Mass on Sunday afternoon is devoted to the Filipino community and, taking the cake for most diverse, is Sacred Heart (Sagrado Corazon) in Columbia Heights, which has nine Masses each weekend: two in English, five in Spanish, one in Vietnamese, and one in Haitian (which I presume means Haitian Creole, a variant of French).  And, of course, there's always the Cathedral of St. Matthew the Apostle if you're feeling grandiose, or the Basilica of the Shrine of the Immaculate Conception, if you're feeling even more grandiose (it's the largest Catholic church in the country, and also the tallest building in the District of Columbia - take that, National Cathedral!).  There are enough churches to keep me going for months!

I don't currently intend to visit every Catholic church in the District, although that might be a fun project for later, for the simple reason that I'm just looking for something I can go to on a weekly basis that I will enjoy (as much as one can enjoy church, anyhow); I'm not interested in trekking out to the far reaches of the district for the sake of visiting a church I don't intend to go to regularly (so Anacostia and the far northwest and northeast are out).  But there are at least half a dozen churches I could feasibly walk to, and quite a few more that I could easily get to with the aid of the Metro.  So I intend to do some exploring.  To supplement my own memory I intend to write up reviews of each church, so I can remember which one had the gorgeous interior, which the talented choir, and which the most convenient location (I'll also be able to remember which had the blowhard priest, the horrible modern/folksy music, or - God forbid - acoustic tile ceiling).  I'll score four different categories - Aesthetics, Music, Liturgy, and Location - on five-point scales, then add up the points.  To be fair, I'll probably go to each church a couple of times (that is, to a couple of different Masses) to give different musicians and priests a chance, unless the location or aesthetics rule the church out after the first try.  And I'll chronicle everything here so you, readers, can follow along with my rather odd adventures.

Welcome to My Apartment

I've delayed posting for a couple of days because I wanted to have all I needed to make today's post.  Even so, I'm not going to cover everything, because I've still got organizing to do, but I thought it was high time to introduce my readers to my apartment, since I've been talking about it so much.

Apartment, readers; readers, apartment.

I suppose I should start with a blueprint because, typical of me, I have one.

You'll notice that the text in this picture is backwards; this is because I had to flip the image I acquired from my building's website to show how my apartment is actually laid out - the way this looks with the text flipped is the mirror opposite of my apartment, but this is the right way around.  In this picture up is south, but I didn't think rotating it 180 degrees was really necessary.  The entrance is in the upper right, and the balcony in the lower right.  That boxy thing above the balcony's right side is an air-conditioning/heating unit (as is the boxy thing at the bottom of the dining room), above which is a window (no window in the dining room, alas).  Above the balcony on the left is the sliding door, and the portion of wall to the right of the dining room is window.  Incidentally, that's also where I'm sitting right now, because my desk looks out that window.  The living room window is big and square, but the desk window is tall and thin; I'd be tempted to nickname them Abbott and Costello if I could only remember which of them was which (answer: Abbott's the fat one, but Costello was no taller than his counterpart, so the comparison doesn't really work.  Oh, well.).  And just to settle any questions, the accent wall I painted last weekend is the wall that faces the balcony - that is, the wall whose other side is in the dressing room and bathroom.

Anyhow, today I wanted to introduce you to the living room (living room, readers; readers, living room), because I've spent the past two days decorating it (along with the usual docket of cleaning, organizing, and running errands).  In the past "decorating" for me has primarily meant "putting things on the walls" because furniture has always been provided (dorms and furnished apartment), but although I have to supply my own furniture here, putting things on the walls has actually become more important because I have so little furniture to begin with - with bare walls I feel like I'm living in a super-sized shoebox.  But with things on the walls, it's much more homey.

