Washington wanderings 2004

DC had long been someone else's dream. It is, of course, easy to form an opinion of a nation’s culture, by way of the mass media and casual exchanges, with strangers, in our own metropolis. Still, I'd travelled well, without crossing the pond; before finally concluding that such an excursion was overdue and where better to make my landfall than its ornate capital? So, amid the grandiose splendour of a city rich in history, for one so young, I'd loiter on the lush grass, before the mighty Washington monument; with intent to sample modern America's heritage over a single weekend.

Time spent in The Mall, as this communal do as you please area is known, can be memorable. It's a marvellous space, affording ample opportunities for sun seeking senators to go fly their kite, before the familiar vista of, not the  Whitehouse (with which it is sometimes confused), but the imposing, pseudo-Greek facade of the Capitol. In the pale morning light, its familiar dome looms sombre, in something close to slate grey, but with the turning of the planet, it will later shimmer, pearly white, before a cobalt sky. Viewed through the eyes of a Londoner, the comparison with St. Paul's Cathedral is, perhaps, inevitable and the realization that while, despite ongoing renovation, our structure remains steeped in years, or even centuries, of grime, this looks straight out of the box; like a homage to the wonder of Lego.

Despite the Mall's obvious appeal, a problem does arise, for the eager tourist and it's one of priority: which of the plethora of museums that comprise the Smithsonian Institute and stretch for a fair mile, should one visit first? It's a rich selection, sufficient to satisfy the imaginations of those with interests in the natural world; art (the work of Whistler in particular); history and all forms of aviation; these tending to make a swift beeline for the most popular of them all: the National Air and Space Museum. Here can be found a schoolboy's dream (adults, naturally, see it in more intellectual terms!), the wow factor being delivered, in the form of its numerous milestones of cosmic exploration and early flight. Sure-fire crowd pleasers include a moon exploration vehicle; Piccard & Jones's Breitling Orbiter balloon capsule, in which they circled the globe, and what we’re assured is a genuine lunar module; apparently, prepared for use but subsequently proving surplus to requirement. This seems a real hodgepodge of a contraption, when viewed, at first hand and its fellow craft clearly were well served, by the grainy, monochrome images, which effectively disguised that curious home-made look. There’s a distinctly waveable window and with props like the fragile legs of an insect, it begs the question: "could this thing  really have gone anywhere?"  

Overhead, can be seen the Spirit of Saint Louis; the very machine which carried Lindbergh across the Atlantic and elevated him to the lofty status of national hero. It's a modest affair, appearing like some spectre in cold, gun-metal grey; save for the nose, which offers warmer  tones, possibly born of passing years and carries the craft's name, in broad, looping script. A cockpit door is open and deceives the eye, through looking flimsy enough to be dislodged, with the mere flick of a finger, while the overall effect conjures the accepted romance of early travel. Although this plane must have flown in fine weather, it's somehow more satisfying to imagine it disappearing into fog.

For the full watershed experience, it's necessary to venture into a small, circular, room on the first floor, where two, bowler-hatted, ex-bicycle repair men greet the visitor, with genial smiles; from the veranda, of their white shuttered home, in Dayton, Ohio. Perhaps it's, in part, the dim lighting that gives this area an almost shrine like quality, as attentive onlookers; many of them probably still experiencing varying degrees of jetlag, cast  their eyes over the magnificent mens' machine, simply and accurately named ‘Flyer’; and who could fail to be impressed by such supreme ingenuity and overriding quaintness?

Lying, chest down, between something resembling two, drooping, king-sized ironing boards, connected by a web of wire and wood, is the likeness of a figure; akin to a formally dressed clerical officer, indulging in a mad lunch hour. The left hand grips a smooth wooden handle, allowing fine adjustment of the plane's trajectory, by way of elevator panels, which largely obscure his  view, while the feet are kicked out behind, toward a cumbersome looking rudder. Orville was a man who wished he could fly...and did. He had a dream and a bushy moustache. Wilbur had only one of  these and went second, but history treated him well, and so was born the legend of the Wright brothers. Here, too, we can find a wealth of information and artifacts, relating to their exploits, with levers to be pulled, buttons pressed and a computer graphic display, recreating each of four flights; the first lasting only twelve seconds; to be completed on that day in 1903, at Kittyhawk.

