D.C. Capers
Our hotel was on Dupont Circle which is the “only intelligent life in Washington” according to one travel guide. Here lay three bookstores within sight and walking distance, one of which was open all night and day on Friday’s & Saturday’s. Never having lived even near a bookstore, this appeared to be some sort of divine recompense. In one of the bookstores I read the beginning of a novel entitled “Dupont Circle” which celebrated this self-same bookstore. We checked into our Irish hotel, Jury’s Washington, and took advantage of Kramer books (joined with a coffee shop called ‘Afterwords’). The shop had big plated windows with a bright-red “Kramer’s” in neon script. A small internet café served as a corridor to the two rooms of books that lay beneath the second-floor coffee shop where a bass cello played jazz. It felt like something out of a Woody Allen movie. I continued my tradition of being the worst-dressed person there (this place was easy; Walmart is always more difficult). I wondered for t
he first time in months if perhaps I should buy some more stylish clothes. I banished the thought, realizing it was the devil speaking.
Saturday
After a leisurely breakfast at “Afterwords” we were ready for action, which in this case meant walking. We had some time to kill, since the Holocaust tour wasn’t scheduled till 11:30. Fr. McCloskey, runs D.C.’s Catholic Information Center (and aided in the conversion of one of my favorite pundits, Robert Novak). Did I mention that the CIC also has the largest Catholic bookstore in Washington? So we headed towards the address I had, which apparently was outdated. We cabbed to the Holocaust Museum.
In an age where everyone is a victim it is important to remember what real victims are like. Words fail here, because there is no way to describe the atrocities that hasn’t been said a million times and better. The four floors carry the story chronologically, beginning in 1933 and following through the end of the war to the liberation. It is comprehensive – it is not just about the gas chambers but also the story of how the Nazi’s came to power, and a large and generous wall of remembrance filled with all known non-Jews who tried to save some of those persecuted, and an exhibit to Jewish resistance (I didn’t know there was any).
All Jews were supposed to have a tiny scroll of scripture (usually the verse, “You are to love the Lord your God with all your heart, with all your strength, and with all your might”) above their door; I saw one of the small scroll holders for the first time. It looked no bigger than a doorbell!
There were the sobering exhibits like a picture of all the hair gathered by the Nazi’s. And the exhibit of thousands of shoes of the gassed. As one war correspondent wrote, “one can talk two or three shoes, or a dozen, but this?”.
I walked aboard one of the cars the Nazi’s could’ve used to transport the Jews to long journeys to places like Auschwitz. Luggage lay at the feet of the train, luggage that was immediately tossed aside by the SS. “You won’t be needing anything, there is plenty there.” There were models of the typical concentration camp, and the gruesome efficiency with which it worked. There was an anecdote about a man praising and thanking God in the midst of the suffering. His friend said, “how can you thank God here, of all places!?”. “I am thanking Him that I am not like them.”
There were too few pictures of those who perpetrated the monstrosities, although I did see a large mural of Nazis making war plans, and you look at them just amazed that they would buy into it. Couldn’t they resign their commissions? The power of tradition and culture is such that it seems to overwhelm everything, even common sense. And since no one exists apart from tradition and culture, one can must work to improve the current one. We
are sheep.
I wanted to see more pictures of the perpetrators to see if one could tell any difference between them and “normal” people. Are we all that close to being blasé to unimaginable evils? That this could happen in a Christian nation is especially horrifying.
Afterwards, in the bookshop, I found a book by Dennis Prager titled, “Why the Jews?” it attempts to answer the question why the Jews have been persecuted by nearly everyone since time immemorial. Prager attempts to find a common theme.
Recovering afterward, we walked down the Mall in the cold and bought some food before ambling to our next stop, the Library of Congress (LOC). Though we had a tour there on Tuesday, it was nice to take a sneak peak since we were in the area. The building, called by some the “most beautiful building in America” is all of that to me. Russian first lady Putin on a recent visit was said to have said, “I can’t believe you have this without having had Tsars”. There, on exhibition was the Mainz manuscript bible and a Gutenburg bible (one of only three perfect copies in the world). I ducked, illegally, down a hallway marked “Members of Congress Only” but had not the nerve to try the ornate door that held unimagined vistas but was also marked “Members of Congress Only”. I'm of the dylan school of rebellion; tell me where I can't go and I'll make an effort to go there.
