The District …and Ben’s Chili Bowl!

Good Morning Chroniclers!

We’re still hanging in DC. The day started early! We had a tour of the White House. Nice! Most of you have seen the movies. I'm reminded of Jamie Foxx as the President, Channing Tatum as the Secret Service agent and a tour group walking through the People’s House with a docent, mindful not to touch things that look fragile.

Yeah, it was NOTHING like that.

Lemme tell you how this went. We had a ten o’clock appointment, four carloads of people, and a 17-mile drive. No problem. Samantha Stevens called for an eight AM departure — first mistake. Shoulda had the HB tell everybody what time to roll. Everyone is scared of the HB. Samatha rolls up the night before, Stephanie under her arm, already nodding as she’s walking up. “You wanna leave at eight, right?”

I look around at the zombies that I’ve spent the last three weeks with and they all begin to nod in unison with Samantha and that dumb zebra.

“Does that really work?” I asked myself as I watched Samantha walking away smugly toward her RV.

“C’mon Boo,” she said to the doctor, who followed her dutifully to their motorhome.

—

Yesterday morning, all of the cars were loaded up and ready to roll at 8:20 sharp. See? I told you. The HB doesn't play that hypnosis crap. Eight means eight when the HB calls it.

Roll call on the radio. All present and accounted for. The conga line started out of the gate, when there was a hitch in the get-along. Someone forgot their ID. Important? Yep. That’s one of the only things that they say you must have to get into the WH. Turn the parade around, get the wallet and we’re off again.

Seventeen miles. Ready? Except, according to Google, we have a one hour, one minute commute to get into the District. I’m telling you that their traffic rivals anything you’ve experienced on the 405 or 91. It is gridlock and Smantha is nervous. You can hear it in her voice as she’s counting down the minutes along the drive. Traffic is so bad that the cars can’t stay together. We’re communicating on the radio trying to figure out where one another is in unfamiliar territory.

Miraculously, we ended up in the same place only minutes behind one another. But now for parking. Parking is insane in the DIstrict. We parked in a public structure, but the security, even in public areas, is stringent. There were three private security guards who greeted us upon our arrival, one at the car window, one sat in a booth, no doubt with his finger poised above the button which would activate measures thwarting entry and another, lurking as cover for the other two. The security officer at the window did a cursory search of our cars, even checking the trunks. Impressive and intimidating, probably just the feeling they are trying to give. Parked the cars in what seemed to be the last 2 spaces available, and then off on a leisurely walk-jog toward the White House (directions needed, of course).

Samantha called, twice. The HBs phone and then Yoko Uno’s. I don’t think she realized that we were all jogging together. Of course, we were standing in front of the wrong visitor’s center. It was crazy!

Finally we all got together, in the right spot at literally ten, on the dot, 15 minutes later than we were supposed to get there. Will we still be allowed to enter? Yes. Along with a line of literally what appears to be several hundred, maybe a thousand other folks with identical computer printed ten o’clock appointments.

Huh? Yep. It’s a cattle call, Chroniclers. We were all herded through tents where our IDs were checked and double-checked, wanded, walked through magnetometers, and then wanded again.

We’re in. Where’s our docent? Nope. It was at this point, you come to a sign that says, “Welcome to the White House. This will be a self-guided, walking tour. There will be numerous Secret Service Agents to answer any questions and keep you on the correct path.” And there were. It’s about a 30-minute walk past photos of the current and past presidents in comparatively similar poses and activities on the walls. There were velvet ropes to guide and keep us on task and out of areas restricted from the public. We got to see several different rooms, at a distance, that were recognizable from TV news clips. Which all looked significantly smaller, by the way.

The Professor felt acknowledged as an educator.

Behind the ropes and strategically placed throughout, there were a number of uniformed and business-suited Secret Service Agents to pleasantly answer any questions about the White House, and to move the crowds along if they lingered too long in any area. The one thing that I was amazed at was the sheer numbers of agents that we came in contact with. Without exaggeration I think that if I had counted, from the time we first encountered our first agent, until we left and saw the last one, the number would be staggering. It seems that they were everywhere. With dogs, on bikes, in cars, suited, uniformed, flak-vested, and on and on. It seemed that they were everywhere and there had to be at least a hundred identifiable. I can’t imagine how many were in secret squirrel mode.

After we left the White House, we had to eat, because Samantha’s time frame didn’t even allow for my morning cup o’ Joe. We decided on Ben’s Chili Bowl. A well-known establishment in the city that everyone who’s anyone has been to and gotten their picture on the wall. Ben’s celebrated its 65th year last week. Impressive.

This was not the first visit to Ben’s for the HB and me. Years ago my boy, JKJK said we had to stop through when we toured the District together with him and Tee-Dub. Mr. Ben is no longer with us, but two of his sons, a daughter-in-law and Miss Sonya, the matriarch, made a special stop at our table to visit with us and take pictures after they heard we were in an RV convoy on holiday from California. We were honored.

Then back to the RVs so that our Science Officer, Dr. Francois could get his 40 winks in.

Drink ‘em if you got ‘em.

One band, one sound.

#coffeehousechronicles