Life Goes On...

Walking to a Starbucks (where else?) the other day, I saw this, and thought it was appropriate somehow. A handful of birds resting in a dead tree. I snapped the photo with my pocket digital camera. It is now the wallpaper graphic on my cell phone. I call it Life Goes On...

Did That Really Happen?

Amazingly, it is July 3rd and I am still here, still unemployed, still hopeful (at least sometimes). If you had written a plan that would make June as unproductive as possible, I think I followed it, although certainly not purposely. A storm disrupted the cable and internet service at the house for the better part of a week. My phone was only semi-functional for nearly two weeks before I finally received the new one I ordered online (a glitch on the Virgin Mobile website delayed delivery). On June 9th, my SUV bit the dust while I was ten miles away minding my own business. And, of course, on June 22nd, the tragic crash on the Metro further limited my ability to go anywhere. Today marks the first time that the Red Line is back up to speed.

Any of those things, taken alone, would have been a mere inconvenience, but the collective toll on my psyche was fairly substantial. It made it very difficult to establish a useful routine. It was also difficult to maintain my energy and focus.

Also, while I expected this, I have sometimes felt socially isolated. Other than phone and online chats, I've had a total of five conversations that lasted more than fifteen minutes. One was with a very nice attorney who sat next to me at Circa, a cafe at Dupont Circle. The second was with a woman named Joyse (yes, with an "s") who occupied the adjacent stool at the Brickskeller (she had been intending to leave right before I sat down, but ended up staying for two more hours, saying she hadn't expected me to be "so fascinating" - I took that as a compliment.) The third was with Heather, the bartender at the redundantly named Bistro Bistro who slides me free glasses of wine so I will stay and keep her company when the bar is slow. There was a nice visit with Kami who brought me a gigantic spiral cut ham and rolls left over from an event she worked. Lastly, I had an interesting discussion with a black guy named Barron, in which I argued that social divisions in the DC area are more a result of classism than racism (he agreed, eventually). He had grown up in the "bad part" of DC, and then moved up into the Maryland suburbs. He was very bright and likeable.

I rarely see my housemates, and, while I initially thought there might be opportunities to socialize, in the end it's probably a good thing that they are never around. Three people live on the top floor. I have seen one of them twice, for a grand total of ninety seconds. I have seen the other one twice, for about four minutes. I see the third one periodically, mostly when she comes downstairs to reset the wireless router. I can tell when she is home though. She is Asian, and, when she cooks the whole house smells fabulous. The one who lives in the room next to mine is busy with a physical therapy practicum, and, other than that, mostly keeps to herself. This is probably for the best. She is pleasant enough, and we get along fine, but, honestly, we have about as much in common as Elie Wiesel and Heinrich Himmler.

Suddenly, it is July, and all I can do is look back at June and say, “Did that really happen?”

So, one might ask, what is the good news?

Well, it is July 3rd, and I'm still here! Not to be morbid, but I could have been in my car when the tow truck plowed into it, or, worse, on the Red Line train that crashed. I continue to receive tremendous support and encouragement from family and friends. For those of you who have suffered through my caffeine-fueled telephone rants, I truly appreciate it! I have a new phone that appears to be working well. Earlier this week, Comcast contractors buried new cable in the neighborhood that I assume will ensure good internet service. I finally got the insurance check for my SUV (may it rest in peace), and I will probably go car shopping in about a week. Every time I look there are jobs out there, good jobs. All I need is a a touch of good fortune. It's about time for that.

And, today, for the first time, I ran into somebody I know! While walking to the Starbucks just over a mile north of my house, I heard a voice yell (sounding surprised to see me there), "Brian, how are you doing?" It was Murat (yes, that is the correct spelling), someone I know from the Stained Glass Pub - the place right next to the Glenmont Metro station, and, therefore, a logical stopping point for me on certain occasions when I am returning from DC. Murat had just gotten gas, and, as it turned out, coffee from Starbucks, and hollered at me from the driver's seat of his Jeep. We chatted for a few minutes, and made plans to catch up this weekend at the Pub.

Wish me luck. The New Clothing Enterprise continues...

Afterthought: I almost forgot, the Tour de France starts tomorrow. I LOVE the Tour de France. Go Lance!

History and Mystery, Part 2...

On one of the very first occasions that I explored the southwestern fringes of downtown DC, along the Washington Channel, I got lost, of course, but I remember seeing something that seemed very odd to me.

