The Capital Connection
Or
The Beltway Beckons
So, I had originally planned to write individual entries for each of my days here in the nation’s capital. I did not, obviously, so this is what you get. I’ll ramble on as I go, but if you don’t want to read the epic ramblings, just look at the sections under the bold titles. Let’s begin.
Perhaps most 21 year olds wouldn’t want to be trapped in a car with their parents for 12 hours, walk across miles of scorching hot city streets, and then travel back 12 hours again...but I’m not most 21 year olds. I have always had a desire to see Washington, D.C. again, since the last time I was there I was about 5 and have no recollection. If my parents hadn’t offered to go, I would have gone myself.
I think there are a few things you discover through 24 hours of road trip and hours and miles of walking and seeing. History comes alive, but it’s also very dead. I kept imagining that I’d have visions of 18th century clad revolutionaries walking the streets, but I was in the wrong city for that--Philadelphia would have been a better choice--, but even then, I didn’t happen upon Henry Clay in the Capitol building or Franklin Roosevelt peering from behind the curtains of the White House. The most important thing I learned about our country while in its capital was not that it had a living and splendid past, but that it all formed perfect compost for a future that is ever changing and evolving. Washington is a city of history, but it’s the foundation of America’s future. I think this is the first city in the world where I’ve felt that kind of promise. In New York, everything was about the moment. RIGHT NOW. New Orleans has rhythm, a life and beat of its own, but you don’t really think about the past or the future, even standing in the old French Quarter or peering along Canal Street. London feels bedecked in the past, striving for the present, but dragged down by centuries of historic baggage. And countless other American cities have their own feel, but none quite match the majesty of promise of Washington.
Another thing I learned is that tourists are stupid. I know, I know, I was a tourist this weekend. But I believe that I’ve pretty much come to the point in my life where, even when being a tourist I am not conspicuous. Perhaps I lack the audacity it takes to be true to the tourism creed, the feeling that I am NOT trespassing on someone’s day-to-day, and surely I lack the selfishness to imagine that every inch of everything I see is there for me, and by god I’m gonna’ see it or else. Most tourists seem to think this way. Walking up the street, cops tell you to turn around because there is a possible bomb at the Botanic Garden, and, intelligently, you turn around. However, that one tourist walks by, yelling, “But I’ve got a tour at the Capital!” and of course, this is the only way to the Capital. We also had a tour at the Capital, but we walked down the street, around the block, and got to where we needed to be while also avoiding possible explosions. Tourists will also always ask the most inane, yet inevitable questions. The tour guide informs us that we cannot take drinks or water bottles on the tour. Inevitably, the woman, probably from Texas, behind us questions, “Do we have to throw away our water?” Or, coming up to the security outpost you’re informed to remove your cameras, your cell phones, iPods, etc. From your pockets and send them through the scanner. Someone, inevitably, will not. I think this is all part of that selfish aspect of the tourista. They can’t take the time to listen or do as they’re told, and surely none of the “local” rules apply to them.
I also, somewhat ironically, discovered that I love and care more about this country and the experiment of Democracy than my parents. I found myself growing more patriotic and more thankful with each passing day, every falling step, but all the buildings seemed to anger my parents more. Perhaps I’m too young, and therefore not as cynical, but I also feel that our country is still as strong as it ever was. Sure, we have no great challenge to rise up against--ambiguous wars on terror aside--and show our strength, but I believe we still are there. I think the men and women of the government today, while some perhaps corrupt, are still there because they believe in what America is, what it stands for, and what it can be. My parents do not believe this, they are disillusioned, and for me, a moderate who has trouble with much of government action to believe in something that two highly conservative people cannot was a great surprise.
And that is all prologue to the actual journey itself. That is what I learned, this is what I did.
