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The Capitol and the Copter

The Capitol and the Copter

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I’m setting aside other post ideas today to write about one of the zanier things that’s happened lately in the nation’s capital. I speak, of course, of the 61-year-old mailman who landed his gyrocopter on the west Capitol lawn to draw attention to the need for campaign finance reform.

The Secret Service didn’t intercept him, nor did NORAD. People in the area (if only I had been on one of my Wednesday walks!) told the Washington Post that the craft looked official with its Postal Service logo. Only when officers surrounded the craft did one bystander realize that “it was someone doing something crazy.”

When I lived in New York, people were always doing crazy things. Now that I live in buttoned-down D.C., the crazy things happen less often but are more notable. A farmer driving a tractor to the Mall and threatening to blow it up. A number of White House intruders, one of whom made it all the way to Obama’s quarters before being noticed. An intelligence agency employee who accidentally crashed a drone on White House grounds.

I’m tempted to say “only in D.C.” … but I won’t!

(The lawn in the foreground = copter’s landing pad.)

Lincoln Cottage

Lincoln Cottage

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One hundred and fifty years ago today, President Lincoln was shot in Ford’s Theater. He was carried to a house across the street where he died hours later.

I pass the theater often on my walk home from work, pass it without looking, without thinking, pass it apparently without photographing it — since I’ve looked through all my photos and can’t seem to find one picture of the place.

The house above meant a lot to Lincoln. It was his getaway, his Camp David. Now called the Lincoln Cottage (located on the grounds of the Soldier’s Home), it was where he escaped from the city to write, to think, to spend time with his family. He would sometimes ride the three miles from the White House to the cottage unaccompanied — and he survived at least one assassination attempt en route.

Death was in the air here, too. The Lincoln Cottage was located within the grounds of a military cemetery and fresh graves were being dug at an alarming pace. But Lincoln treasured the relative tranquility of the place and wrote the final draft of the Emancipation Proclamation here. This humble house gave him peace.

Chilled Blossoms

Chilled Blossoms

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The cherry blossoms will peak this weekend, but I was downtown yesterday. So I hiked over to the Tidal Basin in the cold mist. And once there, I walked all the way around it, because that is what you do — even if it’s 45 degrees.

There was the same beauty, the same pageantry, the same fairytale canopy of white blossoms to stroll beneath.

There was a couple posing for an engagement photo, shivering in a sleeveless dress and thin cotton shirt while the photographers shouted at them to embrace one more time.

There were three guys snapping shots of a pair of tennis shoes atop an ancient gnarled trunk.

There were clots of tourists at the predictable places, the Martin Luther King statue and the Jefferson Memorial, following guides with furled umbrellas.

But because of the weather, there was also space, open pavement, more than one empty straightaway.

The blossoms, mostly open, entirely chilled, looked like they’ll last forever. But I know better. This time next week, they’ll be gone. 

Warming Up

Warming Up

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Yesterday’s walk was cold and damp. Tourists were unprepared, wearing thin windbreakers and cotton sweaters with no buttons. Anyone who had a hood was wearing a hood. It was that kind of day.

I had 30 minutes and wanted to make the most of them. And it wasn’t actually raining (as it is now). What else to do but walk as fast as I could without running, stoke the human engine? Pull my hands into my sleeves, cinch the belt as tight as possible… and go. 
Traffic lights work against this process, since it’s all about momentum. But once I was on the Capitol grounds I was warmed up within minutes. 

The transfer of movement into heat is one of those daily miracles. Yesterday it came in very handy.
Just a Walk Around the Block

Just a Walk Around the Block

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Had to mail a package yesterday at lunchtime, and though I didn’t have long I thought I would stroll for a few minutes before returning to my desk.

I walked east toward the Capitol, all swathed in scaffolding (look closely; you can see a worker in a day-glo yellow jacket).

Then behind it past the Supreme Court and Library of Congress, then in front of it where I snapped this shot before heading back down First Street to my office.

Not bad for a walk around the block!

