I have the fortune, whether good or bad, to come from a very well educated family –We have professors going back three generations:
- My maternal grandfather, William Ewart Staples taught Ancient Near Eastern Studies at Victoria College (University of Toronto) from 1932 until 1962,
- My father, Wallace Edmond McLeod, taught Classics at Victoria College from 1962 until 1996,
- My brother, John Edmond McLeod has taught history, specializing in the history of India, at the University of Louisville since 1995; he is currently chairman of their Department of History.
They studied, and taught (and teach), in the Humanities; my own background is in mathematics and engineering – trade-school stuff, if you will, rather than what I should call a proper education per se. As my mother is also trained as a Classicist, this clearly demonstrates extreme rebellion on my part during my late teenage years; I have, however, made peace with culture, history, and languages in the interim. And every morning I am thankful that I don’t have to teach!
John and a friend of his, Ken Robbins, have spent much of the last few years collaborating on a book called African Elites in India: Habshi Amarat
. This was Ken’s idea; one of his many fields of interest is artwork from India, and he noticed that a surprisingly large number of paintings clearly showed individuals of African descent. He contacted John about this curious fact, and they decided this required more explanation. This book is the result of their explorations.
I had the honour of attending the launch of this book, which took place at the Freer Gallery in the Smithsonian Institution. As Fay has a cousin, Louiqa, who lives in Maryland, we took advantage of the opportunity to travel to the DC area and made it a long weekend, leaving Toronto at 7:30 a.m. Friday and returning at 9:00 p.m. Sunday.
En Route to DC
In the past, we have driven to DC, by routes both east and west of Lake Ontario, and we have flown into both Dulles and Baltimore Washington; this trip, we were flying into Reagan National. Flights into this airport undergo, for obvious reasons, additional security. We decided to try to follow the letter of the law, and arrive at Terminal Two as close to two hours before the flight as we could manage. Our limo showed up on time; we made it to the airport by 5:45, cleared US customs, and had a light breakfast consisting of mediocre coffee and pastries. (I have been drinking coffee while flying out of Pearson for over twenty years, and the fact that the coffee has improved to mediocre is noteworthy. Of course, Terminal One has Starbucks, which has much better quality control, but that’s another story.)
Then it was time to make our way to Gate U, the boarding area. This entailed quite a walk; it is apparently the gate located furthest from the main part of the terminal. As we made our way through what appeared to be abandoned hallways, we saw signs telling us the distance, and approximate walking time, to Gate U. The first said something like “600 m, 12 minutes”. We walked along with our carry-on luggage: a small suitcase on wheels each and a garment bag containing nicer clothes than we usually take on such trips. Eventually we came to the entrance to the final waiting room. Time for another search of our luggage, and then we were allowed to enter what must be one of the smallest waiting rooms in the entire Pearson complex. There were two other people waiting for the flight. We had about thirty minutes to kill; while we waited, a troupe of foreign tourists en route to Washington also made their way through the last security check.
Soon it was time to board. We were flying on a Bombardier CRJ 200, which was a nice change from the previous times we had flown into D.C., when we flew on Jazz with, I believe, a Dash-8 300. The cruising speed makes all the difference: 490 mph for the jet versus 330 mph for the turboprop.
The CRJ 200 has room for up to fifty passengers (most of whom were the aforementioned tourists) and one flight attendant. It seemed as if we had just enough time to have juice, coffee, and a snack before the plane turned west over Chesapeake Bay and headed up the Potomac.
The Washington Metro
Arrival and debarkation was quick; clearing customs in Canada means we were treated as an incoming domestic flight, and having no checked luggage allowed us to walk out of the airport in less than ten minutes.
Immediately outside the airport is the National Airport station, on the Yellow and Blue Lines. Our ultimate destination was College Park, Maryland, where Fay’s cousin lives. With a little help from a very friendly attendant, we figured out how to purchase our tickets. The Washington Metro is, in a key way, rather different from the TTC subways I am used to. In Toronto, all trains leaving a given platform travel along the same track to the same terminus. In D. C., there are several stations, including National Airport, which are shared by two lines. The stations are, fortunately, designed well enough that we were in no real danger of ending up on the wrong train. At Mt Vernon Square, the Yellow Line ended and we transferred to a Green Line train. Less than forty five minutes after leaving the plain, we were waiting for Louiqa to pick us up at Prince George’s Plaza.
After a light brunch, consisting of bagels, smoked salmon, and coffee, we retired to Louiqa’s home. I needed to recover a little from the ungodly hour we had gotten up, while the other two chatted and caught up.
Georgetown
I am not sure I would find a trip to the District of Columbia complete without a shopping expedition to Georgetown. We park on Water St just off the Potomac, meander up the bank of the river over what’s left the Chesapeake and Ohio Canal, and wander up and down Wisconsin Avenue. We also have a tradition of buying gelato at Dean and Deluca (my own tradition also involves not purchasing anything else there!)
As we walked along M Street from Potomac St, we walked past the Shops of Georgetown Park. We went, briefly, into a store called Sisley, and then pushed on. We walked up Wisconsin a little, but ended up back in the Shops. By then, it had started to rain. This meant, naturally, that our parking meter was about to run out as well. I dashed out in the light rain to feed it while Fay returned to Sisley. I took my time returning, and looked around the mall. It is a strange combination of agreeably attractive and soulless. Stores with friendly clerks but very few customers. I found a store which sold novelty T-shirts; one had an obviously female skeleton sitting on a park bench with the caption “Waiting for Mr Right.” I thought about getting it for one of our friends, but decided I didn’t want to give a gift which could be construed as mean.
I returned to Sisley; Fay had purchased two outfits, but unfortunately our travel plans did not permit her to get them altered for free.
