For the past few days I have been visiting our nation’s capital. From time to time my work takes me down here. But this is the first time since the 911 Attacks that I have had occasion to make the trip. I am no stranger to this city, having visited it more than a dozen times over the years, but in this instance, things are indeed a little different.

For one thing, there are fewer people on the streets. In the past, the plazas, malls and open-spaces fairly teemed with tourists, but not now. Sure there are still folks enjoying the sites, but in sheer numbers, my guess is that they have been reduced by at least half. And I have seen only one busload of students on a school trip pilgrimage. Perhaps a trip to D.C. is no longer considered to be a prudent thing to do.

Barricades have been placed around most of the public buildings, and in Washington most of the structures fall into that category. As you can imagine, there are many more people in uniform walking and riding about than in the past, and if folks would like to visit the museums or galleries, be prepared to have your bags and persons searched.

The faces of the visitors have changed as well. Although, as in the past, the majority of tourists seem to be Americans, there is a sprinkling of foreigners as well. But regardless of nationality, most seemed to reflect a sense of bitter sweetness, as if we were all attending a large wake. And I am quite certain that I am not merely projecting my own feelings onto the scene, for while ambling about I could sense that those folks did seem to be feeling what I felt: a sense of loss.

But some things in Washington D.C. have not changed. There are still many homeless folks sleeping on the streets, and there is still this curious juxtaposition of privilege set against despair. My hotel is located on Pennsylvania Avenue, across the street from Freedom Plaza. And while taking a stroll up to the World War I Memorial, I passed a homeless woman. She had her bits of things covered in plastic sheets against the rain that was falling, and she sat there on her bench. It would not have surprised me in the least to learn that she had spent the night there. Any way, she saw me watching a squirrel that was playing near the fountain, that, in addition to the large statue of General “Black Jack” Pershing, serves as the focal point of the World War I Memorial. As I stood there watching the squirrel play, I heard her voice. She spoke to me, but not as a faceless homeless person who had fallen between the cracks of society. No, she spoke with the voice of a kindly neighbor, telling me that the squirrel was her friend and he would eat out of her hand. She was not asking for a handout, but was sharing a moment of normalcy with me.

Yesterday, I had some free time between meetings, so I decided to shoot up to the National Gallery. Before heading down to D.C., a dear friend of mine informed me that there was an exhibition of Francisco Goya’s work on loan there for a short time, this Spanish artist (1746-1828) created images that mirror Spanish society of the late 18th and early 19th centuries. Anyway, since Goya had to feed himself, he needed to find patrons who would sustain him and his art. Therefore he made the rounds painting portraits of Spanish Aristocracy. And many of his subjects were women. In fact, the paintings currently on loan to our National Gallery are all of women, very privileged women who could pay for Goya’s services.

And as I took in the exhibition, which provided fascinating insights into the lives of many of the most powerful women of Madrid, that homeless woman’s face was fresh in my memory. I would guess that she was in her late forties, and even though her time on the streets had clearly impacted upon her visage, she was beautiful in her own way. Based on the vocabulary, which she used during our brief encounter, it seems to me that she was educated. But what circumstance of life that had brought her to this lowly state was beyond my reckoning. Of course I wanted to ask her, but I did not, for she is as much a product of American society as I am, and who is to say which one of us is the more dysfunctional.

There were over one hundred images in that exhibit. And as I strolled along, viewing the very best that Madrid’s society of the period had to offer, I could only wonder at what the very worst looked like. I have no doubt that the folks, which were marginalized back then had it at least as hard as that homeless woman does now. And perhaps there is a lesson in this for us all. For what became of the Spanish Aristocracy? Well, gentle reader, like every (read: every single one, without exception) aristocratically led society in history, they eventually fell. To be sure, it took some time, but they fell.

The coffee is good at this hotel, and as I sip this strong brew, and look out the window at the Washington Monument, that rises over the roof of the Department of Commerce Building, I wonder how long of a “run” we will have. You know, I took the train down to D.C. from Vermont, and in the process, viewed the dark underbellies of many of the major cities on the eastern seaboard of the United States. My daughter summed it up nicely when she said, “look at all the garbage.” But what her five-year old mind couldn’t fathom was the obvious decay. Many of the cities through which we rode seemed to be rotting.

But then we arrived in Washington D.C. A city unlike any other, for in this place, where it is impossible to walk for more than a few blocks without encountering a monument or memorial to some figure or event in American history, the spirit of Man becomes uplifted. I believe that is why folks visit here from all over the world. Not to celebrate what America is, but to celebrate the American ideal. You know, it seems to me that this city, taken as a whole, could be considered a monument to the potential of Man. A potential that has yet to be realized anywhere. There are so many noble words etched in stone here, and so many homeless men and women sleeping upon them.