When is a Mall not a Mall?
Our first stop today is Union Station in Arlington so I can collect my train ticket for tomorrow. I’ve already booked to go to Hickory, I’m just not sure of the system. This logic is justified when the machine won’t give me my ticket. After some wrangling with the machine we emerge victorious and celebrate with a quick bite for breakfast before heading to National Mall. This is not, as I previously suspected, a shopping mall. It is a wide, pedestrian-only boulevard, lined with monuments.
We start two blocks away from the mall, walking past the massive Old Post Office, which looks like a medieval church. Strolling through the open courtyard at the rear, we reach the centre of the National Mall. We turn right and go to the Washington Memorial, the tallest building in the district. It is more of a tower, ringed with American flags. From here, we walk past the National WWII memorial, which has a fountain in the middle, along the reflecting (as in ‘thinking’, rather than ‘casting reflections’) pool, which boasts an impressive population of ducks and geese, to the Lincoln Memorial. This is the oft-pictured statue of Lincoln sitting down and has the Gettysburg address on one wall.
We detour past the Korean War Veterans Memorial, which is a group of steel soldiers marching through a garden bed. This one is kind of disturbing as many of the faces are slightly grotesque. Lining the entire mall are imposing buildings, like the Bureau of Engraving, where US currency is designed and printed; the Smithsonian Institute buildings; galleries; and government departments.
We pause for a hot dog, which is just as disgustingly artificial as in other countries, and then walk down to the Capitol building. I’m surprised by how close you can get. There are security guards, but I thought they would be a lot more obvious. A whole group of people show up on segways. Somehow it seems disrespectful having these things careering around the forecourt of the Capitol.
We’re pretty tired by now, but decide we can’t miss the White House, so go in search. It’s a fair distance, but we find it and again I’m surprised by how close we are allowed to get. There is only one policeman there watching, but I bet he has squadrons of backup.
Back at Murali’s he starts running a fever again. He’s alternating between shivering and sweating, but insists he’ll be fine for dinner. We go to Ray’s the Steaks and again opt for the Chef’s special. We have cashews and foccacia squares to nibble on while we wait, and seafood chowder. Our main is hanger steak. No idea what part of the cow it is, but it is charcoal-grilled to perfection and served with mashed potatoes and creamed spinach. For dessert, I choose the baked cheesecake. It is rich and creamy, meaning I can’t finish it, but I do it justice.
By the time we get home, Murali is burning up at about 103.8 degrees. We compare that to me at 97.8 and realise this is not good, but he decides to try to sleep it off.
In Transit
Murali is back in good health and drops me to the metro on his way to work. I lug my rucksack onto the train and through the line change, back to Union Station. I know I’m going to be early, but I figure I can sit in Starbucks and use their WiFi. Not so. The line for Starbucks stretches out the door and down the hall, and they don’t have any seating. The next coffee place down doesn’t have a queue, so I grab a coffee there, which turns out to be better than Starbucks anyway, and go and sit near the train gates. No free WiFi, so I watch people, avoiding eye contact so I don’t attract wierdos. This works until I move to the correct gate for my train. A young guy wearing a baseball cap and baggy pants asks if the seat next to me is free. There is clearly no-one sitting in the four seats next to me, so I have to say yes. He then politely asks if he can ask me a question about the train. I say sure, but warn him in my strongest Australian accent that I probably won’t know the answer. It’s an easy question when I look at his ticket, so I do know the answer. Now he wants to talk. He’s going to see his girlfriend in North Carolina who is seven months pregnant. It’s a boy. As the train boards I subtly weave away from him so I don’t have to sit next to him for the following eight hours.
The train seats are quite comfortable and the scenery is lovely. To me this looks like Huckleberry Finn country, with lush green forests interrupted by muddy brown rivers with little wooden pontoons. It would be even lovelier if the enormous woman across from me would stop snoring – she’s so loud she drowns out the clickety-clack of the tracks.
The train journey passes uneventfully, although it runs late, but when I disembark, Jeff is there waiting for me – another colleague from my Ski Dubai days. It’s about a two hour drive to his parents’ place on the outskirts of Hickory, North Carolina. They live in a slightly cluttered but homely house, overlooking a lake – not that I notice much of this, I’m too tired. I get to meet Marshall, Jeff’s dad, who is warm and welcoming and has that country twang in his speech and then I collapse into bed.
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