Visiting the White House:

I was 11 years old the last time I toured the White House. I don't remember much of it, but I distinctly remember being on a tour. So I, like several of my fellow visitors, was surprised to walk through the security checks and metal detectors and find myself in the president's house without an escort. The Secret Service agent said that the tours are now self-guided, a change which allows more people to go through each day (this makes sense) and improves security (this does not make sense).

To compensate for the lack of narration, the walls of the first couple of rooms are covered in pictures. The first room is all George (Bush, not Washington) and the enclosed walkway has pictures of various presidents grouped by activity. One frame featured Presidents and Their Pets, mostly dogs. The one noticeable exception was Grace Coolidge and Rebecca the Racoon at the White House Easter egg hunt. Rebecca is on a stout chain and appears to be positioning herself to gnaw on Grace's face.

In the next frame, presidents are pictured with various celebrities and honorees. The Carters alongside Mikhail Baryshnikov. . . and President Bush is pictured with a group of Nascar drivers. I tried not to read too much into that.

Just as I was wondering whether racecar drivers were the most significant cultural guests in this administration's White House, a big wind blew up on the South Lawn, where a few dozen people were gathered. Marine One, the presidental helicopter, landed and President Bush got on. He turned on the top step and waved to us (or perhaps to the people on the lawn who were actually invited to be there, but whatever).

I have to admit that I was a little starstruck. I'm not a big fan of W's politics, but I've never seen a president in person before. It was very cool. (Don't worry Grandmother, I haven't been converted. . . although that "W: The President" bumper sticker does look nice on my car.)

Random Thoughts from the Smithsonian:

A brief history: The Smithsonian was created in 1838 with a gift from James Smithson, an English scientist who had never been to America. He finally made it to the good old U.S.A. in the early 1900s. . . when his remains were reinterred in the Smithsonian Castle. His final resting place in Genoa, Italy became a temporary one when the city decided it wanted the cemetery land for other purposes, so Alexander Graham Bell was sent to fetch Smithson's remains.

No one knows why he gave his fortune- $50,000- to the U.S. The gift was contingent on his nephew dying without an heir, which Smithson probably didn't think would happen, since his nephew was only 16 at the time of its death. But fate doesn't always work the way we expect, so let's thank that funny little codicil for all these museums that we can visit for free.

The Smithsonian has earned every bit of its reputation as the Nation's Attic. The Smithsonian Castle, which once housed the entire collection, is now just the welcome and information center for the 18-museum institute. The Castle still has some display space with bits and pieces from its various museums, such as:

A Giant Bird-Eating Tarantula. It's as big as my hand, and my hands are big enough to palm a men's basketball. (In this picture, my hand is still about 2 feet away from the spider) The description said that it was raised in captivity and spent most of its life in the Natural History Museum Bug Zoo. I'm guessing it wasn't included in the bug petting zoo. Spiders don't have very good eyesight and a little toddler hand is approximately the same size as a sparrow.


Helmets: a) the first experimental pressure suit helmet from 1933 and b) Chuck Yeager's helmet, worn while breaking the speed of sound. The experimental helmet looks like a cheap aluminum pot (notice the dents) with a viewing slot cut in it. Luckily for General Yeager, technology advanced before his time or his sound-breaking flight could have been a head-shrinker.

Natural History Museum

According to the Smithsonian, the white rhinoceros is a "highly endangered" species. The display also notes that "Former President Theodore Roosevelt collected this specimen in 1909."

This wording suggests to the casual reader that the president just happened upon a white rhinoceros. Maybe he was out for a morning stroll, saw a rhino lying by the road, and picked it up for the education and general betterment of the American people. Riiiight.
Or perhaps President Roosevelt, an outdoor enthusiast and big game hunter, shot this very rhino, probably also posing for photos over its gigantic, now-endangered body. We just have to remember that it was perfectly acceptable for the leader of our country to shoot everything in sight at the turn of the last century. I'm sure Dick Cheney wishes that were still the case.

