by Ron Singer.
You could say it started in the bathroom of my hotel room, to which I had repaired after the five-hour bus and Metro trip from New York City to Washington D.C. As a conscientious traveler, I had long been aware of all the people who worked so hard to serve my vacation needs and pleasures: restaurant and hotel staff; bus, train and taxi drivers; vendors of snacks and keepsakes; even the people who speared trash in the parks and in front of the museums. I was also aware of how few of these people were native-born white Americans. No, most of them seemed to be African –Americans or immigrants from poor countries in Latin America, Eastern Europe, Africa or Southeast Asia. In fact, I had guessed that the two maids I had already seen on my floor, one older and one younger, were Filipinas (if that is the correct term).
Always conscientious, I had spent my time on the “throne” calculating the proper tip to leave for these maids at the end of my three-night stay. Since my modest hotel room cost about $165 per night, tax included, the total would be about five hundred. At ten percent, which seemed fair, this would work out to $50. But since my Guidebook suggested $3 per night, which would round off to $10, there was a gap of $40 between the amount recommended and the amount that seemed fair.
Having finished my “business,” as I was washing my hands, I remembered some advice my sister had given me about tipping. “Oh, James, you’re such a soft touch,” she said, with a dismissive hand gesture. “Just leave what the Guidebook says to leave. If there’s a range, let’s say, among four possibilities –that’s how fancy restaurants do it these days—you can leave the second highest, so you’ll feel good without being a sucker.” My sister is much more hardnosed than I am. I think the reason we get along fairly well is that we’re so different. I appreciate the difference, and the fact that she is ten years younger may enhance her feeling of superiority.
“Which option do you usually choose?” I asked.
“The second lowest, unless the service is exceptional. In that case, the second highest.” As I dried my hands, assuming the maids would do a good job, I determined to tip them $25.
An hour later, what had begun in the hotel bathroom blossomed. I was walking along the Mall, trying to find the Freer/Sackler Galleries, which housed a famous collection of Southeast Asian artifacts. The location of this building was proving elusive. According to the small map I had picked up at the hotel, it was set back from the main row of museums on East Jefferson Drive. While I kept my eyes peeled for a sign, my mind wandered.
Since the Sackler billionaires behind the current opioid crisis had recently been stripped of naming honors by several New York institutions, I was surprised that the name of the Galleries had not been changed. Maybe, it is harder to take a name off a Federal building. Or, maybe, it requires an Executive Order from the current occupant of the White House (who I personally think belongs in the Big House).
Still looking for a sign, my rancor against the President merged with something I knew about one of the cultures represented in the Freer/Sackler. I refer to the Jains, the sect whose fear of doing harm in the world extends to peering at the ground as they walk along, in order to avoid stepping on ants. It struck me that our President would have been the kind of boy who watched for ants so he could step on them. The Anti-Jain.
Of the numerous Jain items I had found on the F/S website, I particularly wanted to see the 11th-century statuette of an altarpiece from the shrine of Parshvanatha. I would proceed with care, however, having also found on the site images called “Jain Monks Converse” and “A Jain Sermon.” These didactic artifacts implied a need to tread lightly even in matters of the mind, such as curiosity, which can veer toward non-Jainist acquisitiveness.
Still looking for the sign, something in my mind seemed to snap. It may have involved the visual cortex, the part of the brain that stores visual memories, filing them “for a rainy day.” My late mother, by then a widow, suffered from macular degeneration. One day, I was driving her along a boulevard in Florida when she exclaimed that she was seeing American flags in the trees. A neurologist I consulted told me about the visual cortex’s compensatory function, then said: “She may have remembered the flags from a parade she saw when she was a girl. It could have been seventy-five years ago.” As it happened, the neurologist was from India.
My reaction had been to think, “Isn’t science wonderful!” I was also impressed by the thriftiness of the human mind. Although my sister had not previously heard of stored visual memories, when I told her about the flags and the neurologist, she replied, “Who cares how thrifty the brain is? But that neurologist may have kept our family from being bilked of thousands of dollars by the bogus shrinks who collect like vultures around old people down there. Imagine what they would have said about the flags!” And she went on to mimic a stereotypical psychiatrist pontificating about hallucinations and childhood trauma. My sister has quite a sense of humor.
Anyway, what happened on the Mall that warm June day was possibly related to the American flags. Suddenly, I saw the world from a Jainist perspective, which I had apparently imbibed from gazing at images on my smartphone, during the bus ride down from New York. First, a small white butterfly or moth flew toward a bush at the edge of the lawn of the Hirshhorn Museum, which is just east of the Freer/Sackler. When the insect alighted, perhaps two feet from my face, I regretted that I was not wearing a mask, and held my breath to avoid blowing so-called powder off its wings. Did you know that “Lepidoptera” means “scale wing”? The “powder” is actually light-refracting scales. Among other functions, these scales signal to predators, “I taste bad.”
