Part of the experience–part of my experience–at Dumbarton Oaks was romanticizing the old estate and grounds.
Each garden, courtyard, and path unfolded into the perfect scene. A lonely table and a few chairs sat together in complete silence. A slow-dripping, moss-covered fountain murmured just around the corner.
The lingering smell of humidity, baked into garden herbs and flowers, hung suspended in the late-summer’s evening air.
Garden paths reminded us of Labyrinth (1986), as we listened to the bees and butterflies work.
A dreamlike atmosphere–reminiscent of Richard Linklater’s Before Sunrise–slowly took hold, sheltering us and Dumbarton from the melancholy of our week ahead.
We would have been lost for a short eternity if it weren’t for the fading light and the promise of lobster rolls down by the water.
