High Plains Panhandler

DC/New York: Day 2

You're not allowed to bring cameras, bags, purses, food, drinks, pointed objects, personal grooming items (wha?), guns, fireworks, mace, martial arts weapons (excluding my hands of course - hiiya!) and knives on a White House tour. For some reason I don't understand myself, I told Colleen we couldn't even bring in sunglasses, although this was wrong and I was summarily chastised for it later. You can bring umbrellas. By this I assume they mean the non-spy, non-sharp tipped ones.

Our tour started at 10:30, and our emphatic instructions were to arrive 15 minutes early. We had to flash our ID's and then get the skunk-eye-once-over by the secret service guarding the White House sidewalk, but after that it was easy. We walked up a path to the East Wing of the White House and then just became part of the crowd, flowing along and peering into rooms (but never really entering any). It was like visiting the childhood home of Mark Twain. You could see the desk and bed but you couldn't flop down and take a nap.

We were a little lucky in that a tour guide-in-training was with a few people in front of us, so we listened in and got the skinny on each room we saw. That certainly beat the brief and skeletal pages of info that I had earlier grabbed from the interwebs.

So get this: we were walking through the East Room and our tour guide proxy mentioned that this room is used a lot for press conferences with a podium at the front for the speakers. GW Bush used to enter the room from the rear, flanked by his formal military guides, and the entire press corps would have to stand while he passed them in a slow, almost regal procession. Obama, on the other hand, enters the room from the front doors and comes in quickly, giving no time for anyone to stand up. He gets to business and then leaves. "The entire White House feels completely different now," said the guide.

There were secret service docents in every room answering questions, and they had a tremendous store of interesting facts about the White House. They were all very friendly and approachable, but I know if I had stepped over the thin fabric barrier between Us and Them, it would have been a blur of ninja moves ending with me shackled in a dark room staring at a picture of Dick Cheney. 

The tour was only in the East Wing, and it wasn't really around any of the day-to-day work offices or the super secret iron room that was on "24." We did get to walk through the main White House entrance and out the North Portico, which was very nifty.

In all, we were there about an hour and a half, give or take. Right after, we did some quick walking to the American History Museum, home of Dorothy's ruby slippers, Julie Child's kitchen, and Stephen Colbert's portrait. We spent a dizzying short time at this museum before going to our third place of the day: The Holocaust Museum.

About this place I cannot say enough, so instead I'll say not much at all. But if you go to D.C., on whatever kind of trip, make time for this place. It is a soul wrenching place, but, I believe, ultimately a place of hope and remembrance. There are echoes here, if we listen closely. Echoes that, even today, still resonate. 

I can't say if we enjoyed it because this isn't a place you enjoy.  It's a place you understand. And it's a place you make promises, private oaths for humanity's future.

We needed a long walk after that, so we cut across the Mall and took the subway to Chinatown. From there, we turned a corner and then another until we got to the Spy Museum, five minutes before it closed. The kids were keen to go to the Spy Museum, probably because I oversold it, but they had tremendous fun nonetheless.

Although now that I think about it, Alex doesn't need any more tips for sneaking around the house while spying on people. He's already an expert.

DC/New York Day 1

This year we decided to take the kids on an adventure in civics and extraordinarily large buildings. So we headed to Washington DC and New York City.

First stop: DC. 

Unlike our usual family trips, we flew this time (on one of those newfangled areoplanes, no less!) and landed in DC around one in the morning, the early morning not being nearly as bad as I had been dreading. One fitful half-night's sleep later and we were marching to our first stop: the Museum of Natural History (which was a straight shot from the Embassy Suites where we were staying).

The Museum of Natural History was, of course, great and fantastically dominated by evolution (and helpfully cross-promoted for the movie "Night at the Museum 2"! Happy joy), and we zipped along through the exhibits at a fair clip. We had to do this because we had an Official and Important 1:00 Special tour¹of the National Archives.

In distinctly government fashion, our instructions to begin our tour of the Archives we had to meet at "the Special Events Entrance at the corner of 7th and Constitution. These doors are also marked 'exit.'" 

So we met at our exit door rendezvous and, wielding our Official Magic E-Mailed Invite, we were ushered through the metal detectors and security guards who were chatting to each other and sending text messages on their phones. After that we were on our own (this was, as most tours are, self-guided), so we watched the introductory video about the National Archives and then made our way to the main event: the hall with the Constitution and the Declaration of Independence. 

