Cross-dressing on the Crosswalk...

Thursday afternoon, I met a gaggle of relatives, all converging in Washington DC: a cousin, his wife and their son, from San Antonio, TX; a cousin from Boulder, CO; and some relatives of the nuclear (family) kind, from the VA side of the Potomac River. We all met in the Gallery Place area on the edge of Chinatown.

These few blocks of urban view-scape are one my favorite places in DC. Great eats. Great people watching...but, not the tourists: those slathered in SPF 451, with awkward hats and t-shirts embroidered...F-B-I...C-I-A, purchased from a street vendor. No. This sea of bait fish banality swarms around every summer. And, albeit they are a spectacle, they are not the ones worth watching.

I saw the gold pumps glittering fifteen feet away, as he walked towards me. His balance was impeccable...delivered by a fluid gait...an awkward promenade-cum-prowl. The syncopated sleekness of his slide spoke volumes. "I notice you, noticing me, and I don't care." The gold pumps sailed past me and settled on the crosswalk. I snapped a picture from the hip, and glanced around. A few tourists gawked. Some whispered. He ignored them all, and drove the gold pumps forward across the asphalt. His dignity was enviable, his sense of style commendable.