Hubby and I were rounding Dupont Circle last night, off to get dinner and run some errands. (“Were are the uniformed Secret Service?” I asked, as we passed the Iraqi embassy. “There were three cruisers here on New Year’s Day.”) Like much of the US, the weather was freakishly warm; some revelers were in t-shirts.
We could hear music. At the north outer edge of the circle is a terrace, covering the auto underpass, making a convenient staging area for small activities. There was a live band, either from New Orleans or playing in the style, and all of a sudden I was taken back to my childhood in Jefferson Parish. I wanted king cake, but considered the three pounds not-dissimilar stollen I had eaten in December a luxury enough. The musicians attracted a crowd, people otherwise confined to the adjacent Starbucks, on that balmy Epiphany night.
