Waiting just inside was Anand — school friend, longtime buddy, and now Washington DC local. With his typical American accented Hindi he greeted me with a warm welcome and a bear hug. Outside, double-parked like a true local rebel, his sleek black Mercedes Benz gleamed in the middle of the rush of cars and cabs. With the trunk open was Usha, Anand’s ever-gracious wife, busily reshuffling the boot full of bags to make space for mine. I wondered what it was about with a raised eyebrow and Anand chuckled, “We’re heading straight to the bay house in Maryland. The Virginia place is under repairs.”
We passed the local landmarks — a large shopping centre, the village church, the Brick House Grill and Restaurant (the only one in town), a quaint ice cream parlour, a fire station, a car wash, and a few homes that looked straight out of a dream. Then, a gentle curve, a cul-de-sac — and we were home. The second-last house on the street. As we turned in, my jaw slackened. A charming outhouse stood at the entrance, but just beyond, the real showstopper revealed itself: a beautiful medium-sized bungalow (which by Indian standards was
palatial) built on a large undulating plot spread across nearly two acres. The green lawn rolled out around it like a welcome carpet, and a blue-tiled swimming pool shimmered gently in the bay wind. We parked. Lugged the bags. Walked past the outhouse. And then, my mouth opened wider.
There it was — West River, part of the Chesapeake Bay. Calm, vast, and gently rippling as boats of various sizes glided by, leaving trailing V-shaped wake on the water. The house faced it directly, like a grand spectator stand in a cricket stadium but for a view to a never-ending show. Ceiling-high French windows framed the view like giant living TV screens tuned permanently to
Channel: Nature.
Inside, the living room was inviting — tastefully done with plush sofas, polished wood floors, a soft throw here, a bay-view there. A staircase climbed gracefully up to the bedroom on the first floor, where I finally dropped my bags. I sat down, gazed out the window into the blue sky where tufts of clouds drifted like slow-moving dreams.
Chesapeake Calm — A Different Kind of High
Outside, a sit-out area with easy chairs faced the water. Everything felt hushed. Just sound of water slapping the dock. This was that kind of peace that New York with all its magic, could not have offered. Anchored at the private pier were two modest boats that looked more than seaworthy for me. Anand didn’t wait. Before I could even catch my breath, he popped open a chilled American IPA and handed it to me with a wide grin.
“Welcome to Chesapeake” he said, as the fizz settled and we clinked the cans on the wooden deck. The Two Hearted Ale from Bell’s Brewery, Michigan was supposedly the top American IPA and the citrusy aroma hit the palate as I took a big gulp. It was different.
Clouds gathered briefly above us, but very soon like uninvited guests, they drifted off silently. The air was heavy with the scent of salt and damp earth. I strolled down the narrow wooden pier that jutted into the water like a probing finger. I realised again, that I was in a place which many just dream to visit. Meanwhile, Anand and Usha were in the kitchen, whipping up a vegetarian lunch for me — a beautiful spread of salads, roasted vegetables, and so much more. It felt intimate and generous, like a meal made by friends who already knew what you needed even before you said a word. I just gobbled up everything there was.
After lunch, we drove to the Chesapeake Bay Yacht Club, where Anand was a member. We wandered along the pier, surrounded by yachts lined up in impeccable order. From sleek 8-footers to 60-foot floating mansions, each one bobbed gently, waiting for the mooring ropes to be removed. A few locals waved, called out to Anand, and came over to chat. This was another difference I noticed. There was a quiet intimacy in small-town circles — everyone knows everyone, and a new face is welcomed with warm curiosity., which I had not seen in the cities that I had visited.
We headed back after another round of beer, with some clouds trying to gather and a noticeable stillness in the air. After a quick change, Anand took me to meet some friends of his Bobby and Linda. And if Anand’s house had wowed me, this one left me slack-jawed. It was the kind of property that made you instinctively walk slower, just to take in the sheer scale of it. The outhouse was bigger than most houses, a gigantic garage and of course the main house spread out on lush green lawns with a single giant tree under which there were wooden benches and a large wooden table around which sat 4–5 couples, hammers in hand. It was crab eating time, and the evening was in full swing. With satisfying thwacks they were cracking open bright-red crabs. A basket full of freshly caught crabs stood nearby like an overflowing treasure chest caught by the crabber who was a “local legend”. I could only smile politely and soak in the enthusiasm. As a vegetarian, my eyes looked elsewhere, my stomach gurgled a plaintive no and my feet were attempting to drag me somewhere else.
