We were lost. Dad knew it because I was driving aimlessly. I knew it because dad would hesitate too long before answering my favorite question of the moment, "Hey, do you think I should turn here?"

If you've ever been lost, you know the median is an effective opponent. It defends the middle of the road like a window in front of a candy shop. You know what you want (to go the other way), but you just can't get to it.

We were trying to go the Holocaust Memorial Museum in downtown Washington DC. In fact, about 15 minutes earlier, we had driven right in front of it. But, by then, it was too late. Soon we were unwilling guests of 395 towards McLean. Our one hope of redemption, the Washington Memorial Bridge, was a one-sign turn which came too fast and left too quickly. With no choice, down we sped through the trees looking for an exit. Scenic overlooks... a cemetary... but no way to get back from where we came. Fifteen minutes, twenty minutes, thirty minutes. Apparently, Congress oversees road construction too. Finally, we happened upon an overpass; it was a way back. I jabbed the car around and accelerated back towards our intended destination. Fifteen minutes, twenty minutes, thirty minutes, forty minutes. Hold on. Where were we? The very street we had come down betrayed us again.

The kind Arab at the corner Exxon station chuckled at our mistake and sent Dad and I back to DC. Down that road again.

By far the highlight of the day was the National Art Gallery. After a nursery care security check by a crack squad of motivated museum employees, we were released into the gallery. I'm glad my dad and I share the same tastes in art -- French and Dutch masters. We reveled in the delight of Cezanne, Degas, Rembrandt, Vermeer. All for free! At each painting Dad pointed out nuances in shading, the visual balance, the story behind the colors that came together so perfectly to form a Masterpiece. Besides the paintings, I enjoyed the people as well. Every museum in the world has restless children, deadly bored security guards, tour guides who have talked about that "Say-zawn" far too many times to care, and the art appreciators, both real and feigned, who sit on the chairs in the middle of the room and visually grope the paintings. When I was growing up in Paris, my friends and I would spend the afternoon walking through de Louvre -- not so much to admire the art as to giggle at the tourists (especially the ones around the Mona Lisa). I just can't help it.