 It would be easy to spend much of the day learning about this exhibit alone, but there's so much else to see and, of course, a visit wouldn't be complete without running our fingers over a piece of the moon. Just a small, tapering, fragment; less mystical looking than other chunks of lunar basalt, but it's the real deal and you know it.

In contrast, life on terra firma is well celebrated in the, nearby, Museum of American History, which houses an eclectic mix of artefacts; ranging from the tiny ruby shoes worn  by  Judy  Garland, in The Wizard  of  Oz, to  the Pontiacs, streetcars and locomotives that played their part in consolidating the union and were so utilised by it's film industry. Inside the entrance hall can be found, unsurprisingly, a tribute to the victims of 9/11.

The giant flag, draped resolutely from the roof of the Pentagon, after the attacks, now adorns a different wall; its stripes heavily stained. The terrible statistics of that day are displayed alongside. It's highly effective and I'd expected to see more in the same vein, but this not a mournful exhibition; being, instead, an upbeat journey, through a nation's finer moments, with particular reference to popular icons, such as the first  ladies, who occupy the majority of a larger section; dedicated to the changing role of women. There's much emphasis upon fashion, with an assembly of mannequins, bedecked with the dresses of sixteen wives. One of the more stylish is a tasteful little, off-the-shoulder number, worn by Nancy Reagan; though graphologists may take more interest in the giant facsimiled signature beneath; with its angular, upright, lettering and measured spacing, contrasting greatly with the flourishes of others, including Hilary Clinton and Jackie  Kennedy. As for Barbara Bush's royal blue outfit: that's the full Dynasty, shoulder pads and all. On my visit, I have the good fortune to happen upon a tour of the wing and tagging along, albeit briefly, glean insights into what it is to be America's most scrutinized female. Our guide; petite and clad in a close fitting, flowery waistcoat; seems an aptly formidable lady and commands the undivided attention of all present, as she speaks of  Dolly Madison saving the constitution and declaration of independence, from the fire of English troops and Mrs Reagan’s continuing mission to steer children from the menace of drug abuse. "Can anybody tell me..?", she asks, "the name of the only first lady to win a Grammy?" I ponder the question, for a moment, but with Betty Ford's Greatest Hits not featuring among my collection and no recalling of Ella Fitzgerald having been married to a US president, reach only an investigative cul-de-sac. Nearby, a young lad makes his feelings known, about matters unrelated and his father is unduly told. With order restored and in no uncertain terms, it transpires that Hilary Clinton won the award for reading her own book, It Takes a Village, to tape. Well, a Grammy's a Grammy, I suppose and such details should be welcomed.

A painting, in a style reminiscent of David Hockney, is passed en route to the hall, and displays, according to the caption, not only a dog and macaw, but Archie and Kermit, at play, on the stairs. Engaging in a fifteen second game of spot the frog, I am, momentarily, bewildered. Half way up had seemed a fair bet, but green is little used in this work. On closer inspection, I learn of Thodeore Roosevelt's children. Kermit is, in fact, the older of the two boys. He wears a cap and while clutching a ball, stands over his brother, who works with watercolours. Kermit looks down; though, I imagine he was spared any real embarrassment, being the chicken, rather than the egg, so to speak.  

The indigenous communities and seizure of their land feature just a stone's throw away, where, aside the traditional costumes and demonstrations of Matachinas dances, we learn about the long struggle of the Taos Pueblo people, in New Mexico; for the return of their, sacred, blue lake. After the US ‘appropriated’ (well, that’s what it says on the plaque!) this area and placed it under the control of the forest service, the ensuing battles came to epitomize native Americans' struggle for religious freedom and the protection of hallowed land. It took sixty four years of protest before the lake was finally handed back to the Pueblo, in 1970. Their eagerness to reclaim this region is easily explained; the original Taos tribe having, according to legend, been born of its waters.

