Mr. Bones Goes to Washington

A Very Unofficial Visit

The National Mall, looking west from The Capitol

Part 2: Saturday in the Mist

Despite my resolve to arise early on Saturday morning, I slept till 8. The sky hung low and gloomy with a heavy mist falling.
INDEX

Part 1 Walking in Washington

Part 2 Saturday in the Mist

Part 3 The Sun Breaks Through

Part 4 Where the Sidewalk Ends

Part 5 A Morning with Mr. Lincoln

Part 6 Pandas and Pachyderms

The coffee from the hotel restaurant was very good as I walked and sipped it from the paper cup, my camera bag and camera hoisted up under my coat and my umbrella open on my shoulder. The tour buses were already arriving at the Capitol Building and the line for tour tickets snaked for a quarter mile or more. I had it in mind to come back the next day but the sign said No Tours on Sunday and I realized I wasn't going to see inside the Capitol Building on this trip. Instead I wandered back down the Mall, past the buildings I'd toured on Friday, to the original Smithsonian building which now houses the Museum Information Center. A display of vintage coins held my attention for a while, and a gallery with an overview of Smithsonian artifacts was fascinating, featuring items as varied as royal Austrian jewelry to pioneer aviator Wily Post's experimental high-altitude pressure suit. Outside, across Jefferson Dr. the National Carousel sat motionless in the light rain. A brave father with his small daughter mounted a carved dragon and the animals began to move. Down the mall some young people
Smithsonian Information Center kicked a ball to each other as they held umbrellas over their heads. The spire of the Washington Monument was shrouded in mist. I squished my way to the Smithsonian Station of the Washington Metro and rode the escalator down. My destination was DuPont Circle, where I'd read there were good places to eat.

The Metro is great. The trains are clean and the stations are cavernous and feel like a cross between science fiction and modern art.  Like the New York Subway, you purchase a ticket from a machine, reading the fare chart and receiving a paper ticket with a magnetic stripe. Slip the ticket into the slot on the side of the turnstile, where it's sucked in and offered to you again at the top. Pluck it out and the turnstile opens. Ride your train and transfer to a different line if necessary. At your destination, repeat the procedure with your ticket to exit. If there's no excess value on the card, the turnstile keeps it. Out you go.

DC Metro Station

DuPont circle is one of many rotaries in Washington where the streets radiate out like spokes and are guaranteed to confuse the casual visitor, especially when emerging from a subway on an overcast day when it's difficult to determine which way is north. I ended up on Q Street, wandered a few blocks back and forth, then did the same down Connecticut Avenue before deciding on lunch at a quiet bar who's name I can't recall and ate a meal I can't remember, which means it wasn't great but it wasn't awful. It seemed like I'd made a lot of effort to find mediocrity.

Emerging back onto the street, I found that the rain had stopped and decided to walk back to the hotel. Connecticut Avenue has little to recommend it between DuPont Circle and Farragut Square.
Admiral Farragut There a statue of Admiral David Farragut looks down the road, no doubt recalling the wide eyes and flinches of his Civil War sailors at the sound of dud mines (known in his day as torpedoes) bouncing off the hull of his ship as it steamed into Mobile Bay. At 63 years old, he had tied himself in the rigging as lookout and at the cries of alarm bellowed “Damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead!” His crew complied and the result was the effective elimination of the Confederate navy. The pigeon perched on his cap seemed unimpressed, but I was. Walkers cut across the square on their missions, and a dad posed his little boy in front of the fountain surrounding Farragut. I rested on a bench and enjoyed a sunbeam as it peeked through the clouds.

Traffic Advisory

As I crossed the street from Farragut Square I saw what seemed to be an odd traffic sign. It announced "No Red Light Running, enforcement zone".  Where I come from, running any red light is frowned upon.

