It was night. I had travelled what felt like all day, and when I stepped onto the platform the air was a cold blast against my face. The narrow space was crowded with people, everyone dressed in dark colours, shouting above the noise of the trains. Though I stood out in my cream and yellow ensemble, I still felt the relief of being among a crowd again, the invisibility. I found a porter to help me with my trunk and asked him to take it to the Travelers’ Aid counter. Wheeling my trunk on a small dolly, the porter led me into a huge hall with polished marble floors, white granite walls and ceilings inlaid with gold leaf. He helped me secure storage for my trunk and waited to make sure that I found a place in a hotel, then showed me the cab rank at the entrance to the station. I thanked him and gave him a five-dollar bill, which he seemed reluctant to accept. ‘It’s too much, ma’am.’

‘Take it,’ I said. ‘Please.’

He tucked it in the breast pocket of his jacket, tipped his hat and gave a little bow. ‘Enjoy your stay in the nation’s capital.’

The way he said it made me feel like a tourist. It was a sham, but one I decided to play along with. I had procured a room in a small, slightly shabby hotel several blocks from the White House, in what the lady behind the desk at Traveler’s Aid had assured me was a safe area for ‘ladies travelling on their own’. At the front desk they asked for my passport and my reason for visiting.

‘I’m seeing the sights,’ I said. ‘I would love some advice on what museums and monuments I should visit.’

The woman behind the desk nodded, droopy-eyed. She slid a map across the desk with my key. ‘Breakfast is served in the dining room from seven to nine.’

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