I got out of there quickly, hoping the cameras hadn’t caught me, and headed up a couple flights to the perch overlooking the Reading Room floor and a breathtaking view. A huge round magohany desk lay in the center, surrounded by concentric rings of lit desks and the occasional scholar bent over his task. On the edges lay glimpses of stacks of books of unimaginable numbers, all in precise order like a well-disciplined army of knowledge. Suddenly a young girl of perhaps twenty came in, mid-drift bared, looking no more like a scholar than Jack LaLanne. (Okay, I know I'm not supposed to judge by appearances). I thought it possible – I could be there! I could set foot on that hallowed ground! A reverie fell upon me. I hoped the tour would take us there on Monday.
***
We decided Saturday night to take a bus tour of the monuments, since it was clear (though cold). The 3-hour tour was narrated by a member of the local culture, an African-American woman who is head-over-heels for Clinton (“why did they crucify him?”, she asked. “He didn’t do anything that JFK or FDR or any of the others did.”). We stopped at the Jefferson and Lincoln Memorials, the Korean and Vietnam and other lesser knowns. By the end, we were hoping there weren’t any more memorials. I fell into bed that night and slept the sleep of the dead.
By
Sunday I realized that a lifestyle that involves sitting all day, punctuated only by short 20-30 minute periods of stairmaster or jogging, does not condition one for multiple days of long walks. I woke up sore, my legs stiff as cardboard, my muscles the consistency of thawed hamburger meat. There was enough lactic acid buildup to start a small petro-chemical plant.
But still we gamely moved on rubberly legs to our next destination: the taxi out front. And then onto the Basillica of the Immaculate Concepcion. Upon entering and exploring, I knew I had seen no more beautiful American Catholic church than this Basillica. St. Patrick’s in New York is not close. The mosaics throughout harken to Orthodox spirituality, like icons. A dozen or more side shrines and altars are woven into the sides, private little enclaves to pray and reflect, like wounds in the side of Christ where one can meditate. The mysteries of the rosary are commemorated around the altar, all with short phrases that uniquely penetrate some portion of the mystery.
The bookstore and gift shops of the Basillica were magnificent and a sore temptation to spend. We all did, some more than others, but needless to say I was hypnotized by the quantity and quality. We headed next to the Pope John Paul II cultural center. We toured an art exhibit, then explored a room of personal effects of the Pope. Downstairs was a huge set-up of interactive contrivances.
We walked from our last Metro stop to the White House, walked all around the White House as the sun set and darkness came. I heard later from the Congressional tour guide that there are actually people in the trees on the White House lawn. This is one well-guarded family home.
Did I mention that by now our legs hung like bloody stumps from the barely extant sinews of upper thigh? By the time we stumbled back to the hotel, a warm bath and a 12-hours of sleep sounded golden. Instead we had a rejuvenating dinner at our hotel restaurant. I could feel I was at the edge of a cold and felt nauseaus. Colds are something I have much experience with on vacation (since I always try to do too much) but something I’ve been able to cheat during the past few years by the consumption of a few beers. At last I could drink with the excuse old Baptists give: for medicinal reasons only. The administration of a couple Guinnesses worked magic, and I swear it’s not psychosomatic either. Guinness is good for you!
After dinner we went to an Irish pub called the “Four Provinces” where we heard the dulcet tones of irish music played on acoustic guitar. Sandy asked for “The Rare Ol’ Times” and the song was wonderfully done.
Monday
I went to the Folger Shakespeare Library while Mark and Sandy went off the Botanical Garden/Conservatory. I ran to get there just in time for the 11 am tour. There was only one other person, an older gent. The guide, a blue-blooded, white-haired lady who was dressed immaculately gave the hour tour. It was also embarrassing how little I knew. She obviously expected us to be very conversant in all things related to the English Renaissance period. She was Alex Trebek, asking for questions. I asked if the staff there were Stratfordians. She gave a bemused half-smile and waited seemingly forever before answering. It was as if I had passed gas.
