I am sitting on the lawn outside the Capitol building in the shade beneath an ancient tree, listening to a few hundred Chinese people protesting the treatment of the Falun gong, and sirens. Somewhere in the trees above me is a hawk, just back from an unsuccessful pigeon pursuit. The wind smells like it might rain.

I made it through the conference, a strange conflation of complaints, sales pitches, commiseration and actual contributions. It was less dire than last year, less pervaded with the awful stench of Vegas desperation, and I found myself behaving somewhat socially.

I left all that behind in National Harbor on Chesapeake Bay this morning, though, and got into my hotel in Arlington without event. The old hotel room was spacious and elegant and posh; the new one is compact and modern and posh. I have a seldom-indulged love for hotel rooms; the  feeling of luxurious transition, the sumptuous and solicitous sensation of limbo is addictive. Given the option, I’d live in hotel rooms, and move around every few weeks.

The National Mall is before me, museums arrayed around it, and I have a week in which to take all of this in. I’ve found out how to use the metro, I’ve stocked up my hotel room with the necessary munchies, I even did my laundry before leaving the old hotel. So the preparations are in place.

This is a good way to begin, though. Sitting under trees, on the grass, near the Capitol, watching all the other tourists go by to the sound of church bells and traffic.

The Capitol dome, this afternoon