Air & Space Museum



Another instance of the Smithsonian playing a funny moment in history totally straight is this display of the "Fecal Containment
System" used by the astronauts. That's right, Buzz Aldrin had emergency poop pants. According to the display, the Depends precursors were "for emergency containment of solid waste matter when spacecraft facilities are inconvenient." You can see the curator's mind working: "Maybe if we use nebulous phrases like 'emergency containment of solid waste matter' no one will realize that we're talking about pooping your pants."

Philly:

Nick and I ventured to the City of Brotherly Love for the weekend. We ate cheesesteak in Reading Market and stood in Rocky's footprints on the steps of the art museum, blah blah blah. What made the weekend truly memorable was our Sunday morning in the Italian neighborhood of South Philly.


I light up like a kid at Christmas anytime I'm around something or someone that might be Authentically Italian. Maybe it's because I grew up in the Northwest where everyone was of either German or German descent, but Italy has always fascinated me. Luckily my husband doesn't find this incredibly dorky, even when I stage whispered that the people at the next table in the coffee shop were speaking Italian!


My "amore d'Italia" notwithstanding, the scene that transpired in one of the little market shops truly made the weekend. All along the Italian Market are tiny little shops selling Italian food staples, such as olive oil, fresh pasta, cured meats and cheeses. I still can't figure out if the meat or the cheese gives the shop its distinctive funk, but smells just like every shop in Italy. Anyway, these shops are about half the size of your average Manhattan studio apartment and crammed to the rafters with jars, bottles, hams and shoppers.

While we were salivating over the 20 varieties of ravioli, the inevitable happened. One of the shoppers, a little old lady, knocked a sampling dish of tomato sauce off the counter with her purse. Yes, I am also amazed that it was her and not me. Anyway, it caused a bit of a commotion- she didn't realize what had happened, then there was all the red sauce to clean up, which a younger man helped wipe off her shoes and the floor. She got a dollar bill out of her purse and tried to tip him, which both the Good Samaritan and the woman's grown daughter found fairly embarrassing. ("Mom. Stop.")

The circus finally ended and business resumed, but somehow in the shuffle one of the regular patrons (also a little old lady) got overlooked and ended up waiting significantly past her turn. As we got up to the register, she was letting the clerks have it.

"I'm gonna blow this place up," she said. "You're lucky I like you guys, or you'd be covered in lunchmeat."

Not the kind of thing you usually hear from little old ladies, but then again this was the Italian neighborhood. Even Don Corleone has to have a grandma.

The Library of Congress.

If you ever go to the Library of Congress, be sure to take the tour. And if you ever take the tour, do your best to take it with Irwin Deutscher, a retired sociology professor from the University of Akron.

Having wasted a few unretrievable hours of my life on bad tours, I scouted the three tour guides carefully as I sat through the tour introduction. Two older ladies who looked like they came from the Don't Touch That school and Irwin, who said, "I'll take the bunch in the back of the class." Though the ladies did their best to divide us into precise thirds, I chose fun over numerical precision.

Irwin did not disappoint. The Library of Congress is an ornate, gorgeous building with an interesting history that came alive during our enthusiastically delivered tour. Anyone who describes Benjamin Franklin as the "original long-haired hippie-freak American" has the right idea for making history interesting. I unfortunately didn't take enough notes to remember most of the verbal gems, but he did describe the Three Graces, who are depicted in the ceiling frescoes, as "the party girls of the gods." Whenever the gods wanted to have a good time, the Graces were the ones who ordered the wine and set the tables.

The piece de resistance of the library is the Reading Room. Only card-carrying researchers can enter- the masses have to observe the room from the upstairs balconies and refrain from talking, photographing or otherwise disturbing the Great American Scholars. It is a beautiful room, and Irwin encouraged us to pay attention to it rather than to him, saying, "I'm done talking, except to myself, and you may eavesdrop if you wish."

I later found out that anyone can get a library card- you might have to pretend that you're studying South Dakotan Rural Dialects, but any citizen can get a card. It's not an advertised priviledge because they don't want people getting cards as souvenirs. A little ironic that the nation's library would discourage access to books, but there you have it.

