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February Ride at 65
05 Feb 08
I turned 65 years of age, three weeks ago, and the realization that I'm still alive and kicking has not yet hit me. I envisioned my getting the Official Senior Citizen badge, then falling, or being shoved, off a cliff, no longer useful to society. To my amazement, I still have enough faculties to enjoy myself, so may as well use them up.
I have ridden my motorcycle to three of the four corners of the Lower 48 of America; the check box beside the SouthEast box needs filling in. I have friends and relatives in that general direction; by reputation, it is warmer there than here in Ohio in February; I've had a certain curiosity for Key West since first reading about it in the sixth grade. And I need to get away if I am to keep my reputation as a traveler.
The 26-year-old BMW is still my instrument of choice for riding excitement, it giving me no excuse to replace it. For certain, no other 26-year-old is going to put excitement between my legs.......at least not at a price I'm willing to pay.
The old girl was reluctant to start, but once started, it remembered its purpose and resumed its eagerness to unwind the road, responsive to my every touch. A willing motorcycle is the purest way to travel. I thrill every time I ride.
I bored friends with my intentions to travel for quite some time before I left; the weather goddesses were watching and hurled ice and snow all around me, either at home or at the first day's intended destination. Timing was critical, for I did not want to be marooned at some cheap motel without decent food nor drink. If I could get over the Appalachian Mountains, either to the east or the south, I would be less likely to encounter truly in climate weather the rest of the way to Florida.
I had not visited Washington, D.C., for a tourist visit since I can remember. Was it really 1968 or 9? Surely, I have been there at least once since then. But it is one place I readily recommend to foreigners to visit on their first visit to the U.S.. The concentration of museums and activities, culturally speaking, is not exceeded anywhere else I have ever visited. It is a place Americans can be proud of, a place they can rightfully call their own. I wanted to reacquaint myself with it again on this trip.
Once on the East Coast, next to the ocean and away from the higher altitudes, I could travel with less regard to weather change. Or I could return from Florida, driving up the coast, and hang out in Washington until the weather broke enough for me to dash home.
As it turned out, on the day I thought it judicial to leave, niece Cheryl, in Charlotte, North Carolina, the other possible first stop, phoned to say she would be in Georgia for three days. Washington became the first destination of choice.
I left Ohio with the outside temperature in the 60's......so why go to Florida? I was packed and ready to go and the weather was likely to change the next day.
Due east, for me, meant traveling across the state of West Virginia. I took the backroads to Morgantown, and there got onto Interstate 86, a freeway in the direction of Washington. At Morgantown, it started to rain, so I stopped to top off the fuel tank, although I didn't really need it, and a cup of coffee. And to put on my rain suit.
I don't put on the rain suit lightly; although it works, it is cumbersome to get on, and once on, is restrictive to other activities, like getting to inside pockets or going to the bathroom.
As I was going about my chores, a large General Motors product with a Harley Davidson logo on the front of it pulled in to the gas pump behind me. A young girl, probably slightly less than the age of my bike, was driving it.
She was a pretty thing, with a round face, willowy figure, and pleasant disposition. She commented that it may not be a good day for riding a bike, given the rain that had now turned into a downpour. I told her that I would rather be sipping cognac by a fireplace, but she didn't bite for this suggestion. She did, however, pull up the back of my rain suit over my leather jacket, something I had to admit I needed assistance on. She was probably thinking she would get Brownie points for helping the kindly old man.
Then it was off into the wet......all the way to Washington! It rained and it rained and it rained, varying only in intensity. I stayed dry, inside the rain suit, but my hands became wet and cold through the leather gloves. Thankfully, the temperature didn't drop to freezing cold, even as I crossed the low mountains (I think the highest being 2800 feet altitude), but there was still snow along the road in shaded areas.
I lost a lot of feeling in my fingers and was happy to stop and thaw out at the next required gasoline stop. The water had washed the black dye from my cheap Chinese gloves and transferred it to my hands. I appeared to have gangrene, or the creeping crud, with large splotches of black on my hands.
I told the chubby girl at the cash register that the discoloration was harmless, or at least I thought it to be harmless. She replied that maybe I could make a lot of money with hands that looked like that.
