RETRACING US HISTORY IN HIGH HEELS
via Virginia
We take all the pictures we can.
Inside, outside, amidst the red carpet, on the terrace overlooking the Potomac River, rowing team slicing across the water as if on cue. I nick my new three-inch heels on uneven ground, my closet perfectionist only moderately irate, I tell her it will be a novel bookmark for The Day I Watched a Ballet at the Kennedy Center.
We decide to wing it.
It’s Washington DC sightseeing straight after the performance.
I suck it up in gladiator heels.
At the hotdog stand on Constitution Ave. I pay by credit card, amazed at the ever growing list of things Only in
America. Albert Einstein’s gentle expression from across the street makes me think he thinks the same. Sculptor Robert Berks may have gotten flak for his textured “chewing gum” style, but having the famous physicist seated like a lovable grandpa shuffling through papers, one can’t muster the heart to find fault. Instead, a quick climb onto the memorial’s bronze lap becomes a compelling must.
At the Vietnam Veterans Memorial Wall. Crowds pay their respects. Picturesque against the Washington Monument, it is bigger than an Instagram moment. Honoring more than 58,000 fallen military personnel, a book under glass lists the wall location of the veteran you’re looking for. Those that are found have flowers and keepsakes at their feet, or letters from grateful kindergarteners propped by their sides.
At the Lincoln Memorial. We scour the steps for where Martin Luther King Jr. spoke. “I Have a Dream” is inscribed 18 steps from the top landing, marking the exact spot where the reverend delivered his iconic speech on August 28, 1963.
Further in, Abraham Lincoln holds court over a crowd of excited, trigger happy tourists. Though seated, he towers at 19 feet, proportions worked out so that standing, the statue would be 28 feet, as imposing as his 6-foot, 4-inch frame. Abe’s mind is surely boggled, at how tiny smartphones replaced box cameras since the memorial opened in 1922.
By the Washington Monument. The white obelisk
stands at 555 feet and 5 1/8 inches, the tallest building in the world when completed in 1884, surpassing the Cologne Cathedral. Five years later, Eiffel Tower trumps the incumbent for the title.
Near 1660 Pennsylvania Ave. I power on Olivia-Pope style, not letting on I am shod by Ivanka Trump. Die-hard Democrats won’t buy my version of “fashion is nonpartisan,” or in other words, “the sale was just too good to pass up.” But really, who would want to start a commotion, White House rooftop snipers clear across the street?
At the Marine Corps War Memorial. Teetering on the balls of my feet, I keep from sinking into a patch of grass.
Based on the Pulitzer Prize photograph taken by Joe Rosenthal in 1945, six Marines raise a flag on Mount Suribachi in Iwo Jima, Japan, marking the end of the American campaign in the Pacific in World War II. Goosebumps overcome while reading “Philippine Insurrection”, “Bataan and Corregidor” as among major battles involving US Marine Corps engraved on the granite base.
We’d been shuttling past the Potomac River almost daily.
Though I understood it separated one from the other, there were times I couldn’t tell where DC ended and Virginia began. Perhaps because once upon a time, Virginia, ceded land for the creation of a capital unbeholden to any state. Years passed, life happened, lands wanted back. Borders shifted, but the cloth from which the parcel was cut was still very much the same.
Old Town Alexandria is gorgeous, envy mounts knowing George Washington had this for a hometown. Beelining for Sur Le Table, I am moments away from the Lodge cast iron pan, lusted over for two years. But on King st., thrill is overtaken by wonder, at the main artery of shops, restaurants and attractions frozen in time—cobblestones, brick walls, streets framed by trees. The passing King Street Trolley calls to mind period towns in amusement parks, but the plaque on the wall marking the spot historic tells you it’s the real deal.
It is festive at the Verizon Center in Downtown DC. The Wizards had won and everyone who was a fan was a friend, even if you didn’t know them. Benette, long time gal pal, calls for a celebration. We zip back to King st., ring the bell at unmarked PX. A throwback to the 1920s Speakeasy, it’s where everyone wants be because it’s hard to get in. Seating 25, reservations are made online, sometimes up to two weeks in advance.
We mull over the drink list dreamed up by master mixologist Todd Thrasher, finally settling on Start of a Beautiful Life, I’m Working on It, Not Twerking on It and Hip and Bitter.
An hour and a happy buzz later, I get the feeling the server is trying to up the turnover since we weren’t drinking like fish. He’s agreed to take our picture with the bartender, so he still gets a fat tip. Bartenders are rock stars here, it took some time to gather the courage to ask. I doubt the Prohibition was as nerve-racking. Benette Vibers. Madam
Secretary filmed some scenes by the National World War II Memorial. We missed it by days. Why couldn’t they do it while we traipsed the city in heels?
I go back to my House of Cards marathon. Maybe next time, I’ll have better luck catching Claire Underwood instead.