This month, my grandson Patrick turned 12 years of age. For this first “big boy” birthday, I had promised him a trip to Washington, D.C., and so we recently boarded a late-evening plane scheduled to arrive in the capital city at midnight. Once landed, we ferreted out our assigned rental car (eventually discovering the trunk latch hidden in the Volkswagen Golf’s logo plate) and finally made our way to the Loews Madison Hotel in the wee hours of the next morning.
As I tucked the tired little traveler and his favorite toy soldier into a fluffy bed, Patrick remarked, “Nana, I have never stayed at a luxury hotel where people park your car in the garage for you and the bellman carries your luggage all the way to the room and checks it out for you. Washington, D.C., has the nicest people in the world. I think we’re going to like it here.”
Patrick’s good spirits only brightened over the course of our six-day stay. Though I’m a repeat visitor, it was his first trip to D.C. The next morning, we breakfasted at the hotel. He asked a waiter for directions to the dining area restroom to wash his hands; the man escorted him to the door of the men’s room and then removed his waffle to keep it hot until his return to the table. I swear that you could have knocked the boy over with a feather when he figured out why his food was gone. Patrick loves writing hotel reviews, and new amenities or special service touches delight him.
First on the tour agenda was a performance at Ford’s Theatre, where actors played out the storyline of the night President Lincoln was shot in a balcony seat. We chose tickets in the balcony area by the president’s box. “It’s like touching history,” Patrick marveled, rubbing the polished wood rails.
Next stop, the Holocaust Museum. I worried that my grandson might be a bit traumatized by the “Daniel’s Story” display of a 12-year-old Jewish child who was taken to a concentration camp, where his mother and sister were killed – an experiential, walk-through exhibit. But no, it was a random picture of a young Jewish boy surrounded by SS soldiers, photographed at gunpoint just before his execution, that really grabbed Patrick’s soul. For that child, Patrick wrote a note with tears drawn on it, surrounded by swastikas. He deposited it in the museum mailbox and then stood there, uncertain whether to go or stay a moment longer. I wiped a real tear from his cheek and then we moved on, hand in hand, without a word.
Kneeling at the memorial with the burning flame, Patrick whispered that the Holocaust Museum definitely was a sacred place. He insisted we watch every short video being played in the museum’s cinema area over the next couple of hours. “The museum says ‘Never Forget,’” he breathed. “I can’t remember what I don’t know, so I need to watch.”
From that somber experience, we hiked over to the nation’s memorial park. Patrick was enthralled by the Washington Monument, and he toured the World War II vets’ monument, Vietnam wall and memorials, Korean War vets’ monument, and the Lincoln Memorial. He admired the Reflecting Pool and wanted to buy a postcard of the scene to show his mom that, yes, he really stood right there!
We lunched in the park, illegally feeding birds and squirrels because they were so bold that throwing food was the only way to get them away from us, and we laughed a lot at how much they liked potato chips. Then we walked over to Pennsylvania Avenue past all of the street vendors (stopping to buy souvenir magnets and a crystal etching of the White House for his mother) before I unveiled his next surprise – we had actually hiked right up to the gates of the White House. “I can’t believe I’m really here,” he beamed, smiling broadly for a picture with the White House as a backdrop. (Continued)
By the time I hailed a cab to return to the hotel, my wee hiker was really beat. Normally Patrick needs two hours of “alone time” a day, and we had been surrounded by huge crowds of spring break visitors all day. He’s also not a particularly high-energy child, so I wasn’t surprised when he quickly collapsed on his bed with his Kindle Fire. I offered to let the poor kid take a pass on our pre-paid “D.C. After Dark” tour scheduled for that evening, because it, too, featured a lot of walking stops. “How soon would we have to leave?” he asked, glancing my direction.
“Probably about now, given rush hour traffic,” I admitted. “We could grab a sandwich at the bus pickup station and just make the tour.”
Imagine my amazement, then, when he pushed himself up, set his Kindle aside, and grabbed his coat. “We’re only going to be here five nights, so let’s go for it,” Patrick said. And so, 10 minutes later, we were back in a cab and headed for Union Train Station.
That night, Patrick crossed more sites off his list: the U.S. Capitol grounds, Jefferson Memorial, Dr. Martin Luther King Memorial, Iwo Jima Memorial, and Arlington National Cemetery (which we returned to the next day to watch the changing of the guard at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier). The high point of the evening, he said, was getting kicked off the White House grounds by a special police officer under orders to evacuate all tourists for some unknown reason.
“We could have refused to leave because we are not tourists,” Patrick mused. “We’re travelers.” I glanced down at the camera around my neck and adjusted the backpack slung across my shoulder. “It’s important to know who we are,” Patrick added, grinning. “And we’re travelers. Otherwise, I’d be embarrassed to be gawking at famous places with my nana taking pictures of me everywhere.”
On our own, over the next few days, we toured (um, “traveled to”) the Spy Museum and revisited the Capitol. We explored a collection of Smithsonian museums, including the National Air and Space Museum, Field History Museum, Botanical Gardens, and the National Art Gallery. The stubborn cherry blossoms refused to appear, thanks to the colder-than-expected temperatures, but we did find a blooming bush in Virginia. We even squeezed in an impromptu trip to Baltimore, Md. so that Patrick could add another state to the 15 that he and I already have visited together.
Every night, just before he closed his bleary, overstimulated eyes, Patrick ended his day with the same phrase: “Well, Nana, it’s been another great day in D.C.” I can tell you to the cent what the trip cost, but I could never, even with a calculator, count the many blessings returned. And that’s why, even over all of the touristy, charming photos I have taken of Patrick standing in front of famous places or memorials, the one below is my personal favorite.
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