On the taxi ride from the 'Ronald Reagan' National Airport, the majestic trees lining the Potomac cannot completely overcome a manicured sterility of the landscape that seems appropriately Orwellian, given the proximity of the Pentagon. Unlike so many great urban parks-e.g., Rock Creek Park, just a few miles away-which beckon with the allure of brief, anonymous sexual encounters, the most prominent 'cruising' in this stretch of Virginia seemed to be that of a police vehicle intruding in the shot, as if to warn against even imagining what might be going on in the back seats of those parked cars in the distance.

I was in Washington not to consider the plight of hot gay sex, however, but to attend a conference of intellectual-property attorneys held annually at the ___, a hotel known for its lush gardens and lavish interiors.

I spent a few seconds admiring the grounds, which thanks to the swaths of salvia, begonia and marigold had a parade-float quality that (at least for a moment) seemed to hold the promise of grand entrances made by ladies (of either gender) with immense hair and taffeta gowns.

Sadly, the atmosphere inside was decidedly restrained; all present seemed to agree that attendance was 'off.' Even as the Dow crossed 10,000 on Wednesday, lawyers remained skittish; layoffs were announced at several of the biggest, most prestigious IP law firms. The exhibit hall where I was stationed-in my capacity as a supplier of analytical content to the 'IP legal market'-was empty and sullen, except for those few hours on Thursday afternoon when everyone was horrified/entranced by the fate of #balloonboy.

During my breaks, I wandered through the old parts of the hotel, where the potted palms and empty armchairs added to the aura, which was deserted, beautiful and soulless.

Braving the unrelenting drizzle, I went outside to examine a blue atlas cedar.

Standing in the rain, I was hypnotized by the vibrant, glistening colors of the surrounding plants and remembered 'tripping my ass off' on magic mushrooms a few thousand years ago in England. For a moment it seemed inconceivable that I had traveled from there to here, and I felt at a loss to describe exactly how it had happened.

As I walked back through the hotel, I hated the manufactured cheeriness of the vaguely art-nouveau floral motif on the carpet.

When the conference ended, I returned to the airport, where I watched the arrival of a group of WWII veterans from Asheville, North Carolina. A brass band played 'It's a Grand Ole Flag' and 'The Boogie-Woogie Bugle Boy from Company B.' There were no plants to be seen anywhere, although-as if to make up for it, by offering something else I had never seen-a sprightly woman jitterbugged with those men who were capable.

I thought about 'Victory Gardens,' and what would happen now if the government encouraged citizens to grow their own food, and whether Fox News (via the Drudge Report) would declare this a 'socialist outrage.'

As I flew home, I thought about the fate of the garden in the modern world, its shift from 'necessity' to 'accessory,' at least for most of us. What exactly is the point? The skyline of New York seemed ambivalent to the question.

Back in the hallways of La Guardia Airport, Mike Bloomberg-who has all the answers-gave me what I was looking for.

Gardening is my _____. (Everybody's got something to offer.)

Previously: Gay Gardens

Matthew Gallaway is a writer who lives in Washington Heights. His first novel, 'The Metropolis Case,' will be published in 2010 by Crown.