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scope out each mouth-watering possibility before pouncing
on Philly cheese steaks. The grilled meat smells irresistible.
Perry orders onions with his sandwich. I skip them. No way
do I need to worry about my breath with so much else going
on. He also insists on paying for lunch.
“It’s the least I can do,” he says.
The juice from the steak dribbles down my chin, the
cheese singes the roof of my mouth. My diet soda, mixed
with nerves and excitement, makes me burp nonstop. But I
also can’t stop smiling.
By noon, stuffed and exhilarated, Perry and I wiggle our
way through the crowd to the long escalator leading down
into the elegant gray tunnels of the Metrorail. Right on
schedule.
Washington’s subway is clean and modern, nothing like
the old New York City subways I’ve seen in movies. I mean,
there’s no graffiti or anything. Everybody is superpolite.
When the train is about to enter the station, lights flash on
the platform. And the train is so quiet, you’d barely know it
arrived. The doors open and close with a Star Trek–like
swoosh.
We grab two seats facing each other. I smell someone’s
take-out Chinese food. The train hums as it speeds along
the track. I’ve never felt more grown-up in my life. Finally.
According to my research, it’ll take about ten minutes to
get to the Smithsonian Institution. Which isn’t an “institution”
at all, but sixteen museums and galleries full of awesome
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