about the St. Patrick's Day Uber ride

The driver spouted gibberish. Various directions. How could we trust him? We were in a drinking situation—pretty far along into it. But we had to trust someone at this point. We ended up within a mile of the house, which was good enough.

about waiting in DC's underground Metro stations

Crazy how the train, its headlights beaming the anger of God, comes, a whooshing birth out of the tunnel, squealing curses to stop in a scraped-out cavity under the city—just so you can get on the damn thing.

about waiting at the gate

The pilot pulled us up to our gate at Reagan. The old couple in the row in front of me immediately stood up. Husband had the aisle seat; wife had the middle. Deplaning is a slow process. One by one, starting in the front, the passengers stand up, gather themselves, step into the aisle, open the overhead bin, pull down luggage, check themselves one last time, and then head for the exit. So the old couple in row 14 waited.

The wife had to hunch over, as all middle-seat passengers do when they stand up. The husband, in the aisle now, stretched. And he shifted, readying himself, sort of, as if he was deplaning imminently. But the Southwest deplaning process proceeded as always: indifferently. The old husband lifted his hand to his wife's shoulder and made a rubbing motion. Then he gave her two slaps on the back as he would the Pontiac after a successful road trip. The slaps said, "You made it, and I respect that." She held steady, elbows propped on the headrest in front of her, and faithfully absorbed the wordless encouragement her husband offered. Welcome to Washington, D.C., and thank you for flying Southwest.