Returning to the Underground
Every city is alike. Or at least big cities. Even as varied and different the species grow, they are still part of the same family. I discovered this standing and waiting for the Metro the first day. Underground I had flashbacks to New York and especially to my most recent travels in London. No matter how many miles or acres of ocean that separate these places, the trains still announce their arrival with a wind, pushing the air before them. Passing underwater still brings the pressure in the air, and coming, finally, up out of the tunnels, crossing over rivers, stopping at distant stops, amazes me no matter the locale. Every city with an underground system manages to amaze, simply at the engineering marvel that they are. Massive tunnels, city like complexes, the movement of millions of people daily...I hope that if I ever live in a city where I travel the underground on a regular basis, I never cease to marvel at it. It’s a symbol of mankind’s ability to do pretty much whatever the hell it wants. So I disappear into a train that disappears into a tunnel, and when I get off I’m in another world. It’s like the Rabbit Hole. Perhaps this is my naiveté speaking, but it still amazes me.
Okay, so perhaps this entry won’t be as long as I imagined it being.
I’m not going to go through each and every site I visited and tell you what I saw. Get on a list of Washington’s top sites, and I probably saw them. I will mention the few that had a great effect on me, and the first of those was the World War II memorial.
Perhaps because I often find that I imagine I should have been born in the 20’s so that I would have been this age in the 40’s, I’ve always identified with the Greatest Generation. So, walking around the fountains, surrounded by columns bearing state and territory names, seeing that field of golden stars, imagining the dead that were being honored, I was touched. I looked out from that depression in the mall, the Washington Monument rising to my right, the reflecting pool and the Lincoln Memorial to my left and I felt at peace. Something was there, and it wasn’t the heat. I could have set there all day next to those jetting waters and I would have been at peace.
The Holocaust Memorial Museum was breathtaking. Walking through the exhibit there, I felt that I was wallowing somewhere down in the bottom of humanity, the horror there, and I couldn’t even fathom how it had to have felt living, or dying, in that horrendous experience. I will always remember what I saw.
Walking along the black wall, bearing the names of those who died in Vietnam, I felt tears welling in my eyes...
Peering at the waterfalls and statues of, perhaps the greatest Presidential memorial, dedicated to Franklin Delano Roosevelt, I felt American history pouring over me.
Go to this city, see these sites...they’ll touch you and they may change you.
The Quietest Place in America
The day before we left we toured the Capital building, the Supreme Court, and the Library of Congress. All were amazing, awe inspiring, and did not disappoint. However, that afternoon, on a quiet plot of ground in Virginia, I saw something more inspiring than those three towering, ornate structures could invoke.
Arlington National Cemetery is solemn. Even teeming as it was with tourists--and even being one of them, it still pained me to see so many with such irreverence--it swallowed sound. If there is a hallowed place in America, those acres of land, consecrated by the blood of American service men and women, is it. In every direction, unassuming white graves, lined perfectly as far as the eye can see, attest to an American hero or a member of his family. Under a canopy of trees, in rolling hillocks, next to the river, near to America’s heart but also apart from it, these quiet resting places tell the story of America better than any Library of Congress or National Archives can.
You could walk along its sun-dappled avenues for days and never see it all. It is a place where hundreds of thousands are buried, where even now 24 burials take place every day, and its magnitude is staggering. From the high hills surrounding Arlington house, where ornate crosses, obelisks, and fancy tombs mark the deaths of some of the services’ officers, to the ever-burning torch atop John F. Kennedy’s tomb, to the cemeteries’ northern border, just beyond it the towering reminder of the battle of Iwo Jima, the raising of the flag on Suribachi, to the auditorium and the ubiquitous Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, it stretches, the canopy swaying gently in the wind with whispers, and it is a place where even tourists know the meaning of silent respect.
In actuality, Arlington is nothing above a graveyard. If found in any other place in the world, its marvel would be confined to its sprawling size. From this perspective, it seems odd that so many Americans and foreigners, make the trek here every year to walk among our dead, but they do. For “just a graveyard” it is captivating, and it is majestic.
