Eight Feet Deep

For the second time since Saturday, I spent upwards of between 30 minutes to an hour trying to turn something out on this page. It’s not that I am any Melville or Twain or even Paris Hilton and her ghost of a writer. But at least when I write something — whether it is worth anything to anyone else or not — I want it to show up on my blog. A so-called “high-speed” Internet service serving my hotel called iBAHN apparently does not want that to happen.

On Saturday afternoon I spent quite some time writing, only to have iBAHN’s page asking me to sign up once again appear from out of nowhere to destroy what I was about to publish on Blogger. Unbelievably, it happened again tonight. This was after having my Internet service go on and off and on and off and on and off about 30 minutes prior … I called their customer service, which by the way their phone system is structured (to be fair, not unlike many companies today) doesn’t really want to have to talk with you. But they did.

The customer service lady I talked with the second time this evening said I shouldn’t have this problem again during the rest of my stay here at Residence Inn by Marriott in Bethesda, Md. That would be through Friday. But to be honest with you, parting this place and its substandard Internet provider will be no sweet sorrow.

My advice is that if you want high-speed Internet in your hotel room, ask questions about the service before you reserve. That is, unless you don’t have a choice like yours truly. And if that hotel has something called iBAHN, run like hell, don’t walk, away from that place of lodging. You will be doing yourself and your sanity a great favor.

This friendly fellow looked as if it wanted its photo taken, so I thought I’d oblige it.

This is obviously not the best place to park a bike in the District of Columbia.

One gets what one pays for, someone said, obviously oblivious of ending sentences with prepositions. In my case it is I get what my employer pays for, I say, in a desperate attempt to hide the preposition hanging at the end of my thought/would-be sentence.

All of such mumbo jumbo relates to the fact that I wrote a rather long opscule about my feelings upon visiting several of our nation’s most beloved monuments yesterday in D.C. This took place on a particularly cold day and after a light dusting of snow. Yes, I wrote that lengthy piece and the high-speed Internet provider took it all away in a flash as it popped up, I suppose, to ask me if I wanted to renew my free subscription in this hotel. I did. Thanks iBAHN. I didn’t like what I wrote yesterday all that much anyway.

So here it is a chilly Easter Sunday in the Residence Inn Marriott on Wisconsin Avenue in Bethesda. I am wanting to go out for awhile this afternoon to see a few more sights, so this posting will not be an interminable work of literature, or even literature, I think, as I am in a hurry but am being so damned slow about it.

The above photo is from the only panel I photographed yesterday at the Vietnam Veterans Memorial. The name Tommy Ray Medley belongs to a young man from my hometown in East Texas whom I remember meeting on one of those endless summer days a 10-year-old confuses with eternity. The photo stems from the memory of meeting him, which is really all I recall about that day at a country swimming hole where my pops took my brother and me.

It would not be long after that day that both my brother and Tommy Medley would head off to the service. My brother went to the Navy and Tommy went to the Marine Corps. Both would also go to Vietnam, but only my brother among the two would return alive.

My singling out the name of Tommy Ray Medley on the black Vietnam wall was not specifically because he was a close acquaintance, although his sister and I were in the same class in our small school. Rather, Tommy was the only person I could ever remember knowing who left for that Asian hell on earth only to be struck down at a young age in battle.

Tommy Medley was killed in 1968. His death was also the first Vietnam casualty I can remember in our little hometown. Why does something that has been unfortunately all-too-common over time still shock one with such force? I don’t know, but I think having such feelings overwhelm us are positive lest apathy leaves the majority of society with approving such a tremendous waste of human life.

Feelings are what all these national shrines I visited, situated between the president’s residence and the Potomac River in our only federal district, are all about.

The garden of soldiers with stares of a thousand yards or more, pictured here from the Korean War memorial, along with its black wall etched with scores upon scores of haunted faces belonging to U.S. troops were a very powerful reminder of a war that many have forgotten over time. I had never really read or heard much about this shrine and I was unexpectedly impressed and moved by the monument.

Visiting the Lincoln Memorial and walking up the numerous steps to see Honest Abe in his big chair was breathtaking in more ways than one. And the World War II Veterans Memorial was likewise worth all the walking that I did in the windy cold air of Washington.

All of these monuments taken together are more than just walking among the faces of history. They serve to remind us that being and living in a nation is not a trivial matter, especially in our somewhat complicated republic. Likewise, the monuments show that the ability to live in our country involves costs. Sometimes those costs are in our money and other prices are paid for in lives and in the grief of those who lost someone.

It is amazing to see so many people from so many different places on the planet visiting these shrines of our great melting-pot experiment. And for one who lives here, the experience of visiting these hallowed grounds can leave one with a unique sense of being an American.