The rain stopped just outside of Washington, and I was safely and comfortably resting in the DoubleTree Hotel, room 601, downtown, six hours after I had left home. The streets and traffic were not difficult, and I made only one wrong turn.
Jeff Shade had put me on to priceline.com as a method of finding a good room at a cheap price. I wasn't able to get a room as cheaply as he had found in California, but I probably got a pretty good deal for Washington, D.C.. I got a suite on the VIP floor for 90 bucks a night.
The room was bigger than my apartment atop the barn at home; the bathroom was bigger than many rooms I've stayed in in Europe. It includes two rooms, two tables, two television sets, a couch and two separate living room chairs, and quietude. It's six blocks form the White House, which is as close as I'm ever going to get to living in that august abode.....or even closer than I want to live to Ground Zero.
They are charging me $14 a night for a place in their garage for my motorcycle. I have to pay ten bucks a day to get on line for my e.mail (compared to nothing for access at cheap hotels/motels). But I'll get rich by saving more than 200 bucks a day over the regular price.
After stowing my bags, I went to the bar for a drink of wine. The cheapest glass was $9 a glass, their price; I'm sure they purchased it for less than that a bottle. None of the labels were recognizable and my glass of wine was an insult to the taste buds. Write them off as a place to buy a drink.
After resting from my hard day's drive, I wandered down the street to find a restaurant.
On the way, I passed a hotel with many blue lights on trees placed in front. Two very well dressed Japanese girls were preparing to take each other's pictures in front of the lights. Being the considerate gentleman that I am (in the presence of good-looking young women) I offered to take their picture together. Then they asked me to do it again. I told them that they would be famous from these pictures and passed on down the street. I was hungry.
In the area of my hotel, are many, many other hotels of goodly size. Each of these hotels has their own restaurants. While I eschew hotel restaurant food, generally speaking, I was not in the mood to search the streets, on foot, for very long. Surprisingly, the best looking menu presented on the street was a restaurant associated with a Merriott Hotel.
The decor in Nage Restaurant was a notch above industrial standard (as in Holiday Inn), but the menu looked promising. Wine by the glass was the same price as in the DoubleTree but at least some of the labels were recognizable. And to close the meal, they served me at least a triple Remy Martin VSOP for 8 dollars; go figure.
They advertised themselves as an "East Coast Eatery", something that includes fish.
My rockfish was a bit old, and a bit overdone, but still edible. The persimmon sauce and the date paste that came with it were well enough, but the red potatoes were right up there with wallpaper paste in taste. The chef informed me that they were "mild" potatoes, to which I replied that they were too mild.
Total bill, with service, was $90.90. I won't bother to go back.
Tomorrow promised to be a full tourist day, so I hit the sack. I was in the swing of things, this traveling thing, and I would need all the rest I could get.
Impressions of Washington D.C.
It was my intention to park my motorbike and walk to selected attractions in Washington. While this posed a bit of extended hiking, and I've been told that Washington has a good subway system as an alternative, I stuck to my resolve. I would recommend good walking shoes rather than the leather-soled loafers I wore, but on a motorcycle, carrying space is a premium.
Most of my impressions of modern Washington are favorable. Take into consideration that my observations are the square blocks of downtown, the Capitol Mall, and surrounds. The city sprawls far into Maryland and Virginia and is most certainly more diverse than the city center.
It's an open city; the streets are wide and spacious, letting light come in between the buildings. The buildings themselves, though large, are not skyscrapers. I never got the crowded, claustrophobic feeling that I have felt in downtown New York, Chicago, or Boston, for examples.
The streets are clean; buildings are well kept up. This gives a feeling that all is well, economically speaking and security wise. Mobile police presence is conspicuous and reassuring.
Automobile traffic is heavy, to be sure, but it almost always flows. Drivers are not overly aggressive, and are respectful of one another's needs.
In any particular place I have visited, the types and makes of vehicles driven are indicative of the economy and attitudes of the locals. Here in Washington are a lot of cars and very few pickup trucks.
And there is a relatively high ratio of expensive cars. I think the BMWs are the most popular of the high-dollar autos, but German cars in general are very popular. So are Hondas.
