The White Forest

Imagine yourself in a forest. I know, banal. Trust me.

Imagine tall trees towering above you but letting just enough light through their pins and leaves for you to feel a part of the world and all its beauty. Feel the still, crisp air around you. Immerse yourself in the tranquility, briefly interrupted by a gust of wind or a bird’s song.

Let yourself wonder about the creator and their intentions. It doesn’t matter if it was God or Mother Nature that swallowed the last sip of hot coffee, rolled up the sleeves of the comfortable tunic, and set out to bring Heaven to Earth. It is Heaven on Earth that matters.

Now teleport yourself to a big city. With a swoosh of your hand replace the trees with grand white buildings. Keep everything else. Really. Trust me.

Welcome to Washington, D.C.

Where the buildings are just tall enough to protect you but do not suffocate you with Everest-like reflective glass and sturdy steel; where the whiteness is briefly interrupted by a red-brick castle; where you never see the fairies come at night and, with gracious waves of their wands, remove every trace of human mischief; where you know those fairies exist because there can’t be any other explanation for the purity of this place; where you wonder about the intentions of the creator and learn about them effortlessly; where you are at peace. That’s how Washington, D.C., feels. Trust me.

From the very moment I landed, I was impressed. And I am not one to be impressed easily. My luggage had arrived before me. Was it the same fairies who clean the place or there is some other kind of mythical creature whose job was to fly from Boston to Virginia with my suitcase on its back? Don’t even try to tell me my suitcase was simply handled by bored airport workers in a rush to load it in the plane which left Boston right before mine. That cannot be true. There is nothing simply human about D.C.

Tired but euphoric because of all the anxiety about the new place, I grabbed my luggage in my hands and loaded it on my back. (Atlas was only able to shrug because the Earth can’t possibly be heavier than my backpack. But he has a book written about him.)

I asked where I could find the spot I could request a ride to. A friendly face told me I should just go out through the door next to the one I was at without a trace of annoyance at my lame question. I made a mental note about perfect customer service. Then I found that door and walked out through it. And I found the spot right away. Impressive.

Oh, wasn’t that less-than-10-minutes drive breathtaking. Memorial bridges? Memorials? Monuments? Parks and lakes? Bike paths? Wide roads flushed by the sunlight? My nerdy soul was hurriedly wiping tear after tear so it could see more. “There is more, I promise,” D.C. whispered. “Actually, there’s too much to be seen anyway. You might as well slow down and enjoy.”

A lifetime would not be enough for my soul to feel satiated with D.C., lie back, loosen its belt, and murmur “I’m full.”

Yes, my soul. It was through my soul, not any other organ or questionable essence, that I experienced D.C. The city makes you realize you do have a soul whether you believe in the existence of such a thing or not. For the time you will spend there, you will grow one, feed it, nurture it, and get to love it so much that you’ll do whatever it takes to make sure at least part of it will stay healthy when you go back to your limited, grey existence away from D.C.

I had long wondered whether to travel there. You can often hear me say the U.S. doesn’t have much history anyway. (I come from a country which is currently in the third stage of its existence as a state.) But I also acknowledge that most of that little history is concentrated in W., D.C. But I also just wanted to pack my bags and go home. But I knew I was leaving the country so I wanted to do visit the only place I truly wanted to visit. But I just wanted to see my family.

And then I found out that the largest library in the world is the Library of Congress. In Washington, D.C. (Don’t be too quick to think I am ignorant or plain dumb for not knowing that fact. I have still not come to terms with the fact that the library in Alexandria does not exist anymore. Can you imagine how huge it would have been by now? The largest in the world!)

I made my decision and I told my family I was going to the city where the largest library in the world is.

When I landed, as impressed as I was, I was not home. I kept asking myself if I had made a mistake. Then I entered my teeny-tiny room and saw the following quote on one of the walls: “Little by little, one travels far.” It perfectly described my journey which started from Nantucket where I took an hour-long ferry to Hyannis, followed by 15 minutes of dragging tens of pounds of luggage to the bus station on my way to Boston Logan, then two hours on that bus, a couple of hours of waiting for my two-hour flight, and concluded with a card ride. If you think that sentence is long, imagine my journey. Feel better? So did I when I saw the quote. As if someone assured me I had not made a mistake.

For as long as I had hesitated about traveling, I had been thinking about the Lincoln Memorial. A ten-minute walk led me there. I was quick at first. I wanted to see him colored in sunset hues. But as I approached, I walked more and more slowly, trying to take it all in. I was prolonging my excitement. And then I saw him, in-between those columns, solemn, quiet, reminiscing about his time or maybe just enjoying the sunset like everybody else.

As I was ascending the stairs, I saw a couple pointing at something on the floor and felt so angry at them for slowing the people going up and down, trying to pay tribute to Lincoln!

I have to admit, I was curious to see what they were looking at. Looking around, feeling guilty that I was doing just what I blamed others for doing mere minutes earlier, I finally looked down.

August 28, 1963.

August 28, 2018.

Was I really standing where MLK was standing on the exact same date 55 years ago? I looked around for reassurance but couldn’t find it in the self-absorbed faces. I looked down again. And then ahead. That same pool reflected the faces of the people fighting for equality. Those same trees threw shades at those faces. The Washington Monument was there as if it had been since Earth took its first spin. And MLK’s deep voice was shouting ideals at the crowd.

I did not deserve to stand where he stood. Reluctantly, I dragged my feet away from the inscription and turned around to see the face of Lincoln. Between the inscription behind me and the marble statue in front of me, I was trapped in greatness. Life-altering greatness. History-making greatness. Centuries-long greatness. Unsurpassed greatness.

Oh, D.C., have mercy on my soul.

D.C. was anything but merciful to my soul. For the next two days, it bombarded me with heat and colors, art and science, nature and architecture, history and future, wood, and stone, and glass. Endless greatness.

But seriously, y’all, it was hot.

So I sought refuge in museums and galleries, and castles, and sculpture gardens, and traditional gardens for the puritans. D.C. welcomes all. Even those evil-eyed flocks of birds that attack those who dare to eat at the kiosks along the National Mall.

And on the third day, she reached the Library. The Jefferson Building. Marble stairs, curved and deformed under my feet. Paintings. Statues. Stained glass. All symbolizing noble professions, the seasons, civilizations, the arts, the sciences. Was it a coincidence that I entered the door just minutes before the regular tour for the day started? I think not.

I will deliberately not share more about my experience in the library to keep the intimate, soul-shattering memories the way they are now as much as possible. The librarians managed to save some of the books from Jefferson’s original collection through relocations and fires.

And so should I make the effort to preserve my memories from D.C. as a cordial tribute to great men; to the builders of history and the builders of the walls that enshrine it; to those who made it their mission to spark progress; to Jefferson and his love for books; to creators and their creations.

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