Category: Food, General, Uncategorized

For someone who prides himself on championing the offbeat, edgy side of the US capital, I have to admit it feels like something of a betrayal to be visiting the White House. This pompous wedding-cake of an edifice is, after all, the one place in Washington that basically everyone in the world can name, occupying the popular consciousness as the backdrop for countless hours of newsreel footage of presidential addresses and the place that every mid-west tourist gormlessly ambles to the moment they step off the tour-bus. As the ultimate symbol of the highest office in the land, it’s about as “establishment” as you can get, and not only that, you have to apply to your congressperson for the privilege of going inside. So it didn’t rank highly on my list of places to see. But when a friend, who works for a congresswoman, offered to take care of booking a visit I thought, “why not?” I provided her with my full name, citizenship status, social security number, city of residence etc. and a few weeks later she forwards the confirmation. We are to arrive 15 minutes before their scheduled tour time and enter the White House complex at the corner of 15th Street and Alexander Hamilton Place where Uniformed National Park Service Rangers will check our IDs (is it me or does calling a great big house a national park, seem a bit of a stretch?). Under no circumstances are we to bring “cameras, video recorders, handbags, book bags, backpacks, purses, food or beverages, tobacco products, personal grooming items, strollers, pointed objects, aerosol containers, guns, ammunition, fireworks, electric stun guns, mace, martial arts weapons/devices, or knives of any size into the complex”.

We arrive and are corralled through the gates, walkways and an airport-style metal-detector, before entering the presidencial residence through the ground floor corridor in the East wing. The notorious West wing, where the real wheeling and dealing takes place, is of course off limits, including the oval office. The top two floors, where the Obamas actually live, are also unsurprisingly out of bounds. What you do get to see in the self-guided tour of the White House is just the gilded salons and lavishly furnished parlors where various presidents over the centuries (not that many centuries) have received foreign dignitaries, held press conferences and, in the darker hours of the Union’s history, lain in state.

As we shuffle along the corridor, to get us in the mood, there are photographs of scenes from the building’s history on the wall. I’m particularly amused by the one of Princess Diana in full flourish as she dances with John Travolta, while the one’s of George W. Bush just make me shudder. There are also painted portraits of some of the more obscure earlier presidents – one, in a most unsubtle piece of symbolism, is posing pompously with his finger resting on a copy of the constitution. Next we are led past the entrances to the library, the Vermeil Room and the China Room. We’re not allowed to enter; we can only look through the doorways to these wood-paneled chambers, each one a chintzy, color-coded orgy of velvet upholstery, chandeliers, intricately woven rugs and regal portraits of first ladies. Up the marble stairs on the second floors, two larger marigold colored rooms – the East Room and the State Dining Room (where I think the Princess Di/Travolta thing happened) – flank a row of three smaller boudoirs that look out onto the landscaped grounds on the South side and to the Washington monument beyond. These are the Green, Red and Blue rooms. Decked out in their respective colors, they represent presidential bling at it’s finest. From the information leaflet, I gather that they’ve been decorated in this way since they rebuilt the House after the British burned it down in 1814 – why does everyone have to keep bringing that up!! Let sleeping dogs lie, that’s what I say.

Next we’re shepherded into the entrance hall on the North side, from where heads of state usually enter the building, past an elongated grand piano and out through the portico to the entrance on Pennsylvania Avenue… And the tour is over. The whole thing only lasted about half an hour. The only thing left is to take a snap of us all lined up and smiling in front of the entrance, stars and stripes happily flapping atop, and then we have the rest of the afternoon free. Now what?!!

To keep things WASPy, we head to the Old Ebbitt Grill, the classy, early 20th century style diner and Washington institution. The place is decorated so as to scream “Old Money”. Bronze statues of muscle-bound hunting dogs pose in the windows and the bar room is festooned with hunting and fishing paraphernalia. We stay for a bloody Mary, but the wait for a table is too long, so we leave.

On the way home, we walk through McPherson Square, currently home to the DC chapter of the Occupy movement, the amorphous popular uprising that is popping up like a contagion in cities all over the country and, with slightly less vigor, around the world. It’s a fitting place to protest about the warped priorities of government and a grotesquely skewed economic system because usually the occupants of this square are the city’s homeless, who can get a free hot meal here from a van operated by a charity. In recent times their numbers have noticeably swelled due to the economic situation. I imagine that they welcome the square’s new residents, the protesters with their tents and their placards proclaiming their demands. “This is not political, this is survival” one banner reads. An impromptu bookshop tent has been set up along with a kitchen and even an “information desk”. The protest is well into its second month here and one demonstrator told me that they plan to be there indefinitely. But it’s November and the harsh DC winter is looming, waiting to test their resolve.

About the Author: lianecar