The Envoy and the Diplomat

We're taking a break from London today, and traveling both in time and space back to Washington, D.C., in the late 1970s and early '80s.

In those years, after I was about 11 years old, my mom, brother and I would travel from our home in Florida to Washington twice a year, to visit my grandmother, who lived in suburban Maryland. We had to drive through D.C. to get there, and we often took a route along New York Avenue to Bladensburg Road, in the northeastern quadrant of the city.

On New York Avenue we passed two motels -- the Envoy and the Diplomat. I remember them as clear as a bell. That's the Diplomat, above, on an old postcard. (All pictures borrowed from the Internet, obviously!)

And here's the Envoy, surrounded by acres of grass and parkland and visibly backing up to both the Capitol and the Washington Monument -- which is nothing like its appearance in real life. It actually looked like this:

The Envoy's sign was blue neon, as I recall, in stylish cursive lettering that lit up the vertical concrete slab atop the roof. I don't have an image of the Diplomat's sign, but in my possibly inaccurate memory it had red lettering on a sort of shield, something like the logo on its brochure:

I never stayed in either of these places, and in fact, by the time we drove past them they'd seen better days. A Washington Post article from 1977 describes the Diplomat as a hotbed of crime, and I suspect the Envoy was no better. Northeast Washington could be dicey back then.

I always liked seeing them, though. It meant we were just a few miles from my grandmother's house, and I loved their '50s neon charm.

Here's an image of the Envoy that I believe was taken from an old matchbook. If it looked that cool, you'd stay there, right?

Unfortunately, by 2009 the Envoy had been stripped of almost all its character. It had been boiled down to a bland paste bearing the Quality Inn brand.

And now it's gone altogether, as is, I believe, the Diplomat. (I couldn't even find images of it on Google Street View, unless I'm confused about its location and/or it's completely unrecognizable.)

So, as I think about Christmases past, I can't help but recall these two seedy but swank Mid-Century motels, and the way I always watched for them and their bright, colorful signs on our long car trips north.

Time Crunch

This is one of the reasons I took my walk along the high street in Plumstead when I ventured out to that part of the city on Sunday. I wanted to get a picture of this bizarre little...shop? Or whatever it is. I saw it from the bus when I was there several weeks ago on my previous Green Chain walk. I'm not sure it's still open. What a combination, though -- haircuts with a bang!

I wound up being late for work again yesterday. I don't know what it is but I am having a terrible problem with time management in the morning, which is very unlike me. I can't really get ready for work until Dave is out of the bathroom, which usually happens around 7:20, and then I get dressed and have breakfast and I can't bring myself to leave the house until the dishes are done and the bed is made, and basically I often find myself extremely crunched right around 8 a.m., when I should be on my way. (I'm supposed to be at work by 8:30.)

I was lamenting this fact to Dave yesterday and he said the school's senior managers have said they've noticed we're all suffering in our organizational skills -- something to do with all the stress we've been under, with Covid and our institutional drama and whatnot. So that's my excuse. At least it's not just me. All we have to do is get through this week and we'll be on break until Jan. 10.

I managed to order some flowers for my mom for Christmas, so it feels good to have that done. I hope she likes them. It's so hard to buy a present for someone who doesn't seem to have much of a sense of time or awareness of anything or anyone not immediately in front of her. But I sent some chocolates too, and I know she'll go for those. Chocolate always wins.

Here's where I am on my Newbery challenge -- these books are the last of the 100 winners that I still have to read. I'm down to such a small number that I decided to check them all out and bring them home. It's interesting that I've put off reading "The Grey King," "The High King" and "The Hero and the Crown" -- it was entirely subconscious but as you can probably tell, monarchical fantasy isn't really my thing.

That third book up, with all the tiny writing, is "The Tale of Despereaux" by Kate DiCamillo. And the book above that, "The Story of Mankind," is the non-fiction winner of the very first Newbery Medal back in 1922. I've been saving it for last. I'm dreading it, but I've heard it's not as stale as it sounds, so fingers crossed!

Bostall Woods to Oxleas Meadows

Yesterday I tackled the third segment of the Green Chain walk, from Bostall Woods to Oxleas Meadows. I took a tube and train to Plumstead, where I walked along the high street to do some photography -- which you'll no doubt see in coming days.

Then I took a bus to Bostall Woods, where the 2.9-mile trail began next to this neat-as-a-pin clubhouse for the lawn bowling club.

The trail led into the forest, where almost immediately I came across a large, squabbling flock of ring-necked parakeets. They were ducking in and out of holes in the trees and arguing loudly. I think I saw more parakeets on this walk than I have on any other -- dozens of them. They're pretty birds, but they're not native, and I can't help but wonder about the woodpeckers and other creatures that would normally live in those tree holes but have been displaced.