We walked around the sprawling backyard, flanked by a pair of elegant Doberman Pinschers who eyed me with calm suspicion. A gleaming garage housed a massive monster truck that looked like it hadn’t seen a speck of dust in years. It was a scene straight out of a glossy travel magazine — but one with real people, real lives.
And then came the moment of the evening — the sunset over the Chesapeake Bay. I stood still, watching nature dip its brush into a palette of molten lava, burnished gold, fiery crimson, dusky orange and steel grey and many other colours in between. The bay reflected every stroke with grace, its surface so still that one could not decide where the sky ended and the water began. I took out my phone and started clicking away. The locals, of course, were unfazed. “Top five sunset or just so-so?” one of them joked. For them, it was a casual weather chat. For me, it was beyond rankings. It was like a real life super large sized painting. Soon the pool lights flickered on, casting soft ripples of light that danced across the garden and on the walls of the house. The air turned cooler, the sky kept deepening, and every house along the channel lit up like fireflies in a darkening backdrop.
At around 8:50 pm, it still wasn’t fully dark — the kind of long twilight that invites us into more conversations and another round of beer. And so we went, to The Brick House Grill — the only place in town with a reputation for rowdiness. Anand insisted I experience it. Inside, the vibe was local and loud — pool tables, raucous laughter, and people who probably had their “usuals” poured before even asking. I enjoyed another beer with Ted, another friend of Anand's and played a couple of rounds of pool with the regulars. I lost gloriously, but the applause was generous. I just remember a guy with a beard like Santa who would say ‘Damn’ every time he missed a shot.
By the time we got back — the beer, the breeze, and the banter had worked their magic.The house was quiet, the bay quieter still. I slipped into bed, the gentle hush of the bay outside and my slow heartbeat lulling me into a deep, dreamless sleep.
Sailing Into the Unexpected
I woke up lazily, the kind of slow-motion morning that only solo travel, wide bay windows and still waters can afford. The view of the Chesapeake Bay from my bed was so serene, it felt like I was still dreaming. I crept down slowly only to see Anand and Usha busy like ants. They handed me a cup of hot coffee and I sat on a high legged stool watching the bay where early morning sailors had already started their day. We soon drove down to Churchton, to a large food store we’d spotted the day before and picked up a few things for breakfast — fresh bread, eggs, juice, the usual — and were back home for a quick brunch before heading out. The plan was to visit the Yacht Club again. What I didn’t know was that this would turn into one of the most surreal and exhilarating experiences of the entire trip.
Anand’s friend, Jon and Terese, own a large yacht. Along with a few other couples, we were being hosted for an afternoon sail across the bay. I use the word “sail” with caution — Eleanor wasn’t one of those quaint little sailboats. This was a full-blown, polished luxury yacht with decks, newly upholstered cushions and lounges and chrome fixtures that gleamed in the sunlight. Preparations began with practiced ease — ropes untied, fenders pulled in, engines humming. I climbed up to sit beside Dan, who was both Captain and storyteller. He began coasting us out of the crowded pier into the open bay, pointing out landmarks, explaining nuances of navigation, and occasionally throwing in boat jargon I nodded at with polite confusion. As we eased out of the creek, I turned to look back — and there it was: Anand’s house, perched gracefully by the water’s edge. A different kind of postcard now, one I had briefly lived in. We picked up pace, cruising smoothly past other boats — most smaller, some zipping past us with casual arrogance. In the distance, the outline of the Annapolis Bay Bridge started to rise like a horizontal steel spine against the horizon.