Tiptoeing past the insect, I was assaulted by a grossly contrasting sensation, a mélange of odors that almost made me swoon. It came from a vendor’s truck parked a few yards upwind of me. I recognized the components of this mélange: exhaust from the fans that vented the grilling hot dogs and hamburgers, and smoke from the charcoal storage canister where the giant pretzels were kept warm. To my heightened imagination, this witches’ brew could have been the collective reek of history’s atrocities.
I could imagine my sister’s reaction if I ever told her about the food truck. “That reminds me of a joke. What did the Zen Buddhist say to the hot dog vendor? “Make me one with everything.” Ha, ha, very unfunny! (My sister’s name, by the way, is not “Jane.”)
The assault continued in the form of a panhandler, who materialized from beyond the food truck. “Say, pal,” he flattered me, “you look like you’re former military.” I said I was not. “Whoops, my mistake. Say, have you got a dollar or two so I can get something to eat?”
This posed a dilemma. I felt a strong urge to meet the needs of a fellow creature, but doing so would have meant extracting the filthy bills from my wallet, and perhaps even touching his hand during the exchange. When I started to explain this, the man’s face assumed a look of quizzical amusement.
“Well,” he said, “I thought I heard everything.” And wishing me a nice day, he walked away,
“You, too, friend,” I replied. “May your day be a blessed and enlightened one.” Was it my imagination, or did he quicken his step?
Tiptoeing forward, I finally came to a sign with helpful arrows: the Freer/Sackler was straight ahead. But just before reaching it, I impulsively turned into the National Museum of African Art. There, I spent an hour at an exhibit of African iron making. I think I was taking a break from my Jainest immersion.
The show was fascinating. Across the vast continent, centuries before the Europeans learned to smelt iron, many African cultures had mastered the process. On a generally small scale, they made everything from weapons, money and royal regalia to magical objects and elaborate stands on which to display them. The manufacture of money was especially interesting. It was cast in the form of flat iron discs, the size of which represented the denomination. The largest looked as if it would have taken four strong men with a wagon to move it. (Had that particular ethnic group made use of the wheel?)
Not having eaten since breakfast in New York, nine hours before, by the time I had perused the metal exhibit, I was famished. I realized that, if I were to enjoy the Freer/Sackler Collection, I needed energy. But two things kept me from seeking out one of the Smithsonian’s many eateries. First, I knew that Jains observed an extremely strict dietary regimen, far stricter than that of vegetarians or even vegans. I was not sure what foods Jains did eat, and whether I could find them locally. My second motive for foregoing lunch was to see the objects in the Freer/Sackler with a Jainist eye, that is, with an ascetic one. (“Ascetic/aesthetic,” punned my irrepressible brain.)
So somewhat lightheaded, I took in the extensive Jain exhibit, which surpassed even my expectations. In addition to the Parshvanatha statuette and the two scrolls, my particular favorites were depictions of the perfected body, of crowds in temples, and of yoga figures (which employed negative space). After two hours, sustained by only a few chaste sips of water, I found myself reeling. To avoid actually fainting, I found a backless stone bench outside one of the display rooms, and subsided onto it, carefully centering myself so as not to tip over.
I can’t say how much time passed before, in a trance-like state, I heard a distant, echoing voice that sounded like an apotheosized version of my sister’s. Instead of being startled, I willed myself into becoming a passive receptacle for whatever wisdom this (un)familiar/familial voice might choose to impart.
“Well, brother,” it/she began, “this is a fine how-do-you-do! I must say that, even for you, this is surprising. I hope you realize what being a Jain-for-a-day implies. I know you, brother, and I know about your holier-than-thou tendencies. Not to mention your intellectual superiority complex! But, my bhratr (that’s Sanskrit), you must have come across the notorious ancient symbol for the divine that they called the sauwastika. Well, Mr. H-T-T, as you aspire to Jainist purity, has it occurred to you what ‘purity’ meant to the Nazis? They ‘purified’ their race of Uncle Joe and Aunt Sadie, plus scores of unnamed cousins, didn’t they? Think about that, bhratr, and get out of this place fast! Take yourself over to the other ‘Indian’ place, I mean the American Indian Museum. You can get an excellent lunch there, which may cure you of this nonsense! Go outside, turn right, and it’s just past the Air and Space Museum (you spacey airhead).”
The voice faded, and I found myself back on the Mall, following like a zombie the imparted instructions. The café was called Mitsitam, which according to the sign meant, in the language of the Delaware and Piscataway peoples, “Let’s eat!” Selecting a Navajo taco platter, I complied.