Buckley - Washington schlepped here: walking in the nations capital

Table of Contents

For Conor,First-generation Washingtonian

BY WAY OF EXPLANATION...

WHEN CROWNan ironic name, it only now occurs to me, for the publisher of a book about Washington, D.C.asked me to write a walking tour book about the city, I replied, Sure, but can I drive? Its a big town and it can get awfully warm. No way, they replied. The editor also saida bit rudely, to my way of thinkingYou look as though you could use a walk. True enough, at 355 pounds, I had perhaps let myself go. So after consulting with my family and various medical authorities, I proposed, Okay, but you pay half the funeral expenses if I drop dead on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial. I also demanded burial at Arlington National Cemetery. After prolonged negotiations with the authorities, it turns out that you cannot be buried there if you were deemed medically unfit and never served a day in the U.S. Armed Forces. It is my hope that this colossal injustice will someday be rectified. At any rate, I didnt die, and am thrilled to report that I am now down to a svelte 340 pounds, and that everywhere I go, I hear those delightful words, Youve lost weight! To be paid to shed pounds while exploring a city that I lovewell, now I can truly say, Is this a great country, or what?

I came here in July 1981. Like many others who came here to Washington to work for the government, I was certain it would be temporary. It is now July 2002, and here I still am.

The late Joseph W. Alsop (another Connecticut transplant) once wrote that no matter how long one lives hereand he did, conspicuously, for over half a century it somehow never feels permanent. He called himself, that sad and rootless thing: a Washingtonian. Cave Dwellers, that is, Washingtonians whose families have lived here since the Pleistocene epoch and generally make sure youre aware of it, would probably sniff at that, but then they sniff at pretty much everything.

The day I moved here, I got lost driving down and ended up on New York Avenue. It was a warm summer night and I had the top down on my Volkswagen Rabbit, and I had no idea where I was, when suddenly I looked up and there was the gleaming white dome of the U.S. Capitol. It was like a scene in a movie, and I still get a lump in my throat every time I think about that moment. I suspect almost everyone who comes here to work for the government harbors, deep down, a Jimmy StewartMr. SmithGoes to Washington fantasy. A few minutes later I was driving past the White House, and the Old Executive Office Building next to it, where I would report to work the next day. I thought, What an adventure this is going to be.

Next morning I presented myself to the Secret Service guard at the White House southwest gate, drenched in sweat after the five-block walk from my Foggy Bottom rental, only to be told that my name wasnt in the computer so they werent going to let me in. Washington is very good at bringing youthful dreamers back to earth.

They let me in eventually, and I did have adventures. I worked at the White House for two years, married a beautiful CIA officer, who still refuses to tell me what she did there. I wrote a novel called The White House Mess (the pun being that the staff dining room there is run by the navy and therefore called The Mess).

Today the adventure is raising two children, and thats enough for any lifetime. But when I see those motorcades go by, I think back to the days when I used to ride in them (usually in the way, way back). When I look up and see Marine Two circling the U.S. Naval Observatory, preparing to pick up the vice president, I remember what the view looked like from up there. I remember being in the War Room, in the bowels of the Pentagon. One time I had to act as a courier and carry top secret documents to the vice president. Another time, at an all-star baseball game, his military aide asked me to take care of the Football, the briefcase containing the nuclear launch codes, while he went to the bathroom. Another time I got to press the launch trigger on a ballistic nuclear submarine and saw the instrument panel light up: MISSILE AWAY. I dont want to make too much of this nuclear thing, lest you begin to wonder about me, but at the time I was in my twenties and it seemed awfully sort of cool. They used to let me into the Situation Room at the White House whenever I knocked, and oh, the top secrets I heard! One night, exhausted and to be honest a little bit drunk after a grueling swing through Latin America that had begun with the discovery of 75 pounds of plastic explosives under the threshold of our runway in Bogot, the vice presidents press secretary and I hijacked Air Force Two on the way back from Rio. (We wanted a nights R&R in Rio Mr. Bush wanted to return to Washington so he could play tennis. Revolutions have started over less.) The vice president effectively quashed our uprising by turning down the volume on the planes loudspeaker as I read our demands. I have a photo of it. At the bottom, he wrote that I was forgiven, but that my punishment was to write 16 speeches a week, all on the theme respect for the office. George Bushthis would be George H.W. Bushwas and is as fine and decent and lovely man as I have ever known, and it was a privilege and honor to work my young butt off for him.

It will quickly become apparent that Im no historian. Moreover, that I know nothing about architecture, art, politics, and for that matter, landscaping. This begs the question: So why are you writing this book? The answer: I may not be a historian and that other stuff, but I know how to steal from historians. And not only have I stolen from historians but I also have stolen from some of the guidessuch as Anthony Pitch, whose walking tours I took as part of the research for this book. These wise docents of the sidewalks are the true lovers of the city, passionate about its history and generous in their telling of it, and if youre not too exhausted by the time we finish you really should sign up for their tours.

A brief word about the title before we put on comfy shoes and get started. Its not bad, I think. I say this not to boast, but by way of pointing out that I never could have come up with it myself. Crown pestered me for a titlein fact, they were a downright nuisancemonths and months before the book was due. To get rid of them, I suggested Das Capital. Clever, ja? Well, they loved it. But then it dawned on me that no one would buy a book about Washington, D.C., with that title, except maybe for one or two pointy-heads of twisted sensibility from a think tank looking for a cheap present to give a nephew they didnt much like. Crown generously gave me 15 minutes to come up with a new one, or Das Capital it was going to be. I was bemoaning my predicament to my Forbes FYI magazine colleague Patrick Cooke, and just like that he said, Washington Schlepped Here. So if you need a title, call Patrick.

Otherwise I was going to call it Jackies Washington, for the reason that when I showed up for Mary Kay Rickss Jackie Kennedys Georgetown walking tour, it looked like the Million Mom March. I was nearly trampled to death. As I write, the Corcoran Gallery has a Jackie Kennedy exhibit. The line for it starts in Alexandria, Virginia. Put Jackies in front of anything, and they will come. I must try this with my next book, whatever its about. Meanwhile, I hope youll enjoy Buckleys Washington, even if its a poor substitute. If I have nothing to offer by way of scholarship, I do love the place and plan to stay here even if those dunderheads at Arlington refuse to bury me with full military honors. Maybe Ill have my executors sneak in at night and scatter my ashes next to Pierre Charles LEnfants grave, which has absolutely the best view in town.