And then came the shocker. Dan turned to me, smiled, and asked: “Would you like to take the wheel? For a moment, my mind froze. My head didn’t. Like a Tanjavur doll - a traditional Indian figurine with a wobbling head that bobs gently at the slightest touch, it agreed before my brain could. And just like that, I was steering Eleanor. A 62-foot yacht. On the Chesapeake Bay. While trying to look confident, I was constantly being guided by Dan: “Head toward that lighthouse,” “Keep her steady,” “Mind the wake.” “Slightly to starboard. The yacht bounced ever so slightly over waves left by passing boats, and I gripped the wheel like a first time go-cart driver. For nearly 50 minutes, I was at the helm. Long enough to forget I was a visitor. Long enough to remember the experience for the rest of my life. As we approached Annapolis, Dan politely reclaimed the wheel. The U.S. Naval Academy lay ahead, all domes and columns and ceremonial presence. The boat traffic thickened, and our grand entry was about to hit a tight spot — quite literally.
We were entering Ego Alley — a narrow, dead-end pier with just enough space for boats to parade in, show off, and then, if they had the skill (or ego), perform a tight U-turn to exit. The name made perfect sense. I watched in suspense as Dan manoeuvred Eleanor with a mix of grace and authority. The pier was barely 70–75 feet across — Eleanor was 62. That left less than six feet on either side. The crowd along the dock watched like spectators at a high-stakes card game. A pause, a pivot, an engine growl. A nudge of the throttle here, a tweak of the wheel there. And then — we turned. Literally on a dime. It was a masterclass of boatmanship.
Applause!!! From total strangers, all along the pier. The biggest from the guy whose boat was parked wrongly and would have suffered a huge dent but for Dan’s superlative skills. We cruised past the Annapolis Yacht Basin, flanked by some of the most stunning yachts I’ve ever seen. I was told casually that some were priced between 1 and 3 million dollars. And here I was, clutching a beer and trying not to look like a kid in a candy store. The group was now stretched out across the yacht — some sunbathing, one napping, others deep in conversation.
As we moved toward the Severn River, I spotted a row of exquisite Edwardian-style mansions, perched on large tracts of land, all facing the water with a permanent view to rippling beauty. Time, on water, I realised, slows down. I had promised to reach my cousin Raju’s place in Virginia early afternoon. But it was already 3 PM. I didn’t care. I didn’t want this to end. But good things, as the philosophers say (and hosts agree), do end. At around 5:30 PM, Eleanor eased back into the Shady Side Yacht Club, slipping into her berth like she belonged — which she did. After many thank-yous and handshakes, Dan handed me a parting gift — a cap with Eleanor embroidered on the peak. It wasn’t just a memento. It felt like a certificate. Proof that for one glorious hour, I had captained a yacht. And that it wasn’t a dream. We reached home quickly, packed up our bags, wrapped all the remaining food — Anand and Usha would take it back to their Virginia house and loaded the car. After a short, quiet one-hour drive, I was dropped at my cousin Raju’s place in Virginia.
The sea was behind me now. But in my head I was still swaying in its rhythm.
Suburban Glory and a Spy Story
My cousin Raju’s home in suburban Virginia was no less grand — a large townhouse with a large green lawn all around and inside a broad staircase, polished floors, and rooms that echoed with quiet comfort. After the sun-soaked adventures of Chesapeake Bay, this seemed a gentle landing thanks to an overcast sky. This part of my stay was meant to be relaxing after a hectic fortnight and it was so. We sat around in the kitchen, caught up on family gossip over a hearty dinner cooked by Ramya, Raju's wife, and turned in early. A new day awaited, and so did another cousin.
Late that night, Meera arrived — our third musketeer. The last time we’d met, was just a week back but it seemed so long. So much had happened in my life since then. San Francisco had sparked something joyful in her, and she wasn’t about to miss Washington DC. The next morning, armed with sneakers and a half-baked plan, we set off. We parked near Arlington National Cemetery, with its long rows of white headstones etched in silence, and hopped onto the maroon Hop On, Hop Off tour bus — that quintessential tourist ritual which we could not avoid this time around.
DC rolled past us like a slideshow of history books and movie scenes — the Washington Monument rising like a needle in the sky, the classical columns of the White House, the stately dome of the Capitol Building. We clicked photos with gusto, waved at strangers, and occasionally tried to guess which scenes from Hollywood films were shot where. The bus took us past the Smithsonian Museums, the colourful Chinatown Friendship Archway, the grand Union Station, the old Post Office Tower, the imposing FBI building, and even a classic Old Town Trolley clattering down the road, looking like it had time-travelled from 1930. At one point, we almost forgot we were in the present. The tickets for the Air and Space Museum was sold out so we did not even try to get down there.