Walking New Jersey

Walking New Jersey

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Wednesdays are good for lunch walks, and yesterday’s stroll was prime. It started on New Jersey Avenue. There’s a block there in front of the hotel, under a canopy of trees, the capitol up ahead, that never fails to buoy me.

I parse the feelings I have when pounding that stretch of pavement. There is the tree cover, which makes me feel protected, secure. There are the taxis and limousines pulling in and out of the hotel’s circular drive, which suggest adventure, the hustle bustle of business being plied. There are people everywhere: tourists wandering guidebooks in hand; office workers scurrying away from the deli on the corner, taking lunch back to their desks.

Everywhere there is movement and energy. I’m walking faster, stretching my legs, opening my eyes after a long morning of close work and frayed nerves. A faint breeze stirs the tree tops. Life moves on. It has to.


(Almost, but not quite, the view from New Jersey Avenue.)

A Grisly Discovery

A Grisly Discovery

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I woke up this morning to the news that human bones had been found alongside a trail in my neighborhood. A walker noticed the bones on Sunday, called police, and yesterday the remains were tested and found to be human. That’s all we know for now.

I walk those trails all the time. We all do. Copper sniffs seemingly every tree and bush. Apparently he missed a spot.

The police have asked anyone with information to call. Here’s what I’d like to say: This is our safe, snug little corner of the world. Please let there be some logical and non-scary explanation for this. Please let our woods remain the quiet sanctuary they have always been. Please don’t let this happen here.

Suburban Still Life

Suburban Still Life

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It could have been an easier office re-entry day. Twenty-seven degrees, snow falling. Schools closed and the parking lot half empty. I realized too late that I left my Metro card at home, and after buying a paper card to get me through the day, I rushed down the escalator only to find a train just closing its doors.

No matter. The world is white and still, a study in snow and steel. I pretend to be a tourist, take photos of Tysons Corner out the window.

It looks almost picturesque. The cars aligned and tracked, the sky mottled and gray. Remove the blue Honda sign — or keep it, if you like, it adds a spot of color. A suburban still life.

It’s almost like I’m on vacation.

Almost. Not quite.

The Dome in Darkness

The Dome in Darkness

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Driving in this morning, dark skies, rain on my windshield, I waited, as I always do, for that first glimpse of the city. It’s a low city, D.C., but there is a spot on the Roosevelt Bridge where you can see both the Washington Monument and the Capitol dome.

The Monument, earthquake repairs complete, stands in all its unsheathed glory. Now it’s the Capitol dome’s turn for repairs. It’s been more than 50 years since the last major work was done, and the dome needs cast iron filler, new windows and paint. Without them, the dome — and even artwork in the rotunda — will be in danger.

I’d dreaded the project, worried about how it would spoil the view of the Capitol. But what a picture it makes at night. The dome glows within its cage, giving the scaffolding an airy, ethereal feel and amplifying the impression the dome always gives, which is that it floats above the rest of the city.

The only difference is that now it looks a bit fuzzy around the edges. The scaffolding — and the darkness — make their own artistic statements.


(Photo: Courtesy Architect of the Capitol.)

Long Way Home

Long Way Home

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The Building Museum on a warm, sunny day.

When the day is long, the air is cold, and the bag is heavy (last night’s contents: piles of work, a newspaper, magazine, shoes and gym clothes) the Judiciary Square Metro stop is the natural choice. It’s five minutes away from the office.

But last night I pushed on to Metro Center. It’s a mile or so down the road: Down E Street to Ninth Street to F Street to Thirteenth and almost to G. I walk past the Building Museum and the National Portrait Gallery, through Chinatown and Penn Quarter, get almost as far as the White House before I head down to the train.

I catch snatches of conversation (“Well, there’s that Italian place down the street…”),  spot the remnants of a farmer’s market, see scores of tourists milling around the Spy Museum.

My bag is heavy, I think of the errands I have to run before I get home. But I’m glad I chose this route. I was tired when I started. But I’m not anymore.