What I saw was this:


It’s a bridge that leads directly to – the side of a building?! The attached plaque (photo below) offers a very nice explanation for the bridge’s existence. But you don’t have to be a genius to notice two things: 1) it is sturdier than necessary for a mere footbridge over Maine Avenue, and, 2) it was certainly not “built in 2004” but is much older than that.


When you walk to the far end of the bridge, and look back, another thing becomes evident; at some point, this was a spur of the rail line (to the left in the photo below) that runs adjacent to the building at the end of the bridge to nowhere.


A quick peek at Google Maps confirmed my suspicion:


View Larger Map

I was sure there must be an interesting story, but I saved this in the back of my mind in the brain file labeled "Things I Should Check Out One Day When I Have the Time and Inclination." The file is enormous.

Fast forward a couple of weeks, and, oddly enough, I stumble across a passage in the book I am reading - "An Army at Dawn" by Rick Atkinson - that describes President Roosevelt's trip to Casablanca for a high level conference in January of 1943. The need for secrecy, combined with the president's inability to negotiate stairs, led them to depart from a hidden location. From the book:

At 10:30 P.M. on Saturday, January 9, 1943, the presidential limousine rolled through the White House gates and turned south past the rime-glazed Ellipse and the Washington Monument. Only four blocks from the executive mansion, the car veered down a guarded ramp on the east side of Fourteenth Street and vanished beneath the Bureau of Engraving and Printing. The new presidential rail coach, Ferdinand Magellan, stood on a secret spur built two months earlier to allow secure shipments of newly printed paper money from the government presses overhead.

A little more searching produced an article from 1995 on American Heritage.com (Link HERE) describing, among other things, the beginning of the president's trip:

On Saturday, January 9, 1943, at about 10:30 P.M., the President, Hopkins, and the presidential physician Ross T. McIntire boarded a five-car train on a secret siding behind the Bureau of Engraving and Printing.

Then, on a buried page on the Bureau of Engraving and Printing website (Link HERE):

Also during World War II, then President Franklin Roosevelt had a very unique use for the Bureau's special siding and loading platform located in the basement of the Bureau's Annex Building. Because it was very difficult for the President to climb stairs, when he was scheduled to travel by train, the Presidential railroad car was shuttled onto the Bureau's siding and the President was driven by car to the Bureau where he was able to board his private car directly from the loading platform.

Could it be?

Another check of Google Maps reveals this:


View Larger Map

The bridge to nowhere is visible as a white line pointing toward the building next to the "Maine Ave SW" label just above East Potomac Park. Immediately north of that is a crumby old parking lot. North of that is a building adjacent to D Street (the one that looks like it has eight black rectangles). Want to guess what that building is? The Bureau of Engraving and Printing.

A little more searching produced this:

[Image courtesy of historicaerials.com]

It would seem that the bridge to nowhere that was "built in 2004" existed when this aerial photo was taken in 1949. It's hard to tell from the photo if there were tracks on it, but, if there were, they disappear under the building that was there at the time. Also, it appears that, by 1949, there were multiple short side-tracks from this spur, all ending in what is now a parking lot.

Ahh, sweet mysteries of life!

One thing that you can't tell from these photos is that there are changes in elevation here. The beautiful circular plaza at the end of Maryland Avenue (visible in the Google Maps photo above the 1949 photo) is probably 50 feet higher than the parking lot just to the west of it. The existing track still goes under that plaza and emerges on the other end just beyond Twelfth Street.

Look closely at the modern day Google Maps photo - where D Street intersects Fourteenth Street, there is a long, narrow concrete building running parallel to D Street, just across from the Bureau of Engraving and Printing, along the northern edge of the parking lot. The building, with the same two short, verticle lines splitting it into three sections, is also visible in the 1949 photo. Upon close examination, it is obviously something that was meant to accommodate railroad cars.

[This view taken from the Maryland Avenue Plaza looking down]

More searching online found a photograph (below) of the same structure - taken from ground level, and at a different angle - showing that, indeed, there were railroad tracks that have since been removed. I'm not sure when this image was taken, but, judging by the appearance of the front end of the Dodge truck on the left, it wasn't too long ago.

