It was a whirlwind tour.
Landed at Reagan International, fifteen minutes later I was at the National Gallery of Art on the Mall twenty minutes before closing.
I had never seen a real Masters before, and after a 12 hour flight wandering the empty halls sans glasses I soon discovered something I never would have expected. At that time, you could physically touch the paintings.
This was a shocking discovery to me. I was lost in following the brushwork and color of a Monet, trying to figure out how the depth of color was achieved when it occurred to me that I was caressing the painting. Looked around, no guards were running in my direction with guns drawn, no alarms were going off.
So I continued on to an amazing Manet, and made my way discreetly around until they announced the doors would be closing and it was time for my magic minutes in the gallery to be over.
Dinner, met the staff for the event I was to be working, went over the details with my client. Late night. Early morning. Spent the day at the Capitol Building interviewing statesmen on their feelings about the work the non-profit I was working with was procuring.
The old-hack cameraman who was hired to follow me around was less than impressed with my advance work - we had no appointments. No appointments means no interviews, he advised with a sneer. He should know, has worked the hill for over 20 years. That would be you, not me, I thought.
First stop, Congressman Don Young. There was a line 50 people deep down the hallway leading to his office. He had a film crew making a documentary inside his doors. Lights, camera, make up, craft services. I had a quick moment with General Sharrow, who had a brief conversation with my representative - who I had never met.
We were inside the heavy doors. The film camera was taken off the tripod and ours mounted. He gave a beautiful sound bite. Then Alaska's lone congressman spent half-an-hour going through his scrapbook of his time in DC, showing me his family, sharing with me his vision. Invited me to an event later that evening. My cameraman almost passed out.
The rest of the day was a blur. I recall a table overflowing with name badges declaring captains of industry, a room filled to capacity, and a completely yummy coconut cake at B. Smiths. The Marine Honor Guard giving doing their thing with amazing precision. Senator Smith talking about how his last memory of his father was him going off to war when he was a young lad. His mother passing. The discover of a chest of treasures in the attic. Love letters, v-mail, a well decorated uniform.
Running to Virginia to edit our footage three different ways for three different stories to run on three different networks. Forwarding story scripts to be faxed back home and tapes to be uploaded on satellite feeds.
Day over, we are happy but too exhausted to sleep. Plane leaves at five the next morning. Around we go to the different hotels, sampling the tiramisu. The bubbly girl who drove from Maine that day to belt out the national anthem like you have never heard it before is a dead ringer for Monica Lewinski. Everyone, everywhere, is pointing and whispering. She takes command of the situation and litters our conversation with suggestive banter that was sure to be repeated at the watercooler the next day.
We end up at the Jockey Club. Our host runs into some boys who apparently worked Secret Service while she was in the West Wing during the Reagan Years. Their plucky references are lost on Monica and I. Monica is dragging and wanting to go back to embrace her pillow. I devise a plan where I go to the rest room, come back, she goes to the rest room and leaves. This allows our host to continue with the conversation she is obviously enjoying.
I find the rest room, do my business. On the way back I am stopped for a moment by a drunk Irishman who wants to know if we are with the ding-a-lings who are posing as former Secret Service agents but really are Midwestern shoe salesmen attending a conference. I join him for a moment to get more details. Within minutes Monica and our host wave as they walk past me towards the door. Must be putting her in a cab I surmise.
Time passes, more time, significantly more time. I have been abandoned. I exhausted my cash providing the tip two restaurants back. I have no idea what part of DC I am in. I don't have my purse on me, or my room key. I don't even know the name of my hotel. Plane leaving in a few hours. Feeling a little bit nervous.
"Relax," advises the Irishman. "We will figure this out. What does your hotel look like?"
"A tall building amongst a bunch of other tall buildings. It is a Bed and Breakfast." I reply.
"Anything about the area that comes to mind?"
"Yes." I declare. "It is by the Canadian embassy."
"Good," he smiles. "What makes you think it is by the Canadian Embassy?"
"You know how Quebec is having issues about speaking French and wanting to secede? Well, there was a demonstration this morning where a bunch of people were holding candles and saying 'fa-la-la-la, free Quebec.'"
The Irishman closed his eyes, took a deep breath and smiled.
"You are staying at the Windsor Rose." He announced.
"How do you know that?" I asked.
"I live around the corner, we can give you a ride there. It is only a couple blocks away, by the Chinese Embassy. The protestors were there this morning crying, 'Dali Lama, Free Tibet.'"
Of course, we have been great friends ever since.
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