At it’s center, a silent vigil occurs all day, everyday at the aforementioned Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. Here, even in the 102 degree sweltering heat, a silent soldier walks in front of the tomb, guarding it, it seems, from the visitors to flock to see this spectacle, taking exactly 21 steps, pausing for 21 seconds, and turning to take 21 more the opposite direction. With robot like maneuvering, with discipline that most American’s would never be able to apply to their own life, this member of the Old Guard guards until he is relieved. In a ceremony of quiet strength, a sergeant emerges, informs the crowd of what they are to expect, asks that they stand in silence to honor its import, and then goes through the motions of commanding the exchange. One soldier comes, his rifle inspected in a flurry and dance of movement, and perfectly in synch, in step, with no commands needed, they change places, one continuing the vigil, the other disappearing, presumably to rest, to cool down, his body drenched in sweat, but his face bearing none of the pain he must feel. This is true power. This is true might. And it’s absolutely antithetical to current American ideology. These people must look upon the tourists as blights in their sacred temple, and it’s exactly what we were. I felt ashamed to be watching, but it was awe-inspiring none the less.
I imagine that these people are so disciplined that American’s could use their steps, their transfer of power, as a clock of the most dependable variety. I imagine that once all of this is gone, when humanity ceases to exist and nothing of our human race remains, that that soldier will still be marching there, counting out eternity 21 steps at a time.
And so I return home.
It is not rare for me to be philosophical about things. It’s simply what I do. And I feel the need to be philosophical about this trip. There are many things in our lives that can change the way we view the world. My journey to New Orleans was the first time I ever felt like I belonged somewhere that wasn’t home. I stepped off a bus in the French Quarter and felt at piece, felt a part of that great city. It was a great ill when Katrina hit because I felt like I’d lost the part of myself that was still wandering its ancient streets. London was similar. A cosmopolitan city that beckoned to me with its diversity, its plethora of languages, its age, its beauty. The lights and life of New York were similar. And Washington should not be left out here. Somewhere, probably between the Capitol and the Lincoln Memorial, or perhaps along the cherry-tree circled Tidal Basin, or in the quiet neighborhoods behind Cap. Hill, my spirit still wanders, searching for a home, because one day I know I’ll have to leave this one and join at least one of those fractured spirits I’ve left behind. When I come across a city like that, I know that, if one day I find myself living within its borders, a citizen of that District, a part of me will have led the way and made a nest that I can roost in and feel completely at ease.
Disclaimer: All photography was taken by me.
The Beltway Beckons
So, I had originally planned to write individual entries for each of my days here in the nation’s capital. I did not, obviously, so this is what you get. I’ll ramble on as I go, but if you don’t want to read the epic ramblings, just look at the sections under the bold titles. Let’s begin.
Perhaps most 21 year olds wouldn’t want to be trapped in a car with their parents for 12 hours, walk across miles of scorching hot city streets, and then travel back 12 hours again...but I’m not most 21 year olds. I have always had a desire to see Washington, D.C. again, since the last time I was there I was about 5 and have no recollection. If my parents hadn’t offered to go, I would have gone myself.
I think there are a few things you discover through 24 hours of road trip and hours and miles of walking and seeing. History comes alive, but it’s also very dead. I kept imagining that I’d have visions of 18th century clad revolutionaries walking the streets, but I was in the wrong city for that--Philadelphia would have been a better choice--, but even then, I didn’t happen upon Henry Clay in the Capitol building or Franklin Roosevelt peering from behind the curtains of the White House. The most important thing I learned about our country while in its capital was not that it had a living and splendid past, but that it all formed perfect compost for a future that is ever changing and evolving. Washington is a city of history, but it’s the foundation of America’s future. I think this is the first city in the world where I’ve felt that kind of promise. In New York, everything was about the moment. RIGHT NOW. New Orleans has rhythm, a life and beat of its own, but you don’t really think about the past or the future, even standing in the old French Quarter or peering along Canal Street. London feels bedecked in the past, striving for the present, but dragged down by centuries of historic baggage. And countless other American cities have their own feel, but none quite match the majesty of promise of Washington.