As you can guess, my decorating is no minor affair, so without further ado, my two newly-decorated walls:

This is the brown accent wall over which I labored so hard on Saturday, and again yesterday.  At floor level you can see the makeshift couch I've put together (six layers of cloth, and it's actually pretty comfortable).  To the left is the one shelf my landlady left in the place (she took down three more above it, which makes about as much sense as...well, never mind).  You can also see that the stuff on this wall has given me a little trouble - I woke up to find two of the maps and one of the pictures on the floor because I hadn't secured them enough (I'm using masking tape, because it's what I have and it's usually gentle on paint and paper alike, but too little and things end up on the floor).  As you can see, Southeast Asia doesn't want to stay on the wall (Taiwan wants its independence), so I'll have to re-tape it in a bit.  None of the six big maps are ones that I've displayed before, so they'll have to be beaten into submission.  Interestingly, the post-World War II World and Africa are the only ones which haven't given me trouble - 1950s Germany and Middle Asia were both on the floor this morning.  (Blow this picture up to see more detail.)

Here's today's effort, the wall to the right of the accent wall, or to the left as you enter the room from the foyer (are you referring back to that blueprint?)  There are fewer small things on this wall because I used most of them up on the accent wall yesterday, but that's just as well, because smaller things mean more work.  Spain, the Heavens, and the world at night are all reappearing after a successful stint in Chicago, but the United States is new (I didn't display it in Chicago because it's so big) and I've retired my old map of Italy, which was falling apart, and replaced it with a Traveler's Guide to Italy version.  Normally I shy away from "traveler's guide to" maps (I have one of the British Isles which I don't like at all), but this one is actually quite well done.  Italy's just so photogenic.

Once I've cleaned up the remaining rooms in my little kingdom I'll have pictures for you (don't you want to see the Black Hole of Calcutta?), but in the meantime, it's back to cleaning and organizing for me!

Security!

I spent the majority of today at the National Archives (above) as a favor for my mother.  She's been doing genealogical research on our family for several years now and needed some post-Civil War pension records which are kept at the archives' central repository here in DC.  Applications for widows' pensions are actually a great source of genealogical information because the widows had to prove who they were and provide lots of information about their marriage, their husband, dependant children, financial circumstances, and so on.  Not all of the documents have survived, of course (one file had been attacked by mice at some point in its existence - what else would take neat semi-circular bites out of the binding?), but I've got somewhere in the neighborhood of three hundred pages of records to send back to Wisconsin.  I'll make a trip to the post office tomorrow.

One of the most noticeable features of the research wing of the archives, which is completely separate from the wing open to tourists, where you can see the original Constitution, Bill of Rights, and the Declaration of Independence, is the security.  In the past things have been stolen from the National Archives (!), and they don't intend to let it happen again.  All the public areas are under surveillance, there are guards posted at the doors, and every piece of paper you bring in or out is checked to make sure it isn't a document, or that you aren't concealing a document in a sheaf of papers.  This means that every single one of those two-hundred-some pages I printed was scrutinized by a security guard on my way out of the building, and I had to leave most of my things in a locker, because such commonplace items as notebooks aren't allowed in the reading rooms (because one could slip a document inside it).  This did not, however, prevent the security guard from upending my notebook (which had spent the day in a locker, remember) and scrutinizing the scraps of paper which fell out of it (old note of mine - shopping lists, for example).

Now, I understand completely why they do this, and they don't have any reason to trust me, even though I've been cleared to work for the government (more I will not say, except that I have been investigated and found harmless).  But since I signed on to this whole coming-to-Washington-and-working-for-the-government thing, I've been investigated not just by my employer, but also by the real estate agency through which I found my apartment and the co-op which administers it.  Verizon performed a credit check to determine - well, I don't know what, actually; were that many people defaulting on their internet payments or something? - and security at the archives goes through every scrap of paper I bring out, even though my copies of original document were cleared by an archivist before I left the reading room and placed in a locked bag so security wouldn't need to go through them.  I've been background investigated, credit checked, photographed, fingerprinted, carded, badged, scrutinized, interviews, and passed through electromagnetic scanners.  I know and understand why all this has to be done (except for Verizon), but when I think about it too much I begin to feel like a piece of meat being examined for imperfections before it can be packed up and sent to a supermarket, where it will be bought, broiled, and served with twice-baked potatoes and root vegetables.

I suppose the key is to just not think about it.  And not buy potatoes.