Running of the Brides:

I don't think of myself as a lucky person, but every once in a while the stars align for a truly unforgettable experience. In this case, the "stars" were the recent engagement of my good friend Kelly, who happens to live in D.C., and the annual Filene's Basement "Running of the Brides" one-day gown sale.

Filene's Basement is like Nordstrom's Rack, a place to get high-end clothes, accessories and home items for less. In the case of the bridal gowns, dresses that retailed for $800 to $8,000 are on sale for $250 to $700. This creates complete pandemonium. I called the store to see what time we should arrive for the 8 a.m. door opening. The operator had never been to the sale, but she had heard that people camped out all night and suggested we get there as soon as we could, like maybe 5 a.m.

We opted for 6:45, at which point the line was halfway down one block, around the
corner, and halfway up the next block. I would guess that there were maybe 75 brides, plus entourages, ahead of us. Many were wearing matching t-shirts that said “Team Baker” or “Maid of Bridezilla.” Clearly forces to be reckoned with.

Even though we were definitely in the first half of the line, there was not a single dress left on the racks by the time we got to the sale floor. Girls completely disregarded style or size and grabbed every dress in sight. They then stripped down right in the middle of the store and started sampling dresses. The more modest ones wore shorts and tank tops; some just about bared all. I heard one bridezilla-to-be say, “I suppose you can try it on, but even if I decide I don’t want it I’m going to hang onto it for collateral. I’m going to have to ask that you not leave my sight while you try it on.”

We were completely overwhelmed. Kelly tried on a couple dresses, then we left the madness for some brunch. By the time we came back, around 10, most of the dresses were back on the racks and the atmosphere was a little more relaxed. And, much to our surprise, Kelly found the perfect dress! Best of all, we didn't have to punch anyone out to get it.

I can’t show it here on the off-chance that her fiancé visits this page; the photo at right is one of the rejects. It just didn't go with her Nikes.

Arlington National Cemetery

It is 8:15 a.m. and I have already sweat through my tank top. Sweat is dripping off my nose and running down my legs in multiple Colorado Rivers. This profusion of sweat is attracting biting flies and mosquitoes, so I'm also constantly twitching and swatting, trying to discourage the idea that I am an all-you-can-eat insect buffet.

My sad disheveled state is highlighted by the soldier standing less than ten feet
away from me. Despite the fact that it is ungodly hot for this hour of the morning, probably 85 degrees with 85% humidity, the only skin visible on the soldier is from below his hat to the top of his collar. He is wearing a navy coat, dark grey trousers, a navy hat and gloves. According to Christopher Buckley's book, "Washington Schlepped Here," the uniforms are made of wool because it is the only material that holds a crease. Also, all the belts are a standard-issue 29 inches, probably not a difficult size to reach if you're marching around in wool uniforms in August.

"Marching around" is far too loose of a term to describe the soldier's movement. His unfailing precision prompts me to look for the windup key in his back. The Army's Old Guard patrols the Tomb of the Unknown Solider 24 hours a day, 365 days a year. The soldier on duty marches 21 paces down, wait 21 seconds symbolizing a 21-gun salute (a good substitute; 21 shots every 21 seconds would really detract from the serenity of the cemetery), and march back. The guard changes every half hour on the half hour. The ceremony is one of the Big Three sites at Arlington, the other two being the eternal flame and grave of President and Mrs. Kennedy and Arlington House, where Robert E. Lee lived up until the Civil War. The Union Army buried 16,000 soldiers around the house, including 2,000 in Mrs. Lee's rose garden. Shockingly, the Lees never returned to that home.

July 24:
Nick was up early to head off to lecture, so I headed out to explore the city. I cleverly hid my camera and guidebook in a large purse and went for capris over shorts. That, plus the absence of a fanny pack (I will never understand why they are popular; you might as well walk around with a big sign that says "I am a tool.") almost let me blend in with the locals. I just needed to carry a pair of heels in one hand while walking in flip-flops and I could have been on my way to my overworked, underpaid government job.

