Comparatively, it ain’t so bad

STEVE SMITH

Man, it’s hot.

How hot is it? It’s so hot, I saw a dog chasing a cat and they

were both walking (Johnny Carson). It’s so hot, the state bird is now

fried chicken (John Decker). It’s so hot, I didn’t just fry an egg on

the sidewalk, I cooked the bacon and hash browns too.

But is it really hot? And what about the other lament I’m hearing

these days: “It’s so humid!”

To that, I reply a simple, “Ha!”

You see, I have just flown in from Washington, D.C., (and boy, are

my arms tired) where they were suffering from the effects of the

earliest hurricane season anyone could remember.

In D.C., people were trying to beat the heat by following one

simple rule: stay indoors. The fascinating thing was the D.C. folks

are not the indoors type, at least they did not seem to me to be that

way for, sure enough, as soon as it got bearable, they were out

shopping and visiting restaurants and bars. Even at 11 p.m. on

“school nights.”

The heat here is nothing compared to some other parts of the

country. Try 118 degrees in Phoenix or even the 92 degrees I suffered

through in D.C.

In D.C., it really was humid. How humid was it? Sorry, not going

there this time.

D.C. is a very good walking city, and even though it was a sauna,

I found myself drawn to walking the two miles each way to my

conference on the first day. But one day was all I could handle. For

the following trips, I discovered Metro, a very cool (pun intended)

subway that took me within 100 yards of my destination.

The humidity was stifling.

My business concluded at 5 p.m. each day I was there, which left a

little more than three hours of good daylight to take in some

monuments. Unfortunately, the museums closed too early, but I had

more than enough to do and see without them.

On day two, I got smart, and instead of walking and suffering, I

rented a bike for an hour. I would have taken it out longer but that

was the last hour before the shop closed.

I made a quick trip down Constitution Avenue toward the Washington

Monument, which is still closed; that is, visitors are still not

allowed to go to the top. From there I rode along the reflecting pool

to the Korean War Memorial, the Lincoln Memorial and the Vietnam War

Memorial.

The Vietnam War Memorial is as moving a place as I’ve ever been.

Simple, exquisite, clear and direct. And it’s hard to leave without

shaking your head and thinking, “What a shame.”

On my ride out, I thought of the daily protesters at Bristol and

Anton in Costa Mesa who are urging drivers to support their anti-war

efforts and want everyone to know just what a bad guy President Bush

is.

And as much or as little as anyone may have doubts about our

presence in Iraq, it is hard to escape the juxtaposition of the

protesters existing in a regime ruled by Saddam Hussein. The truth

is, they would not exist in the old Iraq.

But here in America, here in little ol’ Costa Mesa, they can hang

out on the sidewalk, hold up their signs and make any claim they wish

against the president. Part of the reason we’re in Iraq is to help

the Iraqis understand the freedom to speak as you please is something

worth fighting for.

Even in the heat, it’s worth fighting for, for it’s about 30

degrees hotter in Iraq than it is here. Over the next 10 days, it

will average 115 degrees. Now imagine living in that without air

conditioning, while you wear full fatigues, large, heavy combat boots

and a flak vest.

Every one of the men and women doing that volunteered to join

their branch of the armed forces.

At 8:15 on my last night, I found myself again with a rented bike,

but this time at the Jefferson Memorial, which is on a pedestal over

looking a tidal basin (a lake, to you and me).

Suddenly, there was lightning everywhere and my fellow visitors

and I stood speechless at the top of the steps of the memorial while

we watched lightning flashing every other second above the roofline

of the city.

It was an incredible show. After ten minutes, I noticed some

ripples in the tidal basin and, knowing what was in store, ran down

to ride back to the rental shop.

Too late. The rain came down in buckets and I got completely

soaked inside of a minute. Now, that’s humidity.

So, with all of the so-called heat and all of the so-called

humidity in Newport-Mesa, life goes on.

Consider yourself fortunate. You could be living somewhere else.

* STEVE SMITH is a Costa Mesa resident and a freelance writer.

Readers may leave a message for him on the Daily Pilot hotline at

(714) 966-4664 or send story ideas to [email protected].