We hadn't really planned to tour DC this
summer, but with our other plans cancelled, and pre-paid tickets
in hand for the Auto-Train from Sanford, Florida, to Lorton, VA
(near DC), we decided to try an adult 3-day tour of DC. We'd been
to DC before when the kids were young, so this time it was
different. We added two additional "new" items to our agenda: our
first use of the Auto-Train and our first use of a B&B.
Day 1: On The Road
Again
As we pulled out of the driveway on the first
day, I realized that we were driving to a highly political city in
a car that was only one letter away from one of the top political
stories of the day: our car was a LeBaron; and Lebanon was the CNN
issue of the day. As you can see, it doesn't take much to
entertain me.
The funniest thing we saw after boarding the
train in Sanford was a label on the oversized cargo train car next
to us that said "DO NOT HUMP"... was this a warning to King Kong?
 The shower stall
on the train was like taking a shower in a port-a-potty while your
frat buddies shook the structure and dared you to dash out in the
nude.
Sleeping was prison-like, but with less room
and while riding in the back of a cargo truck on a rough road. The
beds were tiny, hard as plywood, and not for the claustrophobic or
those unable to climb various step-like features cleverly hidden
in the room fittings. Strap-in safety nets were mandatory.
By the morning we were only waiting for it to
be over. The romantic idea of an overnight train ride had been
consumed by herd mentality and commoditizing the experience for
the masses.
Breakfast was horrid: even with a nearly empty
dining car we were forced to sit 4 to a table which was
uncomfortable and crowded at the least. One of our tablemate's
face had several Band-Aids on it... he must have been trying to
shave on the train. My wife had no coffee cup, the world's worst
teaspoon, and a rotten banana. I had a corn muffin and we shared
one bowl of Special K. We decided to upgrade our room on the
return trip to a "suite" that had larger beds, an in-room toilet,
shower and sink.
Day 2: What does B&B really mean?
After a brief and potentially illegal wireless internet
connection in Lorton, we got our driving directions to the B&B we
had reserved in Maryland. Not since Miami had I experienced
white-knuckle driving like on the I-495 beltway.
We arrived at 10am precisely when the badly
timed lawn sprinklers went off giving us a shower while waiting
for someone to answer the door.
Joan was busy teaching art classes (she is
marginally talented) so Homer gave us the grand tour, and our
first indication that we might have made a big mistake: How long
would you expect a tour of a medium house to take? Some
highlights: where the plastic cups (clear cheap insulated type
with their business cards fused inside) are stored, how to use the
ice and cold water dispenser in the fridge door, showing off his
unknown relatives who had worked at the White House two
generations ago as if they were well known, and too numerous
stories about previous guests antics which they found odd, like a
guest insisting that they be allowed to lock their room's door
when they aren't there... ?
What sounded like some nice touches in advance
became nightmarish in practice: "our guests are provided with
bathrobes and slippers" actually became "we insist you wear these
to the bathroom or out to the hot tub." As we are readying to
depart for our first day of touring the capitol, we are guided
non-subtlety into their den where Joan brings out her prepared
laminated Xeroxed and highlighted maps to the attractions, plus
numerous photo scrapbooks and presented a classroom spiel of her
recommended course of action, including warnings with the phrase
"stay with as many white people as you can". I wondered if she
would have been able to ad-lib anything different had we been
black? She also asked us directly, as she pointed out in her photo
book, if we would pick her up a few White House ornaments she
wanted while we were touring there... items that probably cost
over $100 each. That was ballsy.
continued in next column...
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continued from last
column...
 In a
state of semi-shock we began our visit to D.C. proper. We
visited the Post Office Pavilion, found a great Middle
Eastern sandwich shop (I secretly wanted them to have a sandwich
named a 'bomb"), then went on the free Tower Tour. It had a good
rep from several sources as being a good vista to see many of
the DC sites instead of enduring the long waits at the
Washington Monument. Well, there wasn't a long wait, but the
view was about what we paid for. Hopefully I'll eventually learn
a bit about the history of the building when I read the brochure
we picked up there.
Other highlights included the Butterfly
Garden, the National Sculpture Garden, and the National
Botanical Garden. After a grueling walk over Capitol Hill to
Union Station, we finally found relief in the form of a
two-story free-standing bar in the middle of the largest domed
room. We felt blessed to only have one blister each.
After returning, spent, to the B&B we found
the real kicker: little signs plastered in the bathroom along
with a tray of cleaning rags requiring us to "wipe down the
shower, tub and stall after each use so the next person can
enjoy a fresh experience" including instructions for which rag
to use when, and where to hang them to dry afterwards. We
realized that almost every aspect of our stay had been tailored
to minimize their need to tend to the B&B and allow her to do
her painting and teaching. Since they had only secured a one-day
deposit from us, we decided to ditch the next morning. I
connected wirelessly and reserved a Holiday Inn closer to DC. We
made up a story about getting a phone call and learning that her
parents would be leaving earlier than expected so we had to end
our tour and head back to see them. Even under the tight
scrutiny of White House-quality cross examination, our story
held up. We wanted to leave without even the breakfast we had
already paid for, but couldn't manage to get away without
drinking our coffees... they didn't have to-go cups. Even though
the Holiday Inn was going to cost more, we felt blessed and
relieved that we got out with a plan.