THIS had a long line (we later figured out we caught the line at the complete wrong time since groups come into the Archives in waves, and since we watched the intro video, we got caught up in the most recent wave - apparently no one in this group watched the video; instead each person rushed to see the Constitution). So we waited and waited while the guards occasionally let a small(ish) group from our line dribble in to see our heritage.

Once we finally got the okay to stroll among the documents (all were sealed, under glass, and under very low lighting), I felt . . . hmmm . . . humbled is a good word . . . to be that close to these faded, yellowed, priceless pieces of paper. Well, humbled that is until I heard a low, southern voice growl behind me as I as looking at the Declaration of Independence: "Well, you can't read nuthin' on that! It's all faded away! They don't take good care of the stuff  here. How do ya even know what's on there. It don't make no sense. I keep better care of my stuff at home!"

And that, my friends, that is the smell of an informed democracy.

We walked around the Mall quite awhile after that, first foolishly eating at the Natural History cafe and spending close to the GDP of Italy on two hotdogs, two slices of pizza, and a salad. We pressed on past the Washington Monument, past the WWII Memorial, past the reflecting pool, and on to the Lincoln Memorial, where we took a long break in the shade. After that we walked past the Vietnam Memorial (where Megan placed a lot of wildflowers), and then we headed back to the hotel by way of the White House (where we heard this observation from someone about the White House lawn: "That'd make a damned fine golf course!"). We got back to the hotel just in time for a tremendously explosive hurricane-like thunderstorm that held us prisoner in the lobby and made us late for dinner with some friends.

After dinner  we walked around the north entrance of the White House, which is quite beautiful at night (not including the heavily armed soldier cruising the grounds on the other side of the fence).  And then, like zombies, we shuffled off to the hotel, Alex on my shoulders for part of the walk. 

D.C. was quiet on the walk back. It was ten at night and you could occasionally hear the hush of a car as it ran through the rain soaked streets. The busy tenor of life in the city had changed, and now it moved slowly, not a soul around. This, I gather, is D.C. before a weekend: a city of power in solitude. A cold, vacuous, sleepy place of white stone facades and bundles of homeless lodged in doorways.

But the cameras on every corner are still watching.

¹ How to get tours of interesting places in D.C. First you have to get hold of your Congresscritter. I did this through e-mail and was surprised to find out I knew the staffer who wrote back to me (this was due to a web of events that are too flummoxing to get into here). Kala, our friendly representative of our representative set up four different tours for us: The National Archives, The Library of Congress, The Capitol, and The White House. The White House was the most difficult to get. I had to send in my request about six months ahead of time, along with security clearance info. Kala was extraordinarily helpful, and I would attribute that to my high social standing and dapper refinement, but since I lack both those I must give complete credit to her for simply being an outstanding Capitol Hill staffer. I did not know there were such things, so I am pleasantly surprised.

Windy day

Megan: casualty of the wind.

 

High School Musical

I don't know the name of the restaurant I'm in. I just picked a random one for dinner tonight. I'm a block off Times Square on restarant row, and someone handed me a flyer on dinner specials. I was hungry and lazy, so here I am.

Some song just played on the stereo that the people at the bar recognized. I know this because they all just started singing and dancing. These were mostly customers, and they all seemed to know the moves. It is very surreal. It is very high school musical.

I'm at a table in the corner. I don't know the lyrics. Tonight I won't be discovered for a new life on broadway.

Nerd!

As all decent conversations go, this one ventured into the world of chess, Star Trek, and magic. My dinner companion, Eero, told me:

"I will now say this, Mark, but you are a nerd. I say this because I am one too, so don't be offended."

Even in Finland I am discovered!

Helsinki

Ah, Helsinki. The land of double consonants peppered with a liberal application of vowels.

I had a little time today to explore Helsinki's city center, but I had to figure out how to get there first. I'm staying at the Airport Hotel Bonus Inn, which was the only place in the entire area that had any rooms available (well, there was another hotel I originally booked that sent me an e-mail asking if I wanted roses or champagne for my room; I realized quickly it was a honeymoon hotel hidden in the north woods somewhere and wasn't exactly the kind of hotel I was looking for).

