DC Trip, Part 2*

Metro Encounter

I had never ridden the DC Metro before. My inexperience must have been obvious. Perhaps my intense study of the system map posted on the inside wall of the train alerted the attractive young woman standing next to me that I was a “subway virgin,” as she bluntly put it. Making small talk with pretty chicks usually flusters me, but something about her soothed my anxiety. I wanted to know this girl.

I don’t recall whether she offered her name or whether I summoned the nerve to ask for it. Gabriella. “My friends call me Gabby,” she suggested.

“Well, I’ll just have to call you Gabriella then,” I smiled. “Besides, Gabby sounds too much like crabby or flabby.”

Gabby disrupted my original plans to exit the Red Line at DuPont Circle. Standing about 5’4” in the chilly subway train, she concealed herself under a bulky tan overcoat and knit cap, leaving me to carefully study her subtle smile and gentle facial features. Her smooth caramel skin and a few short, black, curly locks peeking from under the rim of her cap gave little clue to her ethnicity. Black? Latina? Mixed?

Gabby’s modest attire was not particularly fashionable. She wore little make-up, if any. Her initial flirtations gave way to shy reservation. Sweet and mellow. I felt guilty that I was only gradually starting to realize how naturally gorgeous she was. She grew up in Chicago, but moved to DC three years ago to lobby for health care reform. I already liked this girl.

Never one to get lost in a moment for too long, my annoyingly pragmatic nature nagged me about venturing so far beyond my intended Metro destination. DuPont Circle was five stops ago. Was it symbolic that I finally chose to end my subway trip at Friendship Heights? Was it symbolic that Gabby exited at Friendship Heights with me?

Gabby proceeded to guide me on a walking tour through a quaint residential neighborhood. My hooded cotton sweater didn’t adequately shield me from the gusty DC cold, and I appreciated Gabby’s warmth that much more. The walk offered a much more pleasant environment for new friends than a subway car.

I don’t believe Gabby had planned to stop here either, as she didn’t know the area well at all. Her charade as tour guide comically disintegrated as we meandered aimlessly through the lanes of Victorian row houses. She pointed out dubious historical landmarks, such as the middle school “playground where Marion Barry made his first crack purchase,” and “the deserted apartment where Dick Cheney claimed his fourth victim.”

Gabby and I carried on throughout the evening like old friends, yet curiously, neither one of us entertained any thoughts that this could ever last. Even though I would be in town for three more days, we inexplicably resigned to the notion that our entire relationship would run its course in a single night.

We wound up back at Gabby’s apartment just before 8pm.
At 8:37, I kissed her for the first of many times.
By 10pm, we were reminiscing over how we first met such a long time ago.
At midnight, we had our first fight.
Several minutes later, we made up.
At 1am, we pledged our undying love for one another.
At 2:30, we broke up.
At 2:45 we got back together and promised to never hurt each other again.
At 6am, we split up again. This time, for good.
At 6:14 I said goodbye and headed to the conference back at the hotel.

I don’t even have Gabby’s phone number.

I loved that girl.

Need for Change

I wish the preceding story was true.

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My NOLA parents

Nat and Joan are like parents to me. In 2005 I deserted my dear mother in California to deal with Multiple Sclerosis, breast cancer, and a host of other medical ailments on her own. Out here, Nat and Joan have treated me like the child they never had, offering me advice and support while I ramble on about OoMA, teaching, friendships, family, and other happenings. Nat’s like the father I never had, relating stories from his younger days when “the Rooster” allegedly had quite a way with the ladies.

Nat’s not doing so well now. He checked into West Jefferson Hospital about two months ago for surgery on a bedsore, triggering a chain reaction of health problems. Infection, low blood pressure, poor circulation in his paralyzed legs, and even one episode where he momentarily stopped breathing during kidney dialysis. They rely on their faith to support them. Both seem to have accepted the possibility that Nat may never make it back home. Still, they soldier on with courage and optimism.

I’ve been visiting Nat and Joan at the hospital every week for the last couple months. Nat still lights up the room with his smile and warm greeting, no matter how small and frail he looks laying in the hospital bed surrounded by clear tubings and machines. Understandably, he’s not nearly as spry as he used to be, and I miss hearing his raucous Southern laughter that would inevitably morph whatever he was trying to say into incomprehensible chatter. I used to just laugh along with him and say, “Nat, I don’t know what you just said!”

Joan is as loving and caring as a wife could possibly be. She’s by Nat’s side for most hours of every day. Both have been invaluable members of my family in New Orleans. Now, more than ever, I’m thankful that I’ve been fortunate enough to enjoy their love and support.