So anyway, there I was, just another face in the millions, feeling quite comfortably anonymous as I wandered around the Mall. I popped into the American History museum on a whim, came around the corner. . . and ran into my assistant volleyball coach from Colorado College. I haven't seen the man in 3 years. He doesn't even live in DC- he was in town for a wedding, was flying out that afternoon, and thought he'd see a couple sights before heading to the airport. Somewhere in the background, I could almost make out strains of "there's so much that we share that it's time we're aware. . .it's a small world after all. . ."

July 23: We spent a couple leisurely hours on the stunningly green and peaceful Blue Ridge Parkway. Wildlife spotted: a deer and fawn, two marmots and one Appalachian Trail thru-hiker.
We hit the big city by mid-afternoon, smelling like camp smoke and road trip, bearing a resemblance to modern-day Beverly Hillbillies. ("Whooo-eee! Hey yall, we sure is glad to be here!") A shower made a huge difference, as did the dinner with my lifelong friend Kelly Schultz and her fiancee, Nick Skupnik. Kelly and I have known each other since we were five or six. While we were growing up, even though we went to the same school, we lived about 30 miles apart. Completely by accident, Nick and I ended up renting an apartment about two blocks from Kelly. It's fabulous to be so near, yet ironic that the closest we will ever live to each other is in a city across the continent from our hometown.

July 22: After a morning wander around downtown Knoxville, we pushed on to Roanoke, Virginia and camped along the Blue Ridge Parkway. Just about the time that we were finishing our dinner (baguette with bleu cheese and wine. . . marshmallows and turkey dogs. . .not as bad of a combination as you'd expect), a big rain came rolling through. Unfortunately the weather didn't stop the college-age "camping equals drinking heavily" crew occupying a nearby campsite. I can sleep through anything, but Nick didn't get a lot of rest.

July 21: We timed our arrival in Memphis, quite coincidentally, with the morning parade of the Peabody Ducks. If you're not familiar with the Peabody Hotel's famous Mallards, you can read their full story here. The short of it is that Mallard ducks have paraded from their rooftop home to the lobby fountain every day since the 1940s. They come down the elevator and parade down a red carpet, Academy Award-style, their every move covered by 100 tourists playing papparazzi. I'm a sucker for cheese and I loved every minute of it.

For lunch, we checked out Rendezvous, the rib joint where President Bush and Japanese Prime Minister Koizumi ate after their hip-shaking Karaoke tour of Graceland. According to one of the managers, Secret Service agents had been in the restaurant for a week before the visit, checking every nook and cranny of the mazelike basement eatery. Ribs don't really fit into my Meat Rules (violating both the visible fat and meat on the bone clauses), but Nick polished them off with a smile.

We intended to camp, but world-ending, ark-floating rains in Tennessee changed our minds and we ended up in a Knoxville hotel. If you're ever in Knoxville, I highly recommend the Cumberland House Hotel near campus.

July 20: We left Austin via car on July 20, shooting for Little Rock by bedtime. Texas has many beautiful, scenic regions, but the northeast corner of the state is not one of them. It's flat and crispy brown, thanks to a long, hot summer that started in April. We took the backroads around Dallas on the advice of a sexagenarian Dairy Queen cashier who recommended that we avoid "them spaghetti things" (a.k.a. freeway interchanges) in the city. No 'spaghetti things' in sight on the county roads, not even an Italian restaurant. The most interesting thing we saw was an exit sign for the Lone Star Army Ammunition Plant. I was under the impression that Texas had joined the Union about 150 years ago, but maybe they are maintaining a militia just in case this whole "statehood" thing doesn't work out.

I had never been to Arkansas and wasn't sure what to expect. I've now driven right through the middle and still don't know anything about Arkansas. The freeway is lined with tall, thick trees, suggesting that the Arkansans are deliberately hiding something. I'm not sure if it's a land of stunning beauty or a sea of rusty cars on blocks in the yard, but whatever it is, they'd prefer that you just keep passing through.