Although the name sounds a little off, the Airport Hotel Bonus Inn is a very nice place to stay, although my internet access seems broken so I have to connect downstairs in the lobby near the fish tank (there are fish tanks all over the place it seems, even at Hesburger, the burger place down the block). Unfortunately, the Hotel Bonus Inn is far away from everything except the Jumbo mall, so to get to the Helsinki city center I decided to take the local bus #650, which has a stop outside right around the corner.

Four euros later, I was on my way, but I had to pay particular attention because all I had with me was my iPhone (data costs $10 a megabyte in Finland!) and a few pages of a "Helsinki Walking Tours" pdf that I found on the Interwebs last week. I wasn't sure when to get off the bus, but it soon became apparent when the bus stopped and everyone suddenly rushed off, leaving me alone in my seat. I figured this was as good a place as any, so I hopped off and found myself staring at a green statue of, I suppose, a person of importance posed in front of an impressive-looking building. I was tempted to look it up on my phone but I feared the expense. So I picked a direction and walked around instead. 

I'm not sure what mystical powers I have when I'm in strange cities, but whatever it is it attracts people to me when they need directions. This morning was no different. A Frenchman with four kids in tow came up to me as I walked along the Esplanadi on my way to no place in particular. He asked me if he needed to pay to park his car on the street, and when I told him I didn't know he asked what I would do since I had an honest face. Yikes. That's some pressure! I told him to be safe and pay, even if it is Sunday. He waved happily and I kept on walking.

I did want to find a bank or important building, bend down to tie my shoe and then talking into my sleeve, just like a spy, just to see what would happen. It's Helsinki after all, and it still had, at least for me, the old Cold War spy mythos around it. I just don't think anyone would have taken me for anything but a knucklehead since I was in my Rocky Mountain National Park t-shirt. That's a very un-spy looking piece of attire.

I found a city tour bus near the harbor (well, near the massive cruise ships docked in the harbor, and I figured this would be the best place to find any kind of city tour; I would have preferred a bike tour, but it's still too chilly for that I suppose). There weren't very many of us on the tour, which was nice. 

Two highlights of the tour: the Sibelius monument (I was quite excited about this because, after Chuck Mangione and Tchaikovsky, the Sibelius' symphony No. 2 in D major was the third CD I ever bought) and the church in the rock - it's one of those obligatory touristy places that actually ended up being quite nifty. I would have liked to stick around for the violin concert held in the church that night, the acoustics being wonderful because of all the natural stone, but I had to get back to the bus and figure out how to get to the hotel. After all, I did have some work to do.

On my phone, I had made a bookmark of the bus stop's GPS location when it dropped me off, so I found the bus bench easily, and when the bus finally showed up (right on schedule according to the timetable on the wall), I proudly plunked my four euros on the tray next to the driver and started looking for a seat. But it wasn't as easy this time. The bus driver, a kind looking older man, started rattling off a long and incomprehensible string of Finnish, and all I could do was give him a blank look.

He must have been asking me where I was going, since it made sense that the amount you pay depends on the length of your trip. So I tried to explain I wanted to go to the Hotel Bonus Inn, but I was getting no where with my description. Then I thought, well, Finnish does love a good collection of duplicate vowels all pushed together, so I tried a new tactic. Instead of 'hotel bonus' I said, "Hotel Bone-ooh-sss." And I lingered on the long "o," stretching it out an uncomfortably long time.

"Hotel Bone-ooooh-ss!" the driver said, smiling widely. He nodded and slapped my on the shoulder. And then, for the rest of the trip, he made sure to shake his head in the mirror at me at ever stop, just to make sure I didn't get off at the wrong place. At the right stop, he turned around in his seat and gave me the thumbs up. I hopped off the bus and we waved goodbye to each other. 

And then, once back in my room, I crashed, jet lag hitting me upside the head as if someone had smacked me with a toaster. And now, after a dinner of "traditional Finnish potatoes," which I have discovered means "round boiled potatoes minus taste" I'm relaxing in the lobby near the fish while I write this.

It's close to 10:00 in the evening and the sun is just setting, ending a 17 hour day, and all around me are smiling, tall, and very blonde Finns, happy that summer is almost here. I wish I had more time to explore, but this trip is short, just like the night that is finally overcoming the city.

Swine Flu

Today I'm in Paris and I had to sneeze.