Another thing I learned is that tourists are stupid. I know, I know, I was a tourist this weekend. But I believe that I’ve pretty much come to the point in my life where, even when being a tourist I am not conspicuous. Perhaps I lack the audacity it takes to be true to the tourism creed, the feeling that I am NOT trespassing on someone’s day-to-day, and surely I lack the selfishness to imagine that every inch of everything I see is there for me, and by god I’m gonna’ see it or else. Most tourists seem to think this way. Walking up the street, cops tell you to turn around because there is a possible bomb at the Botanic Garden, and, intelligently, you turn around. However, that one tourist walks by, yelling, “But I’ve got a tour at the Capital!” and of course, this is the only way to the Capital. We also had a tour at the Capital, but we walked down the street, around the block, and got to where we needed to be while also avoiding possible explosions. Tourists will also always ask the most inane, yet inevitable questions. The tour guide informs us that we cannot take drinks or water bottles on the tour. Inevitably, the woman, probably from Texas, behind us questions, “Do we have to throw away our water?” Or, coming up to the security outpost you’re informed to remove your cameras, your cell phones, iPods, etc. From your pockets and send them through the scanner. Someone, inevitably, will not. I think this is all part of that selfish aspect of the tourista. They can’t take the time to listen or do as they’re told, and surely none of the “local” rules apply to them.
I also, somewhat ironically, discovered that I love and care more about this country and the experiment of Democracy than my parents. I found myself growing more patriotic and more thankful with each passing day, every falling step, but all the buildings seemed to anger my parents more. Perhaps I’m too young, and therefore not as cynical, but I also feel that our country is still as strong as it ever was. Sure, we have no great challenge to rise up against--ambiguous wars on terror aside--and show our strength, but I believe we still are there. I think the men and women of the government today, while some perhaps corrupt, are still there because they believe in what America is, what it stands for, and what it can be. My parents do not believe this, they are disillusioned, and for me, a moderate who has trouble with much of government action to believe in something that two highly conservative people cannot was a great surprise.
And that is all prologue to the actual journey itself. That is what I learned, this is what I did.
Returning to the Underground
Every city is alike. Or at least big cities. Even as varied and different the species grow, they are still part of the same family. I discovered this standing and waiting for the Metro the first day. Underground I had flashbacks to New York and especially to my most recent travels in London. No matter how many miles or acres of ocean that separate these places, the trains still announce their arrival with a wind, pushing the air before them. Passing underwater still brings the pressure in the air, and coming, finally, up out of the tunnels, crossing over rivers, stopping at distant stops, amazes me no matter the locale. Every city with an underground system manages to amaze, simply at the engineering marvel that they are. Massive tunnels, city like complexes, the movement of millions of people daily...I hope that if I ever live in a city where I travel the underground on a regular basis, I never cease to marvel at it. It’s a symbol of mankind’s ability to do pretty much whatever the hell it wants. So I disappear into a train that disappears into a tunnel, and when I get off I’m in another world. It’s like the Rabbit Hole. Perhaps this is my naiveté speaking, but it still amazes me.
Okay, so perhaps this entry won’t be as long as I imagined it being.
I’m not going to go through each and every site I visited and tell you what I saw. Get on a list of Washington’s top sites, and I probably saw them. I will mention the few that had a great effect on me, and the first of those was the World War II memorial.
Perhaps because I often find that I imagine I should have been born in the 20’s so that I would have been this age in the 40’s, I’ve always identified with the Greatest Generation. So, walking around the fountains, surrounded by columns bearing state and territory names, seeing that field of golden stars, imagining the dead that were being honored, I was touched. I looked out from that depression in the mall, the Washington Monument rising to my right, the reflecting pool and the Lincoln Memorial to my left and I felt at peace. Something was there, and it wasn’t the heat. I could have set there all day next to those jetting waters and I would have been at peace.
The Holocaust Memorial Museum was breathtaking. Walking through the exhibit there, I felt that I was wallowing somewhere down in the bottom of humanity, the horror there, and I couldn’t even fathom how it had to have felt living, or dying, in that horrendous experience. I will always remember what I saw.
Walking along the black wall, bearing the names of those who died in Vietnam, I felt tears welling in my eyes...
Peering at the waterfalls and statues of, perhaps the greatest Presidential memorial, dedicated to Franklin Delano Roosevelt, I felt American history pouring over me.
Go to this city, see these sites...they’ll touch you and they may change you.
