My father was in the Marine Corps when I was growing up. When I was in the fifth, sixth and seventh grades in the late 1950s, we lived in Springfield, Virginia. I liked living there. My fifth grade teacher was the best I ever had. Several girls my age lived on my block. It snowed in the winter and we had a great sledding route down our street, around the corner and down another, steeper street. Once I was making a snowman and I got the bottom snowball stuck in the driveway, too big to move any further, and my father couldn't get the car in the garage until the snow melted the next week. I have a picture of a ten-year-old me standing in the driveway next to that snowball.
We took family outings to Washington, DC. When I was eleven, my mother took me to the Jefferson Memorial. I tried to climb one of the columns, slipped and fell down six stairs. I sprained my ankle and had to go to the first week of sixth grade on crutches. My school classes took field trips to Constitution Hall to listen to the symphony. I remember hearing Peter and the Wolf there for the first time.
In 1988 I spent three hours in Washington DC. I was traveling by train with a boyfriend from New York to Atlanta, and we had a three-hour layover. I wanted to see the Vietnam Memorial wall, which had just recently been completed. So we left Union Station on the Metro subway, got off at the wrong stop, and wandered around until we happened upon the Wall. I have a few photos in an album of a younger me at the Wall.
I have many positive memories of the DC area.
Maybe that's why, since Art and I started traveling five years ago or so, I've wanted to go to Washington DC with him. Art was born and raised in Seattle and, except for the time he spent in the Marine Corps during the Vietnam era, he'd not traveled much before he met me. I thought about the history, the national monuments and memorials, the seat of government. I was sure he'd like Washington.
Art didn't understand why I was so interested in taking him to DC. But I didn't pay much attention to his lack of interest. Any time I come up with an idea for a place to travel, his initial response is indifference or, at best, skepticism. It's our travel-planning pattern. I come up with a spot, he grunts without looking up from his crossword puzzle, I do all the planning and scheduling and itinerary and keep him informed of my progress. We pack the suitcases and load the car for the trip to the airport. As soon as we pull out of the driveway, Art relaxes, going instantly into vacation mode. I am still looking at my list and wondering what we've forgotten, taking out our plane tickets just once more to see what time the flight leaves. And then, on the trip, we both have a great time.
I was pretty sure a trip to Washington would be like that.