But one stop made us leap off the bus with the enthusiasm of 10-year-olds: The International Spy Museum. Now this — this wasn’t just a museum. It was a fully immersive, undercover experience. From the moment we entered, we were thrust into a secret mission. Our names were replaced with aliases. Digital kiosks handed us code names and secret objectives.
Each gallery presented a new challenge — decipher clues, intercept messages, and solve puzzles that would have made Ethan Hunt look like a rookie spy. We crouched through exhibits, peeked through spy cameras, tried voice distorters, and watched surveillance footage from Cold War ops. There were displays of real-life gadgets used by spies — lipsticks that doubled as pistols, umbrellas with poisoned darts, coin-sized cameras, and shoe soles that could hide microfilm.
Then came the cinematic wing — the James Bond room, a playground of fantasy and fiction. Here were the actual cars, motorbikes, jetpacks, and boats used in Bond movies — each accompanied by trivia and iconic film clips. There was the Aston Martin, yes, but also lesser-known submarines and weaponized speedboats from Thunderball, Moonraker, and Skyfall. The room throbbed with the Bond theme playing softly in the background. At one end was a giant screen titled “Bond in Motion” where stunt scenes played on loop. 
We had a photo-op moment when we got to pose sitting on a jet-ski. For a moment, we weren’t just visitors. We were in MI6, training for a field mission in Montenegro. Time which had slowed down in Chesapeake, speeded up here. Three hours felt like 30 minutes.
Eventually, hunger struck harder than a punch from James Bond. We stumbled into a nearby food court, shared a quick pizza and some pasta, and rushed back to catch the last tour bus of the day, just as the Potomac River began to shimmer under the late evening sun. Twenty four hours had flown in a jiffy as we sat again quietly for a South Indian dinner somewhere in the eastern coast of USA.
The next morning was quiet. A different kind of goodbye morning. My nephew Srutha, perhaps sensing the end of this glorious run, made me a delicious avocado sandwich for breakfast — simple, soft, and surprisingly satisfying. By 1 PM, I was at Dulles International Airport, my clothes in my suitcase checked in, my memories distributed between my heart and head. On my way back to Los Angeles, to the city where this whole journey had first begun. My journey was nearing its end… or was it? I did not realise that the last three days in US were also going to packed with fun.
The City of Angels was calling with my band of cousins ready to show me their LA.
Coming up shortly
Anand’s friend, Jon and Terese, own a large yacht. Along with a few other couples, we were being hosted for an afternoon sail across the bay. I use the word “sail” with caution — Eleanor wasn’t one of those quaint little sailboats. This was a full-blown, polished luxury yacht with decks, newly upholstered cushions and lounges and chrome fixtures that gleamed in the sunlight. Preparations began with practiced ease — ropes untied, fenders pulled in, engines humming. I climbed up to sit beside Dan, who was both Captain and storyteller. He began coasting us out of the crowded pier into the open bay, pointing out landmarks, explaining nuances of navigation, and occasionally throwing in boat jargon I nodded at with polite confusion. As we eased out of the creek, I turned to look back — and there it was: Anand’s house, perched gracefully by the water’s edge. A different kind of postcard now, one I had briefly lived in. We picked up pace, cruising smoothly past other boats — most smaller, some zipping past us with casual arrogance. In the distance, the outline of the Annapolis Bay Bridge started to rise like a horizontal steel spine against the horizon. 
But one stop made us leap off the bus with the enthusiasm of 10-year-olds: The International Spy Museum. Now this — this wasn’t just a museum. It was a fully immersive, undercover experience. From the moment we entered, we were thrust into a secret mission. Our names were replaced with aliases. Digital kiosks handed us code names and secret objectives. 
Each gallery presented a new challenge — decipher clues, intercept messages, and solve puzzles that would have made Ethan Hunt look like a rookie spy. We crouched through exhibits, peeked through spy cameras, tried voice distorters, and watched surveillance footage from Cold War ops. There were displays of real-life gadgets used by spies — lipsticks that doubled as pistols, umbrellas with poisoned darts, coin-sized cameras, and shoe soles that could hide microfilm.
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