Forget all our problems, and our misguided faults for the moment. Look at what fate has wrought. We can then come home and criticize our leaders for their shortsightedness, or how they led us down the wrong pathway time and again. I don’t know about anyone else but I think the ability to live, learn, cuss and discuss the dunderheads who lead us makes our country a pretty good piece of earth on which to live.

Everyone needs a vintage plane hanging from their ceiling.
It is quite nice to take in a museum, especially during one’s lunch hour. Since the National Postal Museum is just an elevator ride from where my training is taking place, I decided to pay it a quick visit during my lunch break.

The postal museum is in the grand building that was Washington’s post office from 1914-1986. The building is still an impressive structure in the style of the nation’s capital being a living history lesson. The museum is part of the Smithsonian institutions so we’re not talking about some podunk little Museum of the Cheese Doodles. Like the Smithsonian’s National Air and Space Museum, the postal facility has some airplanes hanging from the ceiling, only quite a number fewer.

Lunch was at one of the many places inside Union Station, just across the street from Postal Square and the postal museum. It has been pretty much a mad house at the old/new train/subway station-cum-mall all this week during lunch because the Cherry Blossom festival is under way and kids in groups of thousands are everywhere.

After lunch I went outside and walked through the flocks of fat pigeons. Union Station has some of the heaviest pigeons I have ever seen and those birds don’t seem to get in any hurry to get out of your way. One might say they almost seem sort of surly. Washington should name it’s baseball team the Washington Surly Pigeons.

Washington pigeons have a power lunch at Union Station.

It wasn’t a total surprise that it was cold when I left the hotel to catch the subway in Betheda this morning. The sudden downpour of snow flurries were kind of unexpected, although the forecast has been calling for snow tomorrow evening. Oh well. A few flurries don’t hurt anything.

This weekend I plan to do some of the tourista stuff in Washington. I’m not sure where all I will go. I do want to make a trip to The Wall during this visit as the last time I was in D.C. I only had one afternoon to look around because I was working the entire trip.

My regrets that I have nothing profound to say — not to imply that I normally produce any profundities here in this little blogorama. The classes I am taking are kind of taxing and amidst all this learning I hope to actually take in some of the country’s treasures on what is for me both a work trip and a sightseeing journey. If I happen to come across anyone with any wisdom, I will be sure to pass it on in this venue. But please bear in mind — I am in Washington, D.C.

This is the weather forecast for Saturday in Bethesda, Md., where I am staying for the next two weeks:

Saturday: A chance of snow showers. Partly cloudy, with a high near 45. Chance of precipitation is 30%.

Saturday Night: Partly cloudy, with a low around 24.

Jeez Dog, it’s April!

The weather has been pleasant since I arrived yesterday afternoon at Baltimore-Washington airport. I had a hellish ride from the airport to my hotel in Bethesda courtesy of a Super Shuttle driver, a fellow with whom I almost got into a fight. It took nearly three hours for “Speedy” to take me to the hotel. Along the way, he had to drive around one guy’s hotel three times before the passenger could escape. The poor traveler was from somewhere in Asia and, speaking little English, had no idea what was happening. But I wasn’t far behind him.

Were it not for a very alert motorcyclist, the Super Duper shuttle driver could have put a little cycle sticker on the side of his van for destroying the bike, much as fighter aces place flags to signify enemy fighters that they blew out of the sky.

I called the shuttle manager today to complain and he said that he would refund my fare. It was the second act of good business practice I experienced in as many days.

After my rotten ride to the hotel, I walked down the street to Pizzeria Uno for a bite. I had ordered a small salad to munch on while I waited for my pizza. Of course, the pizza came but the salad did not. I tried my best not to be too upset, I was just too tired and beaten down by people who can’t seem to do their job correctly. But after talking to the manager, my meal was comped and he bought me a large glass of beer to boot.

My class in Washington today for my part-time bureaucrat job went better than expected. It was just a long and boring event. The classes are just across the street from Union Station, which was a site of pandemonium because every kid on the planet it seems is out of school this week and visiting the city during the Cherry Blossom festival. Hopefully I’ll take some pictures tomorrow.

I am about to chill and watch the news on teevee. It’s something I’ve missed during my time on the street, especially with the ability to kick back with a cold beverage. My hotel room is way beyond my expectations. It’s an extended stay type joint where I am staying. It comes with a real kitchen, living area and bedroom (and a nice bathroom with a toilet in tact, so far). I have two beds and two teevees, so I am having a hell of time figuring out how I am going to sleep in both beds and watch both televisions at the same time. Oh well, I suppose I’ll figure something out.