I love the quizzical posture of this parakeet: "What do YOU want?"

Not much farther along, I found a tree had fallen across the path. I gingerly picked my way over it.

The trail came out of the woods near Plumstead Cemetery, which has a rather grand old chapel building.

It led me past some houses and this neighborhood pub, the Forester's Arms, before entering another park, the East Wickham Open Space. I crossed that -- didn't even take any pictures -- and made my way through another neighborhood where the streets were named for poets: Dryden, Keats, Chaucer.

I had a weird experience as I walked past one house. A clay roof tile suddenly came loose and clattered loudly down the slope of the roof before crashing on the ground. What are the odds that would happen just as I walked by? There was no one else around, and I half expected someone to come out and yell at me. I imagined myself insisting, "I didn't do it!"

I was supposed to re-enter a green space at Woodland Farm, near where this curious goat kept watch over his domain from the roof of a shed. But the gates were closed and I didn't see any way to get in. Turns out there's apparently a long dispute between walkers and the farm over access to the trail through this area. The farm says it's not a proper right-of-way and has blocked it off, allegedly because of vandalism.

So I followed an alternate route (fortunately signposted), past more houses and then along a claustrophobically-fenced footpath that circled another cemetery. I finally emerged onto a major street, Bellegrove Road, and that took me to Oxleas Woods.

I came out of the woods at this hilltop cafe, where I had a vegetarian English breakfast and watched people exercising their dogs on the grassy slope. I asked to buy one of the cafe t-shirts, like the staff were wearing, because they had kind of a cool fried-egg design and I thought it would make a nice souvenir. But they don't sell them. Sigh.

As I sat at my outdoor table, I swear I saw Richard and Hyacinth from "Keeping Up Appearances." An older couple wandered up and the woman said to the man, gesturing to the door, "We can go inside, Richard!" And the man replied, "We ARE going inside!" He proceeded to open a different door and, well, go inside.

A boy and his father walked past. "Why didn't we get cake?" the boy asked. "That's a good question," the father said.

This area is known as Shooter's Hill, and diarist Samuel Pepys mentions it in his entry of April 11, 1661. He walked beneath "the man that hangs upon Shooter's Hill and a filthy sight it was to see how his flesh is shrunk to his bones." Apparently this was a bandit whose body was hung on a gibbet as a warning to other lawbreakers.

Fortunately I didn't see anything that grisly as I walked to the bus stop -- just the old water tower, from 1910, a landmark along the roadway. From there I caught the bus to the train station in Blackheath and made my way home.

An Unexpected Inspection

See? Despite my recent pictures, we DO still have some daylight here in England, between about 7 a.m. and 4:30 p.m. I was even able to walk around in it a bit yesterday, admiring the Christmasy windows of the shops on our high street. (The restaurant on the left has decorations up, including a tree, but they're hard to see with that awning.)

I spent most of the day cleaning, though. I did laundry, cleaned our kitchen shelves and ran everything on them through the dishwasher, and I cleaned our bedroom windows, giving them the same treatment I'd already given the windows in the dining room and living room -- the frames, the sills, everything.

It was rainy yesterday, but it was a slow drizzle and the dehumidifier filled up overnight. I'll use the water on the houseplants today.

I tried to take Olga when I went walking, but she wouldn't go more than a few steps from the front door. I suppose the precipitation put her off. You can never tell with that dog. Remember how I said she wouldn't want to walk on Friday morning, when it was a bit blustery? Well, I was completely wrong -- she wanted a long walk and I wound up being late for work. She's a mystery.

The Russians knocked on the door around lunchtime and asked to see the deteriorated wood outside. I guess since it's a repair that involves the exterior of the house, they'll have to pay for part of it, and they weren't happy with the quote from our management company. (The Russians own the upstairs flat, whereas we rent, so the cost of repairs would be split between them and our landlords.)

Even though I'd spent the whole morning cleaning and tidying, I saw every flaw as I led them through the house to the back door. They strike me as very fastidious people and I could just imagine them raising their eyebrows.

When I showed them how the deteriorated wood trim was allowing moisture to get into our living room wall, I pulled the couch back so they could see where we'd had mold spots behind it. "Oh, that's very bad for your health," Mrs. Russia said. No kidding!

Nonetheless, they want to arrange some more quotes and I'm not sure how we'll handle that, since presumably either Dave or I will have to be here to let contractors view the problem. They're having someone work on the roof in March and they wondered if they could repair the trim then, but I told them I'd like to get it fixed before that. So we'll see.

