Washington, DC

Having just watched our President give a press conference, I’m reminiscing about my visit with the President a few weeks ago. Well, I call it a visit. He might call it driving by in his tank-of-a-limo surrounded by police escorts and Secret Service while I freeze my butt off on the side of the road hoping my face isn’t eradicated by the polar wind coming off the Potomac. Whatever you call it, I got to spend some quality time (at least 5 seconds) with the Big Man. One of many highlights during our week in DC.

It’s a strange city of politics and traffic circles, made even stranger by the weather that week. We arrived to several inches of snow and below freezing temperatures. For the first couple days, the crowds around the Mall were thin, major attractions like the Archives and the Washington Monument had non-existent lines, and museums were easy to navigate. Nobody wanted to risk freezing to death just to see the Apollo 11 capsule. Well, almost nobody.

As we took in the sights and improved our citizenship, our frozen nostrils thawed and filled with an intoxicating blend of sweat and sunblock. On Friday, as we walked to the Metro station from Arlington National Cemetery, I noticed I was sunburned. Down parkas and fleece caps on Monday, shorts and flip-flops on Friday--what a week.

Despite being in the nexus of our nation’s government and surrounded by innumerable American treasures, I was surprised by my lack of patriotism. I stood feet from the Wright Brothers flying machine, but my heart didn’t soar; I gazed upon the Star-Spangled Banner--an impressive flag--but I wasn’t inspired to pen a tune; I strained to make out the signatures of John Adams and Thomas Jefferson on the Declaration of Independence, only faint traces of passionate rebellion stirring within. Was something wrong with me? Did I come from “fake America” or something like that?

As we strolled through the Mall on Friday I was faced by the memorials of great Americans. Some are individual memorials to iconic people like Jefferson and Lincoln, men who have become giants in the American imagination to the point of mythology. Others are general in their gratitude like the World War II Memorial, thanking millions of dedicated men and women with symbolic design instead of individual memorials. All are impressive and charged with emotion and meaning, but only the Vietnam War Memorial truly quickened the pulse of my red, white, and blue.

A simple rift in the immaculate landscape, the memorial deepened as I walked into it. With each passing panel, the names engraved upon its surface multiplied until I came to the axis of the two walls. Staring at thousands of names, it was impossible to escape the reality and heartbreaking cost of the conflict. I didn’t know any of the names listed, but nonetheless I felt humbled and saddened and in the polished stone I saw my own reflection imposed upon them. It’s hard not to feel grateful and, in a strange way, patriotic when faced with name after name of people who willingly or not, gave their lives over to something greater than themselves. For their sake and mine, I hope that particular something is greater, even though I know it always isn’t.

As I rose out of the sunken valley and the names dwindled, the sun seemed a bit dimmer and my heart a bit larger. Neither the grandiose monstrosities of granite and marble, nor the sacred artifacts of our past resonated emotionally with the American in me that week. What did were simple and honest names carved in black stone. As I turned back towards the Lincoln Memorial I was reminded that it took a simple and honest man from the wilderness to lead this country through its darkest years, not an all-powerful god from a towering temple as the memorial would suggest. Perhaps now as we face an uncertain and challenging time, we should strive to trust and celebrate what is simple and honest, rather than believe the opulent, but deceptive, idols we build for ourselves.

As the city’s power brokers dined that night in elegant surroundings, we ate pork chops and sweet potatoes at the Florida Avenue Grill. Our waitress, the kind and straightforward matriarch of the establishment, brought us our food straight from the steam trays along the back wall of the kitchen. We ate amazingly delicious, honest-to-God food with smiles on our faces, thanked our hostess for the meal, and walked back to the Metro to head “home” for the night. Of all our stops during the week, the Florida Avenue Grill could have been the most true, the most humble, and the most American of them all. Simple, honest, and satisfying, what more could you ask for?