I'd never thought of George Washington as a Herculean figure, though his general officers' uniform, located on the second floor, suggests that he must, indeed, have been an imposing one, and a colossal sculpture, based on Phidias's Zeuss, portrays a giant, fit to fell cherry trees, with his bare hands. Powerful cheek bones accentuate an expression without compromise, while in one hand lies what I take to be a scabbard (though, perhaps, a banana!) Like an assertive father commanding his children to bed, the other points to the heavens…… or maybe he's directing us to, photographer, Bill Eppridge's lively show of Beatles black and whites, on the level above. Backstage and Behind the Scenes is the theme here and these images provide interesting glimpses of the moptops, away from the spotlight. We see Paul and Ringo, watching television coverage of their own arrival, at Idlewilde airport, earlier that same day; George donning a ticket inspector's uniform, on a Washington bound train and more predictably, loads of candids from before and after their classic 1964 appearance on the Ed Sullivan show. Of course, the girls are there, too, in various stages of  hysteria and scrabbling for jelly beans, thrown to them by the band. 'We love the Beetles' reads one misspelt placard, 'please stay here forever!' and “metaphorically..", the accompanying caption says, "..they have".

Exiting the museum, a right turn and then another, brings sightseers to the Ellipse, for views of 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. "It's as close as you're gonna get today" I am told, by a  police officer, and responsibility for this may lie with a certain Mr Blair, whose visit  coincides with my own. It's impressive though, at any range, to see the Whitehouse nestling within such finely manicured surroundings and as any fellow tourist would confirm, essential to the agenda. The presence of armed guards, patrolling the rooftop, make the day complete, for a raucous sounding lad, to my left. “Are they snipers ?”  he  asks his guardian, with relish, then fairly boils over; "wow! snipers.......cool!"  

     

Behind the corridors of power, in Lafayette Square, Connie* is tending her boards and smiling on cue for portraits and emails home. Twenty three years of active opposition to government policy make this diminutive figure one of Washington's most photographed women and though many may consider her no more than a mere curio, she is, in fact, eloquent and not overbearing in manner. Demanding neither sympathy, nor financial support, she will speak freely of an epic vigil and attempts made to stifle her relentless campaign, against the Bomb; relating in a rich Spanish accent stories of  perceived harrassment under the auspices of successive presidents.There was the enforced relocation from the Whitehouse sidewalk; the frequent hounding by police, keen to enforce new restrictions on sleeping in the square; limitations, also, on the number and size of placards displayed, and on at least one occasion, she tells me, the directing of lasers at her feet. A long history of attacks, inflicted by the public, I learn of only later, through reference to her website. It provides the opportunity to learn of Mrs Conception Martin de Picciotto, who represented her country as a receptionist at the Spanish Embassy, in New York, and married an eligible Italian in 1966. Together, they adopted a daughter, named Olga, but the relationship floundered; culminating in divorce and a costly custody battle. Embittered by the loss of her daughter and lack of support from the US government, she eventually took her case to the streets, whilst working part  time as a babysitter and through befriending other demonstrators, embraced the anti-nuclear cause. Finally, she'd make it her own and now, this is her home, just a few hundred yards from the neighbours she's little chance of ever meeting. Perhaps, though, it's their loss; for those who do choose to stop and speak with Connie might find in her some interesting qualities.

 If  the first amendment has been eroded, to some degree, it's surely, fair to say that freedom of speech still largely endures and this is exemplified on street corners in the vicinity; where they sell boxed ‘action man’ style dolls, resembling various celebrities, including US presidents. Among them is the present incumbent; a small, unappealing dummy, emitting, when required to speak, such lines  as “they  misunderestimated me”, “I understand small business growth...I was one”, “I know how hard it is for you to put food on your family" and "rarely is the question asked...is our children learning?". Clinton is there too, but not Monica and we are denied our juvenile pleasure. Alongside are badges, proclaiming "Dubya" as "daddy's little helper" and others simply reading "you're  fired !", an expression currently fashionable, thanks to a reality TV show, featuring Donald Trump. Of those bearing the image of John Kerry, many seek to capitalize on his famous initials, along the lines of ‘America needs another JFK’. This may be so, but I can't help wondering whether any leader, in history, has been catapulted to  power through such tenuous comparisons. 