[Image courtesy of clouse.org]

If you look east from in front of this structure, the paved ramp and what would have been the tracks now lead... nowhere (photo below). But this MUST be the "guarded ramp on the east side of Fourteenth Street."


If the rail cars came in from the east, as it would appear looking at this photo, this track must have connected with the main track somewhere.

I went to the east, and stood on top of the railroad overpass at L'Enfant Plaza, and looked directly west under Twelfth Street. To serve the ramp at the long concrete structure behind the Bureau of Engraving and Printing, the track would have to run parallel to, and directly adjacent to D Street. What do you think I saw from L'Enfant Plaza?


The existing tracks disappear into the tunnel on the left, where they go under the Maryland Avenue plaza, and emerge on the other side. The tunnel on the right contains an old rail bed, and it goes... nowhere. But it does veer off at the correct angle to bring it next to the Bureau of Engraving and Printing building.

When I was there, the tunnel entrance was not accessible as far as I could tell. The entire area is fenced off, and, coincidentally, monitored by cameras (two of which are visible in the lower left corner of the above photo). The area is currently a construction site. Rather than risk arrest for trespassing, or a mugging at the hands of some current resident of the derelict tunnel, I decided to end my investigation for now.

Without even knowing it, initially, I had stumbled upon the remnants of the once-secret rail spur into the Bureau of Engraving and Printing building - the heavily-guarded departure and arrival point for the many journeys of President Franklin D. Roosevelt. I'm not sure how the bridge to nowhere fits into the whole picture, but once I read about Roosevelt's getaway to Casablanca, I was pretty sure it would lead me to the site.

Bear in mind that travel was very different in Roosevelt's day. The rail journey that began in Washington, DC on January 9, 1943 ended in Miami twenty-seven hours later. From there, he boarded a plane bound for the meeting with Churchill, making him the first president to leave the nation during wartime, and the first president ever to fly while in office.

There is no statue or monument near the old ramp and loading dock. There is not even a sign. This is a piece of history you can only find by looking for it. Things like this fascinate me, and I could explore areas like this for hours (if I don't get arrested by the Secret Service). It's part of the history and mystery of Washington DC, and something that (keep your fingers crossed) I can spend a lifetime exploring.

Afterthought: Imagine how many tunnels, structures and God-knows-what-else are under the city that we DON'T know about. Did you ever wonder why you don't see your elected representatives running around the streets near the Capital building on their way to legislative sessions? There is a subway system just for them (Link HERE).

A Nudge When Needed

Sometimes, in my weaker moments, it bothers me if I think I look like a tourist when I'm walking or riding around the city. I don't know why it bothers me. There are so many tourists in DC all the time, and they're usually easy to spot. They are constantly consulting maps and posing for pictures. I guess we all are most comfortable when we feel like we know where we are and what we're talking about. I try to be discreet when I have to resort to a map. I'll sneak a peak when I think nobody's looking. But I realized recently one sure way to tell a tourist from an experienced DC dweller; watch them park a car.

In most big cities, space is at a premium, and that certainly includes parking space. You can't park anywhere for free in DC Monday through Saturday. Not a chance. Somebody owns that spot, and they're going to charge you to use it. In many cases, the city of Washington DC owns it. Once they realized how much money was to be made, they did a particularly evil thing; they tried to fit as many parking spaces as possible into tiny areas. If you're one of the many unfortunates left to park along the street, you'd better have a knack for parallel parking.

The other day I was downtown on Constitution Avenue directly between the Washington Monument and the White House. I was riding by on my bike, and noticed a vehicle with three people standing around it, gesturing frantically, shouting instructions, and just generally creating a spectacle. I slowed down to see if it was some kind of emergency, and then realized what was happening. It was tourists trying to park.

They needed someone in front of the car, someone behind the car, and someone on the curb, all checking to be sure they weren't about to rip a substantial piece off of their car or one of the adjacent cars. A few spaces up, a car with DC plates stopped to park, and the contrast in methodology was remarkable.

The DC driver stopped, and quickly backed in until his back bumper nudged the bumper of the car behind him. Then he pulled forward, straightening out somewhat, but, once again, rolling until he nudged the car in front of him. Then he did the final bit of straightening while backing slightly and settling right into the middle of the two total feet of extra space he'd been allowed. The tourists were still scrambling around, checking angles and trajectory, and wondering how to fit into a space that, to them, seemed impossibly small.