It was also surprising how many late model Chryslers were being utilized. Black is a popular color of cars, more so than any other place I can recall. If a black Chrysler 300 with darkened windows pulls up, it can be intimidating; you just KNOW the passengers will be carrying machine guns in violin cases!
Apparently, these cars may be part of the government motor pool, for I several times saw police escorts wending them through the traffic. (I wonder what rank in the government it takes to get this privilege?)
Most of the taxi cabs are older Lincolns; I have no explanation for this choice. I never succumbed to taking a cab, but they were always readily available.
Motorscooters and bicycles are often seen, but I wouldn't say that there is an unusual abundance of them for a city center.
And the streets are very pedestrian friendly; rightaway is posted as being on the side of the pedestrian, and drivers willingly give it. I particularly like the lighted countdown signs for pedestrians that tell you how many seconds you have to get across the street before the light changes against you.
People are not always overtly friendly to strangers, but I admit to getting enough smiles that I checked to see if my fly was unzipped; they could have been smiles of mirth rather than friendliness.
Away from the Capitol Mall, on the business and office streets, I was very much the exception as a tourist. Fellow pedestrians were relatively well dressed, men in coat and tie, women often wearing skirts or dresses. There appears to still be a lot of formality in the business dress code.
For the men, so many of them seemed to be wearing the coat and tie as a uniform, more to accommodate custom than as a good show of formality. I actually felt sorry for them and felt smug to be walking among them as a truly emancipated soul!
It was a delight to my eyes to see so many young women wearing dresses and being well dressed in general. I saw this type of woman everywhere, as if they were a majority. I imagine that many of these women have aspirations of getting a name for themselves and fitting under the Presidential desk in the Oval Office....or getting under the desk in the Oval Office and making a name for themselves!
In the old days, I could have explained the reason for so many young women. They were imported from the far reaches of the land, brought to Washington to serve as secretaries in the government offices. Secretary is an old-fashioned word today (at least in big business), replaced by electronic communications. That is, unless you are at the upper echelons, they you have a administrative assistant.
Back in the old days, I lost a girl friend to the call of the federal Health, Education, and Welfare Department. She went from Doolin Run, just outside of New Martinsville, to the big city and left this farm boy behind.
The last I knew of her, her married boss was taking her to the movies "just to be friendly". Not even I was that gullible! Like Charlie Brown, I was the loser who never got the little red-headed girl.......and this was a good thing.
But back to Washington, today.
In any case, it was common to see young women walking the streets (in the good sense of the term) alone, unescorted, apparently unafraid In the early evening, I also saw many young women jogging the streets, obviously health conscience. This is a sign of good security and I took heart in this fact as well, never mind my appreciation for a youthful figure.
By reputation, Washington, District of Columbia, is a black city. For sure, the black population is conspicuous, downtown, but not the majority. They, and people with foreign accents, are the backbone of the service industry.
The seamy side of Washington that I saw was the amount of apparently homeless. The profile was black male, appearing able bodied, but doing nothing. Laying about in some park or sheltered nook, begging was their occupation. I never had to walk very far without seeing another, and never felt intimidated by them. I offer no answer to this blot on society.
Washington is supposed to be a restaurant city; politicians needing to be taken out to dinner, our nation's future relies on a good meal. I made no attempt, ahead of time, to know which restaurants are currently popular. I found a great one by chance, only a few blocks from my hotel.
The Mio Restaurant is decorated in imaginative modern decor, the kind of decor one often finds in fancy restaurants. I can understand the statement, I know it's fashionable, but I don't find it conducive to a good appetite. I ignore it.
But the food and service were tremendous. Proprietor Manuel Iguina and staff made me feel most welcome and served up the best restaurant meals I've had in ages.
The veal sweetbreads were outstanding; the goat ragout to die for. The cheese plate was as good as any I've ever had, and it matched greatly with the 20 Year Old Taylor Fladgate Port. The cheese and wine were even better considering that Manuel presented it "on the house". And beautiful, blonde, blue-eyed, young waitress Claire paused from her duties and shared European experiences with me for half an hour, making me feel like we had a lot in common; I allowed myself to be flattered, but I'm not yet THAT stupid.
The meal cost me $125.10, including TIP (but none to Clare); a goodly portion of the bill was for wine.