Like many of  the streets, the Metro lines in this city are unnamed, being assigned only a colour and the system here provides a highly efficient means of getting around. Smooth is probably the best adjective and it can be accurately applied to the ticket machines that gently pluck each dollar bill  from the fingertips and the trains, which glide quietly through spacious tunnels, then breeze into modern, coffered stations. There, passengers wait on attractively illuminated platforms, for trains to destinations such as Arlington and  the candidly named Foggy Bottom. Visitors could do much worse, though, than make an impromptu stop at  Rosslyn, where lies the largely unsung treasure that is Freedom Park. Known as a skywalk and occupying a pedestrianised flyover, this unexpectedly charming and fascinating spot consists of a narrow pathway that guides those with an interest through, pleasant gardens and past a series of exhibits, each in some way symbolic of liberty. These  include a South African ballot box; Martin Luther King's cell door, from his spell of captivity in Birmingham, Alabama; a toppled statue of Lenin, shipped here from St.Petersburgh and sections of the Berlin Wall, colourfully painted by frustrated artists, who lived in it's shadow. Pride of place is given to the Freedom Forum Journalist's Memorial; a gleaming creation in stained glass and steel; vaguely resembling an up-ended scroll, into which one can wander, to survey the inscribed names of around two thousand journalists, photographers, editors and broadcasters, who died while attempting to inform the masses. Poignantly, it overlooks several of the city's other tributes to the fallen. 

That the cemetery at Arlington should be a major tourist attraction may seem a touch bizarre, but it undeniably qualifies as this. There, amid the blossom and blue jays, within a lovely area of rolling parkland, they lay their sons and daughters to rest and mark their passing with tiny, tooth-like headstones, that seem to separate and regroup, with the lie of the land. More than two hundred and fifty thousand military personnel share these extensive grounds with astronauts, explorers and other luminaries; yet, the steady stream of guests snakes toward one grave site, above all others. It's the magnetism of the Kennedys that still holds sway and commands silent respect, from the multitude. They are honoured on a raised platform with small eternal flame, alongside simple flat stones, which bear the names of  the revered president, his wife and two infant children. The smallest of  these reads only  'Daughter'. Turning away, we are reminded, by way of a curved plinth, of those immortal words: 'Ask not what America will do for you, but what, together, we can do for the freedom of man'. 

Close by; at the changing of the guard, the clarion call of ‘The Last  Post ’ spills from a hilltop fortress, beside an uncomplicated monument, dedicated to the unknown. The custodian wears full regalia, including white gloves, but the fashionable shades, beneath his large peaked cap look strangely incongruous and when, after much marching to and fro and dexterous twirling of a rifle, he ceremoniously shakes a clenched fist toward a floral wreath, as though to cement some fraternal bond, with the departed, a cultural difference is clear. It's just not the English way.

Dusk descends upon the Potomac and a hundred traversing headlights sparkle, like scattered diamonds upon a lavish carpet; set before the gently floodlit presence of the Lincoln memorial. Its sturdy Doric columns lend this city an illusion of security, but would the great emancipator have envisaged a nation so loved and yet so despised or a leader so sure of his own purpose? Perhaps he'd have been surprised to see ‘Old Glory’ sporting so many stars; maybe, too, he would have found them tainted.

We can visit this engaging city and view its many treasures; while pondering its credibility as an exemplar in our world. 


       * Connie subsequently gained international recognition, through appearing in the
          final section of Michael Moore's Fahrenheit 9/11 movie          

                                                                Words and images by A Webb