Sweet Solomons and the District.

(background....I met rosa through this blog about a year ago.  We've been corresponding but hadn't formally met until this trip)
After last minute packing the morning of and a mad dash to Detroit Metro, I boarded my flight, settled in, and awaited my complimentary spicy tomato juice that always tastes better on a plane. I put my headphones on and sipped slowly, looking out my window as flight 138 ascended high above the clouds, en route to the District. When we landed, I texted Mario, Rosa’s son, who responded with his location.  I jumped on the metro and got off near U street, found a Starbucks, and waited. The locale suddenly felt hip and cool and had me immediately questioning my attire and luggage, the latter of which was especially juvenile.  Why the hell did I bring this damn bag?  Why don't I care about such things other women care about like cool luggage?  My thoughts were soon interrupted by a musical food truck which stopped and deposited Mario and two friends at the corner of U and 13th. What the hell am I doing, I thought for a split second. And, then I reached out my hand to shake his and he instead, gave me a hug. The four of us walked to Mario’s so they could grab bikes and I, wait for Rosa’s arrival. They took off while I browsed bookshelves and artwork. Rosa soon arrived in green cargo shorts, a sheer, off-the-shoulder white shirt, and gladiator sandals. She was tan, with big, expressive green eyes and the most beautiful eyebrows I think I’ve ever seen. Around her neck were funky necklaces from her travels – each of which I’m sure had meaning or some sort of story – because you can just tell she’s like that. We threw my adolescent tote into the back of her brown Camry, and headed to Arlington, Virginia, just a stones throw from DC, where she and Dr. Bob Bob were living in a furnished, state issued apartment for just a few more days until their move to Bangladesh. “I’m so glad you’re here!” she said, talking a mile a minute, stopping occasionally for a drag on her Misty or to light up another. “So am I!” I replied. And I was.

We soon arrived at Oakwood Apartments and took the elevator to the seventh floor. Rosa knocked at the door and her husband opened it, warmly greeting me with, “Hi, Carin! I’m Bob,” followed by, “Well, that’s a girly looking bag.”

Sigh.

I don’t really remember what we did for the rest of the day. Maybe that was the night we sat on the couch and ate salads Bob made and served in big, mismatched Tupperware bowls. Endearing. Especially since he’s a doctor for the U.S. Embassy and had just returned from an assignment in Africa where he was Hillary Clinton’s personal doctor. They’re going to kill me for writing that as they’re the most humble, unpretentious people I know, but it adds to the story and I’m all about story. It sounds silly, but I felt trusted by this simple Tupperware gesture – like I was family. Anyway. Back to our evening. We chatted a lot, the three of us. We laughed. And then in true Rosa fashion, she showered me with trinkets, like Tibetan necklaces, cool journals, and the book, “Go the Fuck to Sleep”. And sooner than later, I did.

I awoke Sunday morning to fresh coffee and Rosa brushing her hand softly through my hair saying, “Get the fuck up. You and Bob are going kayaking.” So, we all got ready and Rosa chauffeured us to Georgetown. “Ok," she said, "I’m just going to stop in the middle of the intersection (drag on the Misty) and then you guys are going to have to jump out quickly and walk the rest of the way.” I can’t really remember what the reason for this was, but it made sense at the time and adds to the story. So, we walked across the Key Bridge, passing General Petraeus on our way(!), until we arrived at Jack’s Boat House, a charming establishment with colorful Adirondack chairs, paper lanterns, and lots of locals. I was very glad I wasn’t dragging my childish rolling contraption that holds my clothes with me as I tried to conceal my tourist excitement and pretend I was a local. I’m sure Bob will attest that I didn’t do a very good job of this as I’d frequently stop and say, “Bob! We’re kayaking the Potomac!” “Bob! Look! Washington Monument!” And, then every once in awhile, we’d stop and Dr. Bob would point out sights like the Watergate Hotel or the Kennedy Center, or we’d just quit paddling and chat. He asked me a lot about my life, Syd’s diabetes. And when a helicopter passed overhead, he broke into story about flying over the city and trying to sneak peeks of the monuments while trying to keep a patient alive.  I guess the poor guy died as the doctor let go of the bag and stole a glance of the Reflecting Pool.  (Not really, but wouldn't that be awful?) After a few hours, we concluded our watery jaunt and met Rosa right where she’d dropped us off, jumping quickly into the Camry before the light turned green.

And then there was thrifting. Ah, sweet thrifting. Resale Goes Upscale on the main drag in Georgetown. $10 BCBG dresses. Where Rosa brought me dress after dress and shoe after shoe, nixing my ill choices, adding, “That is so Marble Mom, and you, are so not Marble Mom.” (Marble = East Lansing Elementary School). I felt like Pretty Woman. Serious thrifting calls for serious coffee and people watching. Which meant one thing. Dean and Deluca. And people watch, we did.

By the time Monday morning had arrived,  Bob had learned I liked fresh ground coffee with half and half, so instead of the chicory blend I had enjoyed my first two mornings, he actually made a trip down to the lobby for my morning brew. After hot coffee was consumed, Rosa and I once again headed to Georgetown -for cupcakes this time, sans long weekend lines, where we acted like shameless tourists, snapping silly pics left and right. The blueberry cheesecake cupcake, btw, is where it’s at. Totally.

And then there were the dinners. Vietnamese. Mideastern. Thai. More conversations. More laughter. And a trip to Bob's Army Base.  And, Arlington National Cemetary.

And then on my last day, a midday run by the monuments. Bob was quick to point out the building where Hillary worked, adding, “Yeah, they called me today. Apparently, I left my shirt in Tanzania.” Modesty my ass, Dr. Bob. Seriously, though, I think that should be the title of his book someday. I Left My Shirt in Tanzania. I’m so feelin it. After two miles or so, our run was slowed to a walk as I was “displaying signs of heat stroke”. Well, it was either that, or Bob wanted me to think that so he could get a breather in as he checked my pulse.

I departed much like I arrived…in a mad dash. But I just didn’t want to leave. So I just kept squeezing in one more moment - until the cabbie was flying down the highway offering to wait in the parking lot while I showered and packed (I was still in running clothes). So my departure was this big joint effort. We were literally running into the apartment building,the three of us, and then I jumped in the shower while Bob and Rosa frantically packed the Disney duffel – not an easy task when I was leaving with twice as much stuff as I had arrived with.

In record time (ten minutes), I showered, packed, and said a quick good bye with a lump in my throat as I got into the cab. “Reagan Airport. As fast as you can.”

Surprisingly, I got to the gate with time to spare and found a seat. Despite the pubescent fortnighter at my side, I was feeling like a cool person this time, likely due to the new free people sundress I was wearing, compliments of Rosa. I put my headphones on and reflected on the Solomons. And their goodness. And how I want to be good...pay it forward...and make a difference in people's lives like they had done in mine.

A few people have since asked, so, did you go to dc to see…a guy? And I tell them about the Solomons.  Humble Bob and the lovely Rosa, whose comments adorn my blog and whose love adorns my soul.