I'm currently enjoying the cushy air-conditioned splendor of the Greenpeace USA office in Washinton, D.C. After a few days in direct contact with "real weather", I'm glad to be back in an artificial climate.

I spent yesterday walking around with the indomitable Fred X and a friend from the hostel, Frank. We took the DC Metro to Union Station, feasted on the multi-cultural fast food offerings, then spent the afternoon seeing the sights. We walked around the Capitol building, the National Gallery of Art, down the Mall to the Washington Monument, and finally hooked right to the White House.

This is a strange town. It has a neo-Roman feel, with the columns and statues and grandeur of any shrine to self-importance. I'm no patriot these days; in fact I'm starting to feel like an expatriate waiting to happen. I don't know quite how to feel here. Should I be in awe? Disgusted by the flag-and-dick-waving? Complacent? Activist?

I settled for enjoying the architecture and ignoring the politics.

We settled in at the Washington Phallic Symbol, our backs on the ground and our feet on the side of the obelisk itself. I sat there, staring up into the sky, letting my sense of gravity lose touch until I felt I was ready to walk right across this bridge into the sky. It's quite a feeling. I swear I was sober. Really!

Other tourists walked by, asking what we were doing, lying down with us, taking pictures, and so on. A photographer from the Washingtonian took our picture and talked to us about patriotism during the War on Terrorism. Fascinating fellow by the name of Jeff Jacobson. He said the most encouraging thing I've heard since I got here: In two days of interviewing people at the Monument, he didn't meet a single flag-waving patriot, and damn few supporters of the war. Perhaps the leaders will notice, but I'm not holding my breath. Look in the July 2002 issue for his story, available online at www.washingtonian.com.

They say that no building in D.C. is allowed to be taller than the Washington Monument. That's too Freudian for me to miss: not only is it a giant erection on the landscape, it's guaranteed to be the biggest one around.

It occurs to us that the South Lawn of the White House really needs a few pink flamingoes. Obviously any attempt to do such a thing would be brutally suppressed. So I'm thinking Ballistic Flamingo Deployment. The BFD system would be some sort of projectile launched from over the fence, use an airbag cushion system for landing, and automatically plant the flamingo in the lawn before disintegrating.

Or maybe robotic gophers. That would be cool.

Sweet Jesus, I love the food here! Carribean jerk chicken, Ethiopian vegan platters, locally-brewed root beer - I'm in heaven. Mongolian barbecue is my new personal favorite Asian food. I'm not going to able to settle for pasta and hamburgers anymore.

Staying at a hostel is a far better way to travel than renting a hotel room. Every night, I come home to a raucous house full of international travellers swapping stories, drinking, playing games, and generally giving me good reasons not to sleep. I love hearing all these accents and languages, smelling the strange smells of foreign foods, and seeing little bits of cultures that I just don't see in my comfortable little home.

One of our roommates is a former Navy SEAL. He's been out two months, seeking a peaceful civilian life. Whatever illusions I had left of the romance and honor of the US military have been firmly shattered. My friend has a good sense of humor and great story-telling style. Last night's game of cards turned into a soberingly frank discussion of the things he's been trained to do and the brutal truth of warfare. This man is the most in-control and self-aware person I've ever met; he knows exactly what he's capable of in a way the rest of us never will.

We share a strange anthropologist's instinct to observe others and learn. In my case, it's simple curiosity of other people, their thoughts and ways of doing things. In his case, it's trained survival. He's learning how to live in this environment, less comfortable for him than uninhabited jungle, watching others to know when he should eat and when he should sleep and how he should interact with civilians.

I often talk of the "lizard brain" and the conscious brain, the id and the ego, the animal part of us and the human part. My friend knows exactly what I mean. He talks about life on a mission: drinking a few tablespoons of water every 4 hours, lying completely motionless, not eating, sleeping, urinating, defecating, for 49 hours on end, conserving every ounce of energy for the moment that the target wanders by. As he talks, he sits without moving anything he doesn't need to, eyes quickly assessing every movement and sound instantly, appearing totally casual to most of us. The ones that don't realize they're prey.

This was a shocking realization for me. I always understood that we have this lizard brain part of us, and that it played a major role in non-verbal communication and behavior. But this man puts it all in perspective. I finally understand what it's like to be calmly regarded by a predator, and I truly know that I am prey. Underneath the clothes and the concrete and the governments, we're still pheremones and alpha males and soft fleshy meat sacks.

I wonder if the others in the room know this, or if they're just listening to the stories.