And we decided that it means either Buy a
Buddy or Blather & Boring. At least they'll have a new story to
tell to their future vict... I mean, guests.
Day 3: America the
Beautiful
We grabbed breakfast at a Dunkin' Donuts
enroute to the Holiday Inn. We must have ordered from their
custom-prepared menu because we got specially-burned bagel
breakfast sandwiches.
 National
Aquarium - a humid basement in the Commerce Building with a
surprise at the bottom of the stairs (after you have been
security scanned to get in): a $5 per person fee. Not that $5 is
too much to pay for an admission these days, but in a town known
for its magnificent museums, monuments, public art, etc. which
are all free, you expect one that charges you to get in to be
REALLY good. Not a chance here.
 National
Portrait Gallery - after a downtown walk past Ford's Theatre
and the cheesy "House That Lincoln Died In" we arrived at this
barely-reopened-in-time palace of a building. Magnificent
layout, exhibits and air conditioning with a top notch patio
snack bar and wet bar.
 Union
Station, second visit - still an impressive grand scale
with a two-story mall and a basement level food court to match
the size of any I'd ever seen. I recommend the restaurant
"America"; they boast at least one dish from every state and the
value is great. However, the Union Station bathrooms were
horrible. The convenience of having a Metro station in the
basement was countered with meeting "Bernard" the doorman, a
beggar who was very polite and held the door open to the Metro
station in exchange for a very direct request for $5. He got it
with pleasure.
Day 4: Zoologically
Yours
We started with a brief but weird breakfast
in the lobby restaurant; it felt like we should have expected an
invasion of the body snatchers at any moment.
concluded in next column...
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continued from last
column...
 National Zoo
- the heat wave smacked us in the face as we left the Holiday Inn
and walked to the Metro station. Three blocks more to the Zoo, and
we were sweating worse than Pandas trying to find a secret spot to
procreate without media scrutiny. All the books had recommended 2
to 4 hours to see it... it took more, and that was with skipping
many of the exhibits. Most of the animals were either hiding,
indoors or dead, because we saw many an empty display. By mid-day,
the zoo had turned on water sprinklers to wet passersby to keep us
from dropping in the heat. Our dogs were barking so loudly I
thought the wolves would attack.
We limped back to the hotel after finishing the
zoo and passed out. We ordered room service and drank medicinally.
Repeatedly.
Day 5: No Pain, No Gain
Trying to wake up, or rather stand, up the next
morning was a challenge. My Achilles heel was in control and he
said "Hell, no, you're not walking on me, dammit!" It continued to
punish me for hours. "Imagine," it would say, "a Floridian's
Achilles having to walk up and down hills for hours. What were you
thinking?"
We'd had the wisdom to pre-order breakfast in
our room.
We checked out and drove to Lorton to catch the
train back to Sanford. While wasting a bit of time waiting for
check-in time at the Auto Train, we drove around the Lorton area.
Being from Florida, I have decided that I can only drive properly
on flat straight roads. On constantly curving and
altitude-changing roads I can never tell what direction I'm
heading, and instead of getting directions that makes sense, like
"go west two miles, then turn left and go three miles" I get
directions like "follow this road until it crosses a riverbed then
veer off at the switchback".
Our larger suite on the train was well worth
it. Dinner was nicer; we got to sit facing the direction we
wanted. Our tablemate was a young girl just out of college on her
first trip alone, so conversation was pleasant and interesting
enough to allow us to last out the entire meal service. We hoped
we managed to have her at breakfast.
Day 6: Damn The
Prostates
Instead we had two weird self-proclaimed
brothers as tablemates. They may have been self-delusional gay
lovers, I couldn't be sure. At least they were polite and didn't
have Band-Aids plastered on their faces.
 We
decided to drive via non-interstate paths on the route back home
to Naples. By this time I realized that I had discovered a new
medical miracle... a way to regain confidence that your male
inability to retain urine overnight, or for any long periods, is
not an indication of 50-year-old prostrate problems, but is a
multi-decade lack of practice in holding your piss. After 5 days
of drinking what seemed to be gallons of water during
record-setting heat waves, then sleeping in safety-net-restricted
impossible-to-descend-safely-in-the-darkness upper berths, I had
developed an insanely larger bladder that, when safely released,
could easily fill a Big Gulp cup, if challenged. I learned to
sleep all night without the familiar need to wake and relieve
myself. Time for all you self-fearing men to develop a larger
bladder and get past the media and
TV-commercial-induced fear of prostrate problems.
We reached home after driving through a heat
wave of up to 105 degrees; tired, sticky and so glad we had left
the home AC on low.
Ed. Note: Dr. Eric does not have a medical degree and is, frankly,
somewhat delusional regarding his personal safety and the safety
of those he is in contact with. Take his advise with a grain of
salt. Please report your personal findings to
us via e-mail so that semi-scientific results can be tallied.
Thank you for your kind attention.
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