That doesn't sound too bad, but when I sneezed I noticed everyone - I mean every single person in the bustling Charles de Gaulle airport terminal 2c turned and looked at me. I think this was because I just happened to be standing under a giant banner with a three feet tall warning about swine flu.

A couple of Germans next to me immediately slapped on their paper masks. So of course I had to tell them:

"Das wird nicht helfen. Est is nur die Taube."

Which I had hoped to mean, "That won't help. It's just the dust." But judging from their wide-eyed reaction, I thought back on my crusty old German and realized I just said,

"That won't help. It's only a pigeon."

"Er," I said, after consulting the miracle of Google translate on my iPhone.  "Ich meine zu sagen der Staub."

But it didn't help because they were walking quickly away. I knew I had to sneeze again, but I didn't want to freak out the French family that had taken the Germans' place. If I did, all I'd be able to say to them would be something along the lines of "I'm on vacation. My brother has taken the train to Lyon. Do you have a room with a bathtub?"

I guess I'll never make the short list for diplomat.

Outdoor Ed

Last Friday I helped out with Outdoor Ed, which, now that I write it, sounds like I helped some old timer loner cowboy who comes into town just to replenish his supply of jerky and salted ham. "Hey, Outdoor Ed! Still mumbling to yourself?"

Outdoor Ed stands for Outdoor Education, and it's a fun day for fifth graders who get to take a bus to a canyon about 45 minutes south of town and do all sorts of interesting things in the baking sun (I say baking because I got a nasty sunburn ON MY HEAD: the sun pieced my hair and found my scalp, more than likely milky white, and fried it).

Since Megan's now in fifth grade and, more importantly, Suzanne chaired the Outdoor Ed committee, I volunteered to teach the kids how to shoot a bow and arrow. Yes, I am a Certified Archery Instructor, which means I have to keep consulting my Official Archery Instructor booklet when I'm trying to string a bow (do this the wrong way and it flies back at an alarming speed and whacks you in the face - I say this from face-whipped experience the day I decided not to consult my official manual and instead relied on my unofficial memory, a flawed device that handles bow stringing details poorly).

The day worked like this: the kids were huddled into six or seven smaller groups, and they rotated through all the day's activities including making marshmallow guns, riding zip lines, and geo caching. These were all parent run and organized, so it was a nice break for the teachers as well.

Archery was particularly fun, I must say, because Suzanne had a great idea of putting the kids' teachers faces on the targets. The kids loved it, and they especially enjoyed shooting at one particular math and science teacher. When they hit his picture with an arrow they'd come up will all sorts of . . . well, particular ways of describing it: "I hit him in the artery and now he's spurting blood! He's dead!" or the ever classic: "Right in the brain pan!"

Later in the day, one of the parents asked me if I hunted with a bow and arrow.

"Hunted?" I asked. "Why would I do that? The grocery story is right down the block."

She gave me a strange look, as if I had suddenly become very stupid.

"You mean you don't hunt? You should hunt. You do a good job hitting the target."

I don't like lectures like this, so I decided to diffuse it. "Yet I can hit a Scotsman at 500 paces with a broadhead and pierce his plate mail. All for King Henry!"

She walked away shaking her head. Why is it so hard to make new friends?

(Oh, one of the best parts of the day: one of the dads got a picture of a six foot rattlesnake with a catfish in its mouth. Crazy nature!)

Maya Angelou

I have neglected to mention Maya Angelou.

A little bit ago West Texas A&M, a university half hour south of us in Canyon, Texas, brought Maya Angelou to campus for a lecture. The school does these kinds of fantastic events every year (last year was Elie Wiesel), but then bizarrely undercuts it all by bringing Karl Rove to talk at commencement.

Maya Angelou was, of course, amazing and beguiling and, believe it or not, really funny.

Before she spoke, the Harrington String Quartet played as a musical accompaniment to her poetry. Unfortunately, the person running the speaker system had something out of whack, so there was the occasional high pitched howl from the speakers. 

Right after one of these electronic screams from the speakers, I leaned over to Colleen and asked her if the quartet was playing Beethoven.

"No," she said. "It's Bach. Feed-bach."

I laughed a little too loudly, and the old man next to me (who had crossed his leg and was poking me with his shoe's sole) gave me the stink eye.

Chess tournament

A nice pawn chain courtesy of Colleen.