Socrates looked ridiculously appropriate, sitting on the bottom step of the Doric temple in Washington, D.C., known as the Lincoln Memorial. Surrounded by other examples of neoclassical architecture, his flowing robes practically blended in. At any rate, he didnt get more than a passing glance from the pedestrians and tourists hurrying past him. One or two tossed him a quarter, which he received with a mixture of wry amusement and confusion. As my buddies, Gabe and Quaid, and I approached and saw his robed figure framed by the marble pillars behind him, I briefly wondered if we had been transported back to his capital city, insteadof the other way around. A screaming police siren quickly dispelled that illusion.