The Quietest Place in America
The day before we left we toured the Capital building, the Supreme Court, and the Library of Congress. All were amazing, awe inspiring, and did not disappoint. However, that afternoon, on a quiet plot of ground in Virginia, I saw something more inspiring than those three towering, ornate structures could invoke.
Arlington National Cemetery is solemn. Even teeming as it was with tourists--and even being one of them, it still pained me to see so many with such irreverence--it swallowed sound. If there is a hallowed place in America, those acres of land, consecrated by the blood of American service men and women, is it. In every direction, unassuming white graves, lined perfectly as far as the eye can see, attest to an American hero or a member of his family. Under a canopy of trees, in rolling hillocks, next to the river, near to America’s heart but also apart from it, these quiet resting places tell the story of America better than any Library of Congress or National Archives can.
You could walk along its sun-dappled avenues for days and never see it all. It is a place where hundreds of thousands are buried, where even now 24 burials take place every day, and its magnitude is staggering. From the high hills surrounding Arlington house, where ornate crosses, obelisks, and fancy tombs mark the deaths of some of the services’ officers, to the ever-burning torch atop John F. Kennedy’s tomb, to the cemeteries’ northern border, just beyond it the towering reminder of the battle of Iwo Jima, the raising of the flag on Suribachi, to the auditorium and the ubiquitous Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, it stretches, the canopy swaying gently in the wind with whispers, and it is a place where even tourists know the meaning of silent respect.
In actuality, Arlington is nothing above a graveyard. If found in any other place in the world, its marvel would be confined to its sprawling size. From this perspective, it seems odd that so many Americans and foreigners, make the trek here every year to walk among our dead, but they do. For “just a graveyard” it is captivating, and it is majestic.
At it’s center, a silent vigil occurs all day, everyday at the aforementioned Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. Here, even in the 102 degree sweltering heat, a silent soldier walks in front of the tomb, guarding it, it seems, from the visitors to flock to see this spectacle, taking exactly 21 steps, pausing for 21 seconds, and turning to take 21 more the opposite direction. With robot like maneuvering, with discipline that most American’s would never be able to apply to their own life, this member of the Old Guard guards until he is relieved. In a ceremony of quiet strength, a sergeant emerges, informs the crowd of what they are to expect, asks that they stand in silence to honor its import, and then goes through the motions of commanding the exchange. One soldier comes, his rifle inspected in a flurry and dance of movement, and perfectly in synch, in step, with no commands needed, they change places, one continuing the vigil, the other disappearing, presumably to rest, to cool down, his body drenched in sweat, but his face bearing none of the pain he must feel. This is true power. This is true might. And it’s absolutely antithetical to current American ideology. These people must look upon the tourists as blights in their sacred temple, and it’s exactly what we were. I felt ashamed to be watching, but it was awe-inspiring none the less.
I imagine that these people are so disciplined that American’s could use their steps, their transfer of power, as a clock of the most dependable variety. I imagine that once all of this is gone, when humanity ceases to exist and nothing of our human race remains, that that soldier will still be marching there, counting out eternity 21 steps at a time.
And so I return home.
It is not rare for me to be philosophical about things. It’s simply what I do. And I feel the need to be philosophical about this trip. There are many things in our lives that can change the way we view the world. My journey to New Orleans was the first time I ever felt like I belonged somewhere that wasn’t home. I stepped off a bus in the French Quarter and felt at piece, felt a part of that great city. It was a great ill when Katrina hit because I felt like I’d lost the part of myself that was still wandering its ancient streets. London was similar. A cosmopolitan city that beckoned to me with its diversity, its plethora of languages, its age, its beauty. The lights and life of New York were similar. And Washington should not be left out here. Somewhere, probably between the Capitol and the Lincoln Memorial, or perhaps along the cherry-tree circled Tidal Basin, or in the quiet neighborhoods behind Cap. Hill, my spirit still wanders, searching for a home, because one day I know I’ll have to leave this one and join at least one of those fractured spirits I’ve left behind. When I come across a city like that, I know that, if one day I find myself living within its borders, a citizen of that District, a part of me will have led the way and made a nest that I can roost in and feel completely at ease.
Disclaimer: All photography was taken by me.