This place goes on my "Recommended Restaurants" list:
Mio Restaurant
1110 Vermont Avenue NW Suite 1
Washington DC 20005
Phone (202) 955-0075
Hiking Washington D.C.
There's too much in Washington D.C. to do in one visit, at least not in a short one. One must take a break now and then. The mind goes TMI (Too Much Information) after only scratching the surface of the things worthwhile visiting. My first priority was to visit the art galleries and the Viet Nam War Memorial; all other sites would be secondary.
I'll amend that to say that my first priority in the morning was to find a good cappuccino and a croissant; then I would be properly equipped to search for culture. Alas, I was not to find one.
To be sure, coffee shops abound in Washington. But they are not meant for lingering; they are meant as dispensers of hot brown water that is carried in paper cups to various offices. There is no semblance to a civilized way to start the day.
I tried several coffee shops, quickly scratching them off when I was asked size, "12, 16, or 24 ounce cup?" This can't be anything but American coffee, for a proper cappuccino would not exceed an 8 ounce cup, even with foam.
"Do you want French vanilla, English toffee, Mocca surprise, Chocolate chestnut, Raspberry whirl, etc.?" Hmmm, did I get into an ice cream parlor by mistake? I was looking for coffee, not ice cream.
I learned to first ask if the coffee is served in a ceramic cup, a "real" cup. In the one place I was told "yes" it was served to me in a paper cup, and I refused it. The exasperated server did find me a proper cup, however; most places don't have anything but paper cups. Don't they know what this is doing to the world's forests? Why doesn't some anarchist take this on for a cause?
When still employed, I use to drink coffee during the day in order to stay awake. Now, retired, I wish to sit and enjoy a cup of coffee in the morning as a companion for contemplation of the day to come. I wish to take coffee as a drink, not a drug. I was to leave Washington without ever finding a suitable cappuccino or croissant. And, yes, I did too try the two Washington state based purveyors of coffee that get a lot of credit from the masses.
(I want my readers to know that I did not make my search for a proper coffee in Washington with a malicious attitude; I remained polite and cheerful, declining the offers to my requests as merely not being what I wanted, not a subject for my disdain. In my older age, I'm trying to be a kinder, gentler skeptic.......perhaps I should carry a cage of butterflies and release one when my desires are not met.)
So for my first cultural exposure, I showed up at the National Portrait Gallery. Too early. It was ten o'clock, but they, in their infinite wisdom, didn't see fit to open until 11:30. I was aghast.
Seeing that my well laid plan for the day was in disarray from the get-go, I placed a foot on a low wall and studied the map. I was interrupted by a pleasant black fellow, rounded in face and figure, middle-aged, who asked me if he could be of guidance. I explained to him that I had no idea that my cultural experience was to begin so late in the day; he gave me some alternatives that started earlier. Apparently this nice fellow is paid to go around and be nice to tourists, an ambassador at large. Did he used to be homeless, I wonder?
I would be fair to say that I spent the most of the first day in the west wing of the National Gallery of Art. I wandered round and round, losing my sense of location for most of the time, but I do believe I viewed everything. It is an immense collection, and a person would not have to be much of an art fan to recognize many of the famous names in painting and sculpturing. And the architecture itself is worth an examination.
One Hall in the National Gallery of Art
Of course, I, being me, had to pay particular attention to the nudes, which was easy, because most of the statues were of nudes. (To be sure, the nude female is the downfall of America's next generation; look at me.) The one thing I learned is that sculpture artists favor exposing the right female breast over the left one. I have no explanation of this, (maybe the right is prettier than the left) but if you wish proof, I can send you pictures of various examples.
Unless you have tremendously more insight into art than I do, you may skip the east wing of this gallery. The "modern art" presented there was not worth the walk, to me. While I can admit to a certain appreciation of what some "modern artists" are presenting, I cannot admit that I would rather look at their work over an "old-fashioned" nude. Awright, I don't understand women, either, but they are prettier.
Lunch was taken in the National Gallery, upstairs, in the main hall, rather than downstairs, in the cafeteria. A glass of wine and a lobster bisque soup set me back more than 20 bucks........but the service and ambiance were nice.
I did eventually make my way to the National Portrait Gallery & American Art Museum. To be sure, there are many excellent portraits there, but I think the place is more for a history lesson than for art. A person could spend days there, learning the who-is-whom in American history. This is a very educational place.
