Eye of the Beholder

Last week, Ross and I spent a day in Washington, D.C. I had been there four times previously, but never as a sightseer.  Once, I went for a debate tournament and ended up in the hospital with a severe allergic reaction (thanks, dude at Ben & Jerry's who didn't clean the scoop between uses).  Another time, I went as the wardrobe mistress for Songs for a New World, which Clarion University had the honor of performing at the Kennedy Center.  Another time, my sister and I joined the March for Life, held in a particuarly bitter January (we did end up with our pictures in a news article).  And once, I was just passing through, catchinhg a connecting flight back to Pittsburgh.  I got to fly over the Potomac at sunset.  It was beautiful.

But this time, Ross and I were the touristy sort.  I shamelessly flashed my camera everywhere, including places it was prohibited (I got three clean shots before being shut down but the polite but stern security guard).  I was surprised, though, at how many of the Smithsonian Institute Museums actually DO allow photography.  It was a sightseer's dream come true.

There was a particularly cool exhibit about the government's influence on America's eating habits, including rationing and government-sponsored food campaigns.  One was about eating more carp.  It was awesome.  I also noticed no apologies issued for America's over-consumption of simple carbohydrates, but then, you can't have it all.  To my delight, there was a small patch, much like a Boy or Girl Scout badge, that advertized "Heinz's Ketchup".  How charming!  Representin' the Steel City, baby!

In addition, Ross and I meandered over to the public archives to do a little digging about our respective family histories.  I've always been  fascinated about my unusual maiden name, and why it was so hard to trace my lineage back to my family's native Belgium.  Well, I found out why when I saw a copy of my great-grand-uncle's marriage certificate.  Louise Paulette married a Geroges Henri TILLIETTE on June 8, 1890.  The spelling of my family's name had, in fact, been changed when they came to America!  I was enraptured!  Finally, I might be able to trace my history further back than Ellis Island records indicate!  Still, there are some "holes" in my history that are proving more difficult than delightful.  For example, there's no record of Georges Henri actually coming to America, nor his brother Joseph, who was my great-grandfather.  In addition, there were three seperate women named Pauline in the family tree, making things even more twisted.  I learned more about both my grandfathers' service records, and that there is no birth record of my mother, my aunt, or myself.  Still, those records are being updated all the time, and since there aren't a lot of people searching for Thielets and Kuskils, I don't imagine they're being worked on too hastily.

We ate a quick but delicious lunch at Taqeria Nacional, a tiny Mexican joint wedged behind and incredibly classy seafood house.  We joyfully clutched our greasy bag of delicious tacos and our bottle of Mexican Coca-Cola and squeezed past the huge sea of "regulars" - almost all middle-class power-suited whites - and sat down against the building across the street.  With Ross's huge backpack and our scrubby jeans, people must have thought we were homeless.  I didn't care.  My fish taco was awesome. 

As fun as everything was, the best part, for me, came when we stopped at a Sheetz in Maryland.  There was a trio of noisy pre-teen girls jabbering about a boy or something, in front of us as we waited for my sandwich (turkey on wheat with veggies, no dressing) and Ross's smoothie (epic strawberry banana masterpiece).  The employee called out Ross's drink, and the littlest girl looked towards us, saying, "Is this yours?" Immediately, we had all their attention.  "Are you really in the army?" one girl asked, indicating Ross's shirt.  "No," I apologized, feeling his muscles. "But he looks like he could be, doesn't he?" "Are you boyfriend-girlfriend?" the other girl asked.  "We're married," Ross replied, showing them his wedding ring.  "We're from Pittsburgh," I offered.  "Oooh, I bet you're Steelers fans!  I'm sorry about that last game, but you guys have the whole season to make it up!"  I laughed.  Were these the girls who had irritated me only minutes before because they were being too noisy?  How unfair of me.  The ringleader of the group turned to me. "You're really pretty!" she said.  I melted.  Me?  Pretty?  A few moments before, in the car, I had been mercilessly picking at a pimple on my chin, complaining to Ross that I still had to lose the few pounds I had put on during my pregnancy.  I was in a shapeless black dress and dumpy sweater.  But this little girl thought I was pretty?

"Thank you, sweetie," I said humbly.  Ross came back from paying for our food, and the girls beamed.  "I wish you a happy marriage!" one said.

"God bless you girls," I said, silently thanking the Lord that he had arranged for that chance meeting.

"God bless you, too!" they replied proudly.