Susan, our tour guide, was an aide for a Congresswoman from the Poughkeepsie region of New York, and looked for all the world like a typical Midwesterner. I teased her about Hillary Clinton. “How could you guys have elected her?” She angrily answered, “We didn’t, we’re Republicans.” Also apparently a hawk. “Let’s bomb them and ask questions later,” she said about the Iraq situation. Ouch.
My favorite parts of the Capitol tour was seeing the room where the House met up until the 1860s. There were plaques where Abe Lincoln and John Quincy Adams sat. Speaking of sitting, it was cool sitting where the First Lady sits during the State of the Union Addresses in the House chamber.
The bookstores around Dupont Circle were calling, especially Second Story Books, which is the largest used bookstore in Washington. We headed back there and spent an hour or so there. I bought one $20 Updike book of short stories there but the prices were high and the philosophy liberal. Around the store Taro cards were posted. The sexuality section was larger than the religious section. We moved on to Kramer’s, where Mark succumbed to three books and paid some $50 and Sandy bought two books and $30. I escaped without financial damage.We never did make it to the huge chain “Books-a-Million”. One can afford to be selective in such a bookish environment.
Tuesday
We arrived for the 8:30am tour of the Library of Congress just in time. The docent gave us an hour tour of the joint, which was nothing to sneeze at. I had been it already though, so it necessarily lost some of its punch. Lots of mythological figures and lots of unattributed inscripted quotes, which that first librarian, like many librarians after him, preferred we look up on our own.
The tour started 15 mins late and we had Arlington Cemetery planned so time was surreally tight. If I wanted to get down on that Reader’s Room floor I would have to accomplish something this side of “Mission Impossible” – I would have 15 minutes to get to the Madison building and get my credentials (apparently to discourage would-be Walter Mittys, they make getting on to the Reading Room floor as difficult as possible, but that only spurred me on). I ran through a tunnel between the buildings (fortunately there were many signs, though the distance was pretty good) and found room LM-140 where approvals to access the Reading Room are granted. There I waited in two different lines, one to show my driver’s license and acquire the form, a second to fill the form out and have a picture ID taken. After 15 minutes, I have the picture ID required to get on the Reading Room floor. I hurry to the floor but am denied. I have my coat with me. I ask if I can leave my coat at the security desk and the guard says
no, you have to check it. I run like hell up the stairs to the coatcheck. No one there. I realize I can just take them to Sandy and Mark, in fact I have to take it to Sandy and Mark since I am late from when I agreed to meet them. The maze-like quality of the building is now discovered, since the closest stairs and elevator do not take you to the Visitor’s Center. As they say, you can’t get there from here. I was in a no-man’s land where scholars tread, not where the visitors visit, and never the twain shall meet. There were other reading rooms here, off-limit reading rooms that held vistas of old bindings climbing to the ceilings. After asking directions a couple times I do make it to the
visitor center. I ask to at least go in the revered Reading Room (RR) since I have the pass after all...
I walked guiltily by the big imposing reference desk and librarian sitting there. To call it a desk would be to insult it; it was not a desk so much as a fortress, a large circular nautilus with a back some some seven feet tall (such that I could not see the far side of desks). I wondered around, amused by the marble water fountain there and taking a drink of it as if that were the purpose of this meander. I settled into a desk and sat in a surprising quantity of natural light, the sun coming in through the stained glass windows of the cupola above. The library was, in fact, designed to be used without aid of artificial light at all. An immense Victorian-style clock hung at one end. Collossal figures of history in the form of statues surrounded the stories above me. I sat as in a trance. I walked to the other side, as if my trip to Washington would be incomplete if I’d only seen the RR from the west side. I could smell the books, the stacks were right there though off-limits (even patrons of the RR are not allowed in the stacks – you have to request books and they are brought to you). The books smelled old, the half-mildewed scent I associate at the large huge booksales at OSU's library. I wondered if some were like that in Jefferson’s time, if any of his old books smelled that way. The researchers researched – there were perhaps a half-dozen of them. I studied my hand and then a printed map of the LOC.
Finally I tore myself away from this library of all libraries, and felt the rip of the umbillica cord. We moved on to Arlington Cemetery, and Robert E. Lee’s house. The view of Washington was riveting, and one could instantly understand JFK’s wish to be buried there. But my heart was still at Jefferon's library, wondering where his original books might be hidden...