As you might imagine, statues abound in Washington, some of very famous people and some of very obscure people. All are interesting and add to the feeling of a place that's aware of history, even if the people who live and visit there are not. Connecticut Avenue extends just one block beyond Farragut Square before ending at the northwest corner of Lafayette Park, where one finds the statue of Baron Friedrich Wilhelm Augustus von Steuben.
Baron von Steuben Here I took my cap off in salute, because the Baron is one of my heroes. A Captain on the Prussian General Staff of Friedrich the Great, in 1777 he was adrift and unemployed in France. Somehow he wrangled a letter of introduction from Benjamin Franklin to the new government in the United States—being presented as a “Lieutenant General ” which was quite an exaggeration. He spoke no English but managed to make his way to General Washington at Valley Forge, who was already besieged by European officers who wanted high rank in his army. Still, the Baron (with the help of translators) proved himself affable and charming, even offering to serve without rank or pay. Washington cautiously gave him a chance to instill some skill and discipline in his rag-tag troops, whereupon the Baron rolled up his sleeves and showed he wasn't afraid to get his hands dirty, so to speak. He wrote a manual-at-arms, some of which is still used today in the US Armed Forces. In a few weeks he had taught the raw soldiers how to march and dress, how to load and shoot in formation. Because of his efforts, a few weeks after leaving Valley Forge the US troops fought an engagement with British Army Regulars that resulted in a night withdrawal of the opposing force. Washington always acknowledged his debt to Baron von Steuben, a glorious con man who made the rebel victory in the Revolution possible.  If that's not the embodiment of the American spirit, I don't know what is.

The statue of Lafayette looks at the White House. On Pennsylvania Avenue in front of the residence was the requisite number of protesters and cops.
The White House The protesters were chanting and I wondered why silly rhymes are so popular in protests. I'm more likely to be persuaded by an intelligent presentation. Wandering eastwards down the avenue, beyond the barriers I crossed onto New York Avenue and began to wind my way back to the hotel.  There are interesting sights in Washington.  I saw a woman who was imitating a statue.
Statue

A short way farther on, I found a boy disguised as a fire hydrant.

Fireplug Camo

Without intending to, I found myself at the National Building Museum and the Smithsonian Craft Show. Inside, Daiga and Sarmite were having a busy day. Sarmite said they'd been told of a Latvian bar and they wanted to go there after the show closed that evening. I thought that was a great idea, what could be better than going to a Latvian bar with a couple of Latvians? We made a plan that I'd get a cab from my hotel and swing by to pick them up. Then I took the time to explore the National Building Museum.

The National Building Museum -- Busts near the ceiling


The Smithsonian Craft Show

The structure was completed in 1887 and used to be The Pension Building, whatever that was.  It's truly impressive, with a huge open atrium and a roof supported by some of the tallest interior columns in the world. In the center of the atrium, just under the roof, are nooks with busts looking down. It's kind of eerie. The second and third floor mezzanines are open to visitors, and even from the third floor the busts are too far away to make out their features. Such an avant-garde design doesn't fit my concept of late 19th century architecture, not that I'm any kind of expert.  Maybe General Montgomery C. Meigs, who designed the building, was making a private joke.

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The rain was spitting down as the cab pulled up to the Building Museum and Daiga and Sarmite slid in. They had the address and I can't tell you where it was. The cabbie dropped us off in a neighborhood area of shops and restaurants. The sign for the Latvian bar didn't look like much. Inside it looked like less. In fact, Daiga stopped short and said “I'm not going in there!” It was dive. It was a dump. It was dark and gloomy and none too clean. Back on the sidewalk we had a conference about what to do now. Food was called for. We crossed the street to look at the menu posted outside a Middle Eastern restaurant and a girl of about 11 pounced, asking if we wanted to eat outside or inside. Daiga asked what kind of food did they serve and a man told us “Indian / Mediterranean food”. This seemed like an odd combination but the rain was starting so we went in. In the front room were hookahs with young people drinking coffee and puffing. In the back room were five tables and the smell of stale smoke. The restaurant didn't serve wine. Nobody else came in. We debated whether to eat or flee, and about then the sky opened up with such a downpour we decided to stay. The food wasn't bad but we weren't inclined to linger. When we stepped outside the rain was coming down in sheets. I was the only one with an umbrella.

I handed my umbrella to Daiga. They had decided we should try the Latvian bar after all, but across the street they stalled and changed their minds before even reaching the door. Daiga turned and called “There's a cab!” which was my cue to jump into the street and flag it down. We rode back to my hotel and sat in the bar for a couple of drinks as we dried off. Soon it was all funny and we laughed about our evening. Sarmite said she had the phone number of the woman who'd told her about that bar and she was going to call her the next day and ask what had she been thinking? Soon they finished their drinks and caught a cab back to their hotel. I went up to my room, spread things out to dry and reviewed my photographs.

The National Building Museum