This is the downside of renting, particularly in a shared-ownership building. We are at the mercy of multiple property owners.

My Own Personal Insanity

Well, all I can say is thank goodness it's the weekend. For one thing, I can finally get outside during daylight and take some pictures! It's been very nocturnal around here lately. Unfortunately today there's a 90 percent chance of rain, so any lengthy walks will probably have to wait until tomorrow.

I'm in a conundrum about our Plectranthus plants. They've been in a hanging basket outdoors all summer but they've been nipped by frost. I was going to just throw them away -- I think they're basically annuals, at least here in the UK. I brought one basketful through last winter indoors, but they were very messy, dropping leaves all over the place, and I'd rather not go through that again. I never even wanted them -- Mrs. Kravitz got them free at the start of lockdown in Spring 2020 and I adopted them. But for some reason I am feeling incredibly guilty about discarding them.

I swear, I think I have a mental illness when it comes to plants. I cannot bring myself to kill them. I have trouble even pulling weeds. Dave keeps telling me, "They're just a chemical reaction." But they're also living things and I don't want to be responsible for their demise.

Then again, it's impossible to garden without killing. Unless you're just going to let nature take over, in which case you don't have a garden, you have an unkempt plot of land.

Even though I've already dumped the "Plectranthi" in the yard waste bag, I might wind up putting them in another pot and bringing them inside for the winter. Aaaaaargh!

In other news, several weeks ago, we had someone come to the front door selling copies of newspapers produced by the Socialist Workers Party or something like that. For some unfathomable reason, Dave bought one. It was a gray publication filled with dogmatic, strenuous articles about the plight of the underclasses. I agree with socialism in its gentler, most democratic forms, but even I found it unreadable.

Anyway, last weekend the guy was back again with yet another newspaper. Because we'd bought the last one I felt compelled to buy this one, even though, once again, I couldn't bring myself to read it.

I'm too guilty to throw away plants. I'm too guilty not to buy a newspaper I won't read.

I'm a mess.

(Photo: South Hampstead, last week.)

Drama

It's sounding blustery and rainy out there this morning. Olga will not want her walk! And I don't particularly want to leave the house either, but there's that whole making-a-living thing.

Oh, readers -- it's a challenging time here at Shadows & Light. It's been challenging for a couple of weeks, honestly. There's a lot of drama going on where I work, both institutionally and, for some people, personally. None of it is bloggable, so I can't really go into any of it. And don't you hate it when bloggers bring something up and then say, "Oh, but I can't tell you about that" -- like, nyah, nyah, I've got a secret! My apologies for doing so. I just wanted to let you know why my mind hasn't been on my blog as much lately, though I'm going to endeavor to show up a little more fully in the immediate future.

Don't worry, I'm not in trouble or getting fired or laid off or anything like that. Nor are my immediate co-workers. The drama is more around me than on me. Which I guess is a good thing. Believe me, I am not in nearly as much pain as some other people.

It is depressing, though. And anxiety-producing.

So, anyway, enough said about that. Sorry again for the vagueness.

Dave had another concert last night, this one for the seventh graders, so I was on my own for dinner. I heated up some leftover chili for dinner and served it over leftover potatoes, which is a little weird but tasted good, and I spent the evening reading the second volume of diaries by David Sedaris. (I just spent 10 minutes trying to figure out the correct possessive form of "Sedaris" -- is it just an apostrophe, or an apostrophe S? Apparently it's either one, but I took the scaredy-cat approach and rewrote the sentence to avoid the usage entirely.)

It's a good book, and funny. Come to think of it, I had a very Sedaris-like experience yesterday. I was reading a story in The New York Times and it quoted a man named Robert Beaglehole. I burst out laughing, sitting at my desk, and I could not stop laughing for three minutes. My boss subsequently looked up the name and we found that it has all sorts of noble origins relating to topographical features in medieval English -- but I'm sorry, that is still a hysterical name. No disrespect to Robert, who I'm sure is a perfectly nice guy.

(Photo: A night street in St. John's Wood.)

Barriers

I'm on a roll with photography after dark, since the sun has set by the time I walk home from work around 5 p.m. I took the shot above on Abbey Road in St. John's Wood. That tree seems a little over-fortified, doesn't it? Lawyers!

At least the barriers create some nice shadows.

Yesterday I had to race home around noon to meet a handyman sent by our property manager. He wanted to assess the rotten wood on the outside of the house and check on the moisture issue. I showed him around for a few minutes and then he left. Nothing will happen until he gets the approval of our landlords, and with the holidays coming up I suspect any work may be delayed into the new year. At least now we're dehumidifying. (Which, by the way, feels fantastic -- like air conditioning!)