During my three days in Washington, D.C., I also took in the U.S. Botanical Garden, next to the Capitol Building. They had a beautiful orchid display, besides a jungle setting and other specialty rooms. This place is very well done, but I expected a bigger place, something on a national scale; I'm seen the equal in size and scope in many cities.
One of Many Types of Orchids in U.S. Botanical Garden
The same criticism could be said of the National Aquarium. This is the only museum that charged admission. Nice presentations, educational, but not of a national scope. They were cut off of public funds and made to sink or swim (pun intended), hence the admission charge. I would be for a tax supported aquarium of national size and scope in the Nation's Capitol.
It does feel a bit odd, not to have to pay admission to view such quality and size of presentations, but let's say that at least we can see something that the taxpayer is getting something for his/her money.
The Smithsonian Arts Exhibit and Hirschhorn Gallery sort of mirrored the National Art Gallery, but on a smaller scale. This was the only place I was forbidden to photograph, although no explanation for this policy was forthcoming. The Hirschhorn Gallery building, externally, was interesting, but the modern art housed within was even more bland than usual. Here's proof:
Much Ado about Nothing
A Clandestine Photo of Hirschhorn Modern Art Exhibit
Now on to more serious subjects.
I remember reading about the Viet Nam War Memorial in National Geographic magazine; it was so descriptive that it brought tears to my eyes (others have confessed to the same feelings after reading the piece). I, and many of my generation, had a large stake in that war.
I was in the Air Force, stationed in Okinawa, Japan, and the crew chief on a F-105 fighter bomber. This was in the years 1964-65. Officially, we were not yet in the Viet Nam war, but our aircraft would return to base with unexplained damage. Where the aircraft had been was a secret. Then we could say that the aircraft were in Thailand, not Viet Nam.
My aircraft, being the aircraft with the least discrepancies in maintenance, and the shiniest, was the commander's plane. It was sent to Thailand, where it promptly broke; it took a while to get parts. Finally fixed, it was shot down on its first mission. This, after President Lyndon Baines Johnson had campaigned that, "Our sons will not die on foreign soil!"
Fast forward 4 and 5 years later and I was in Viet Nam myself, first assisting the Air Force, then going back a second time to support the Marines. In those days I was as patriotic as was expected of a mainstream American citizen; against the hippies, and supportive of our leadership. I did not easily come to the conclusion that something was wrong here. The price we were paying in lives and money was not worth the supposed security we would get by defending South Viet Nam against communism. What was being preached from America's political offices and pulpits was wrong.
I lost my political innocence, somewhere along the line. Even if we had had proper cause to be in Viet Nam, the way the war was being handled was wrong. Rather than letting our capable generals, up front, win the war, we were literally telling aircraft how to fly, from Washington, D.C..
I became, and remain, skeptical of America's foreign intervention without consensus from the rest of the world. The Viet Nam War Memorial means that to me.
I was a bit disappointed with the actual construction of the memorial; it appeared to be a cheap, afterthought, of a place, rather than one of imposing dignity (as abounds in our Capitol). The idea of a check mark shape, tapering from nothing to maximum height and back again, is a good one.
To see the names of all those people who died in the lost cause, arranged in the order in which they died, brought home the biggest aspect of the true cost of the war. Surely, I knew some of those names, when they were persons, not just a name, but I made no effort to look for them. They had died for an ideal, but in vain.
The black granite tablets containing the names should be thicker, of more substantial mass, and above ground, not in the ground. They could then be banked at the back with earth, as they are. I would find more dignity in this presentation than as it is. As it is, a visit to the memorial is more of a personal pilgrimage than a lesson in history for all.
The Reward for Courage, Sacrifice, and Dedication
Now I'll get off my political soapbox and give the reader a rest.
I did not photograph Washington extensively, although I came equipped to do so, and I enjoyed good weather to do so. I got caught up in just "doing" Washington, and failed to record it for the eye.
I must return another day, and set different goals for my trip. It is indeed worthy of many, many visits.
Next, I will be heading south, towards warmer weather. – Gary.
If the reader wishes to read the complete narrative, contact the author: gary@lechateauhillbille.com | 