We returned to the car and headed to the Whole Foods Market in Silver Springs, bought the makings of a dinner, and headed back to Louiqa’s. Several glasses of wine later, we were ready to eat. Then, to bed – Saturday would be a busy day!
The Freer and Sackler Galleries
Saturday dawned bright and clear. The reception was not scheduled to begin until 1:00 p.m., but we slept in, got up, and had a relaxed breakfast. We got ourselves ready, and headed down to the Mall. I don’t believe we had ever been to the Freer and Sackler Galleries in any of our previous visits to the Smithsonian Institution’s museums, but they are were easy enough to find. Louiqa dropped us off and parked the car, and we went wondering around looking for the reception. First, and much to Fay’s annoyance, I assumed the event would be easy to find, so we walked entirely around the Sackler Gallery. Fortunately, it is a small building; once it became clear that there were no receptions of any kind on its grounds, I was forced to admit it was time to ask for directions. We stepped inside, and a very helpful security guard directed us to the much larger Freer Gallery, immediately to the west. We stepped back out into the sunshine, walked south to Independence Avenue, and then along Independence for a minute or so to the main entrance of the Freer. Another guard directed us to the Central courtyard; on our way in, we were greeted by the ultimate security system: a woman with a clipboard. She was all smiles, of course, as most of the attendees were generous donors to the Galleries, but one got the feeling that things would not go well for gatecrashers. I helped her find our names, she checked them off, and we stepped into the courtyard. We were fashionably late – as fashionably late as one could be to a reception that’s only an hour long. Things seemed to be in full swing. Fay pointed John and Mary out, and we went over to greet them.
John was quite busy, so after a quick hello, and an introduction to his coauthor Ken, we let him return to gladhanding the other guests. I found a table of canapés, a welcome discovery as I was starting to feel peckish. I also found glasses of wine for Fay and Louiqa, and some San Pellegrino for myself.
Before too long, I bumped into Claudia, the woman who had organized things. I had been in correspondence with her by e-mail several times over the preceding weeks, and had quite looked forward to meeting her. In an absurdly unfair turn of events, her contract had ended earlier that week, and she was required to attend the event she had put so much effort into as regular private citizen rather than as a representative of the Smithsonian. She seemed relatively unfazed by this, however, and was every bit as friendly, personable, and well-spoken in person as she was in e-mail.
A little later in my wanderings between the canapés and my co-attendants, I met Debra, curator of the Indian art collection, long time friend of Ken, and soon-to-be MC of John and Ken’s talk on their book. She apparently thought I looked familiar, and we spent a few moments trying to figure out where she met me, before I thought to mention that “it may be because I look a little like my brother”, pointing at him. A long, epiphanous “Oooh”, and we went on to other topics.
At 2:00, it was time to head into the auditorium for the main event.
The Talk
Debra introduced Ken and John. I won’t say too much about the content of their discussion – that’s better done by the book itself – beyond that it was utterly fascinating. The interest of the audience, a mixture of African-Americans, individuals of Indian ancestry, and aficionados of Indian art, was almost palpable. The subject of elite African slaves in India is not well known, and the fact that some of erstwhile slaves went on to seize power, and retain it until Independence in 1947, even less so.
John and Ken made a good tag team; with John’s rather more formal demeanour contrasting with Ken’s somewhat more relaxed approach to public speaking. Both presented the subject engagingly, with a fine selection of slides of pictures from the book as backdrop.
After a round of questions from the audience, John and Ken retreated to the foyer to sign autographs. Unfortunately, the books that had been ordered for them to sign were stuck in customs in New York, and so they were stuck autographing labels which could be inserted in the books when they arrived. We ordered a copy, but Louiqa outdid us by ordering six.
Joyriding and Drinks at the Bar
We spent the next half-hour or so joyriding around downtown D.C. in Louiqa’s new Saab convertible. Eventually, we ended up at John and Mary’s hotel, the St Gregory on M Street at 21st. There is not much around that’s open late on a Saturday afternoon, so we had drinks in the hotel bar, the M Street Bar and Grill. The five of us sat on bar stools around a high table; drinking a selection of cocktails and beer. I had a local beer, whose name I forget, and then, on John’s recommendation, a Maker’s Mark Manhattan. The time passed quickly; it was soon time to make our way to dinner.
Dinner
Ken had arranged for us to dine at the Heritage India restaurant on Wisconsin. I took a cab with John and Mary, whom I don’t see often enough. Fay and Louiqa returned to the Saab, but rather unfortunately, they got trapped by the Washington DC Pride Parade; our cab driver was expecting it, and knew how to get around it, but it took the other two almost an hour longer to get to the restaurant.
At dinner were Ken, his charming wife Joyce, their charming daughter-in-law Hannah, two guests of theirs, John, Mary, Fay, Louiqa, and myself. Such a length guest list made for a somewhat chaotic meal, and I fear that Ken’s side did not pull its weight in the imbibing department, but it was a lovely evening.
We broke up around 10:00; said our goodbyes, and headed back to Maryland.
Georgetown Redux
Sunday morning, we ventured back into the District to have brunch with John and Mary before their return to Louisville. We went to some French patisserie/crêperie style place between the St Gregory and the Foggy Bottom Metro station, walked them down to the turnstiles, and made our good-byes. Louiqa returned home, while Fay and I walked along M Street back to Georgetown. We window shopped, mostly, and toured the Old Stone House, one of the oldest buildings in Washington. We walked almost to the Francis Scott Key Bridge, which is almost at the end of M Street, then walked back to the Dupont Circle Metro station, made our way back to Prince George’s Plaza. We relaxed a while, and soon it was time to head to the airport, and home. I had booked the tickets on Aeroplan points, and even after paying all required taxes, transit charges, and fuel surcharges, we ended up spending more money going between our home and Toronto Pearson Airport.
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