I've since observed this DC veteran technique a number of times, and it seems to be the standard for parking in the city. It's expected. There is no possible way to find spaces that have "enough" clearance, so you simply give a nudge when needed, front and back, and go about your business.

One company has capitalized on this by inventing the Bumper Badger. As far as I can tell, it's a glorified door mat with two strips that somehow attach it inside the trunk of your car. When it's time to park, you open your trunk, flip your Bumper Badger out to hang there, and go to work. In theory, it offers some protection against all the other nudgers. Before you drive off, you flip the Bumper Badger back inside your trunk and go.


It seems like a great idea, although nobody has ever explained what you do to protect your front bumper. For that, it's probably best to park behind a tourist.

The Protest...

Yesterday evening I went into DC for the first time since the Metro crash. Partial service had been restored on the Red Line, and I was tired of sitting in my hovel. I had heard about an Iran protest march that had been organized, and I wondered what it would be like. So I went.

The march began at 2209 Wisconsin Avenue, the location of the Iranian Interests Section of the Embassy of Pakistan (the U.S. and Iran have no formal diplomatic relations), and proceeded into the heart of Georgetown, then turned left on P Street ,and, eventually, on to Dupont Circle. When I caught up with them, I immediately felt more like an observer than a participant, and I decided to keep it that way. I was merely curious. These people were committed, passionate. I watched.

I have never seen a protest conducted with such dignity. In long lines, they followed sidewalks, and walked calmly, slowly. Police cars blocked intersections as they passed. Organizers drove ahead with cases of water, and stopped to distribute bottles to marchers as they passed. The evening was warm and the march long.

They chanted slogans as they went: Democracy in Iran. Freedom for Iran. No More Bloodshed.

Passing cars realized what was going on, and drivers waved or honked their horn in support. Pedestrians all along Wisconsin Avenue and P Street paused to look. People sitting in sidewalk cafes lost interest in their wine. Some clapped. Some snapped photos. One older man stopped on the other side of the street where I was. When the procession was close enough that he could see the signs and the green ribbons and T-shirts, he cracked a slight smile and nodded in silent agreement.

Once they arrived at Dupont Circle, they gathered around the familiar fountain, and read a statement. Then they requested that everyone pile their signs on the grass and return to the edge of the granite pool for a candle light vigil in honor of Neda, the young woman whose death has become symbolic of their struggle for freedom. When the candles finally dimmed and the protest crowd began to dwindle, the usual loiterers and stragglers appeared in Dupont Circle, willing to preserve the mood of the moment.

Even the street musician who strolled up and plugged in to play seemed to select music suitable for the tribute. His first two songs were, “Fire and Rain” by James Taylor, and “She Talks to Angels” by the Black Crows. The third song seemed most appropriate of all; the Beatles song, “Let it Be.”

And when the broken hearted
people living in the world agree
there will be an answer, let it be.
For though they may be parted
there is still a chance that they will see
there will be an answer, let it be.

Twittering Freedom

I have a confession to make. I finally broke down and signed up for a Twitter.com account. I don’t think I’ll use it much for my own entries, but, in recent weeks, it has become obvious that the protesters in Iran were using social networking sites like YouTube and Facebook to smuggle out video and still images when the Iranian government began blocking more conventional routes of delivery. The protesters were also using Twitter, to the extent that, when you heard breaking news from Iran on CNN, they prefaced half the reports with, “This just off of Twitter….”

So I created an account, and have since spent fascinating hours over the last few days watching the “tweets” go rolling by on the computer screen. Among the most active threads, as you might imagine, were ones called Iran Election, Iran, and Neda.
I’m not exactly sure why the events in Iran fascinate me so, although I am obviously not the only one thus affected.

If you read a little, you discover it is a nation that defies many Western stereotypes. Because of a baby boom in the 80’s, nearly two-thirds of Iran’s population is under thirty. College enrollment there is 63% female, and women “increasingly continue to play pivotal roles in society.” (Interesting Article Link HERE). I get the impression that, while the government may be oppressive and extremist, large segments of the population are sophisticated and tolerant. Do a few Google searches. You’ll be surprised at what you find.

Several protest events are now scheduled in the DC area over the next few days, and it is likely that I will attend one or more. Although I don’t know how I can get there and back, tomorrow night (Thursday) there is a march that ends, appropriately, in Dupont Circle with a candle light vigil for Neda (Link HERE).

As I write this, a tweet comes across with a link to a very simple website showing first aid information in Persian. There is an English translation that reveals topics such as - Treating Pepper Spray, Dealing with Tear Gas Canisters, Treating Gunshot Wounds, and How to Perform CPR. Many of the tweets are repetitive. Some appear to be efforts of Iranian protesters to communicate with each other, or with outsiders, in some cases cryptically. While many just offer support, some offer advice:

“To stop Basij motorcycle patrols tie wire/rope to tree across street 3-4 feet above ground pull tight before they arrive.”

“Don't fight the beast, starve it! They are vulnerable (dependent on oil/gas revenue)! Work slowly!”

Then there are alarming tweets about people in Iran - identified only by their screen name - who are now missing:

“Persiankiwi has been absent for 15 hours, God save persiankiwi.”

Who could have foreseen the fact that Twitter's most succesful marketing "campaign" would be the election in Iran?

I don't know how long I'll use it, but, for now, I'm Twittering. And watching a struggle for freedom scroll before my eyes.


[Photo Credit: Ben Curtis (AP)]

The Journey Home...

Like most people, I was surprised and saddened when I heard about the DC Metro accident yesterday afternoon. Despite some criticism in recent years, the Metro has a pretty remarkable safety record, especially when you consider that it is the second busiest rapid transit system in the nation (behind New York City), recording almost 20,000,000 trips per month (averaging 798,456 per weekday) on 106 miles of track connected to 86 stations.

Just hours before the collision, I had ridden the same line along the same route into downtown DC, as I do on most days. You can see on the Metro map below that the Red Line forms an irregular "U" shape that dips into the heart of the city, and I rode from Glenmont station (the northernmost station on the east leg of the line) to Dupont Circle (a short distance up the western leg of the line).



The accident site - marked by the X on the map below - is just north of the Fort Totten station. Since I had already ridden into Dupont Circle, and Red Line traffic on the east branch was suspended because of the accident, my usual route home was now non-existent.



I sat in Starbucks and watched on CNN.com as the sad tale unfolded. I fielded phone calls and text messages from family and friends making sure I was ok.

I decided the best way to get home was simply to make it as far north as I could on the Metro, and then improvise. I don't mind walking. Sometimes I walk miles just for exercise, so it seemed silly to complain about walking out of necessity. It didn't seem right to complain at all, really. Even if my journey home was a little inconvenient, I had heard before I left that there were at least four people who would never go home again (the death toll is now up to nine), along with dozens of injured.

I rode the Green Line to the Georgia Ave - Petworth station. Once there, I got lucky. I had never been to that station, but, as soon as I came up the escalator and started trying to get my bearings, a Metro bus pulled up with "Takoma Station" in lights on the front. I knew Takoma Station was on the Red Line, and still shut down, but I also knew that it was further north - closer to Silver Spring. Without a second thought, I jumped on the bus.

It went through areas I had never seen (and some I hope to never see again), and, most of the time, I had no idea where I was. Eventually, though, it pulled into the Takoma Metro station. I had bypassed the accident scene on the Red Line, and knocked a few miles off the walk/cab ride that I figured was coming next. I knew Takoma was only couple of miles or so from Silver Spring, and I knew the Red Line was running from Silver Spring north for the last few stops.



After getting off the bus, I went to the bulletin board to study the map of the area. There is a local map at every bus station. I wanted to try to memorize the tricky roads in Takoma so I wouldn't get lost trying to negotiate the two miles to Silver Spring. There is no good, direct route. It would involve twists and turns on roads I had never seen. I had been standing there for several minutes, mapping it out in my head, when I heard a voice behind me say, "Anyone going to Silver Spring?"

I turned and looked. It was another Metro bus driver. I raised my hand like a timid second grader. "I am." Somehow I had stumbled right into another bus ride one step further up the road. I followed him, and flopped into a seat on the right hand side. A number of other people were already on board, apparently in various stages of the same predicament. All were quiet, as was the driver. Who could complain? We were going home.



The bus pulled up next to the Silver Spring station. The Metro system was not charging for these last bus rides or trips to the last few stations. By now it was close to midnight - the normal Sunday through Thursday cutoff times for Metro trains. I descended the escalator, and boarded the last Red Line train of the night heading north.

[If you are interested, the Metro website has a good, interactive map HERE]