A monumental trip

If you’re a middle child, you know how precious a commodity attention can be.

Frequently caught in that unenviable space between the accomplishments of the eldest and the parlor tricks of the youngest, the middle must somehow carve out for themselves a niche that affords them an identity and recognition.

Carla and I have put great thought and intention into relating to each of our three boys as individuals. We try to give them what they need as equally as possible, with the obvious “squeaking wheel gets the grease” adage coming into play occasionally.

When we decided in December of 2023 to plan a one-on-one trip with each of our boys, we knew it would be special for all three, but perhaps Harris, the middle, would relish it the most.

As recorded in this space back in October, we took our trip with Carlton, our youngest, to New York City during fall break. So naturally, Harris put his trip to Washington, D.C., on the books for March 1-3. It was the first weekend of his spring break from Mercer University, which, as it turns out, is neither during actual spring nor really a break, what with papers due, internship interviews to conduct and personal affairs, such as updating his professional wardrobe, to attend to.

In the spirit of equality, Harris received the same three-day deal Carlton had. We caught an early flight out of Atlanta to Reagan National Airport on Saturday morning with the return flight booked for Monday afternoon, in time to get Carlton to one of his myriad rehearsals. And unlike with Carlton’s trip, our logistics posed no anxiety. We arrived at all of the appointed places with time to spare and suffered no travel-related setbacks.

The one hiccup that I worried would prove problematic occurred Friday night when we set about packing. Ever the planner, I had been watching the DC weather on my trusty app for a week and a half. I knew that we would be in for a cold snap during our visit. I wasn’t the least bit worried. I learned from years of being a marching band parent that layers would be my saving grace. Armed with my good heavy coat and long underwear, I could survive the harshest conditions.

Harris, on the other hand, joyfully came home from Mercer mentally, and apparently fashionably, ready for SPRING break. He was blissfully unaware that we would be arriving in our nation’s capital at the same time as a cold front. He did not bring home his heavy coat. Instead, he packed plenty of shorts. It seems he was remembering D.C. fondly from our family trip way back in 2016. The difference is that trip was in late May.

After ruling out any sharing of outer garments from me or his younger but larger brother, we decided he could layer it up and rely on his lined jacket worn for the Parkview Band trip to London for the 2020 New Year’s parade.

The temperatures in D.C. were the warmest of the weekend when we first arrived around 11:30 a.m. Washington is a walking city, so we took advantage of the sunny but increasingly windy conditions. We immediately set about touristing after checking in at the hotel conveniently located on the blue subway line at Metro Center.

Unlike with New York where Broadway shows provided the scheduling anchors, we had dinner reservations Saturday and Sunday nights that we planned around. Because of his career aspirations, our unstructured touring centered around all things presidential.

After a great lunch at the Elephant and Castle on our way to the National Mall, we gave Harris what we couldn’t when we visited in 2016: as much time as he wanted to explore the National Museum of American History, namely the exhibit on the American Presidency. Turns out, five hours was enough to take in president stuff, American pop culture artifacts, all of the wars America has fought, seeing the original Star Spangled Banner and carefully perusing the gift shop.

Having to get up at 5 a.m. to catch our flight meant my daily need for afternoon caffeine was even more urgent. The museum coffee shop and Harris’ selective reading from his gift shop purchase was enough to keep me alert.

“Bedew no mans face with your Spittle,” Harris read from Rule No. 12 of “George Washington’s Rules of Civility & Decent Behavior in Company and Conversation.” I nearly bedewed Harris’ face with my coffee as the combination of hilariously outdated etiquette combined with the 18th Century grammar made me laugh way harder than it should have. (Warning to any guests to our home in coming months, we will be asking Harris to stage a reading for the entertainment of all. It’s a hoot and a half.)

Our progressive dinner of sorts began at “Off the Record” in the basement of the Hay-Adams Hotel. Harris decided he didn’t care for raw oysters, but the political cartoons and cozy vibe made us feel like real Beltway insiders. We took our main course at the iconic Washington eatery, The Old Ebbitt Grill. It did not disappoint. Seafood in various forms is particularly delicious there (I had the salmon.)

Determined to have a different experience of the monuments from his childhood visit, Harris asked if we were game for a night tour of the Mall. I steeled my constitution and donned my layers for what turned out to be a 90-minute, 33-degree, 16-degree-windchill battle against gusting Arctic winds. Carla decided discretion was the better part of valor and chose to turn in for the evening.

Like Roald Amundson and Robert Falcon Scott, we mushed from the Lincoln Memorial to the Korean War Memorial (which takes on a dramatically different character after dark), to MLK, Vietnam, World War II and ultimately the base of the Washington Monument. When we decided photos of the Capitol a mile away would work just as well as trudging against the wind all the way to its steps, Harris pulled off his gloves to take a photo. A sudden gale took his glove away, and we decided that was a signal to call off the expedition.

Harris’ itinerary on Sunday included worship at the Washington National Cathedral, stops at Kramer’s and Bridge Street book stores, a tour of the presidential portraits exhibit at the American Art Museum, and dinner at THE place to see and be seen in Washington, Cafe Milano in Georgetown. (We didn’t recognize any famous people, but then again, we don’t know how many people were thrilled to see us given our own fame as the First Family of New South Essays.)

Overly stuffed with gourmet Italian, we went around the corner for dessert at Martin’s Tavern, more for the experience than the food, though the appropriately named Chocolate Awesome is, in fact, awesome. Rather than do any more frigid touring Sunday night, we watched D.C.-themed television back in the hotel room with “Veep” and “House of Cards.”

We caught one more bookstore, Second Story in Dupont Circle, Monday morning before meeting up with Harris’ girlfriend, Anna, and her mom for breakfast at one of the ubiquitous Tatte Bakery and Cafes. They flew in that morning from Augusta to tour George Washington and American universities for a potential grad school destination.

I had managed to go the whole trip without an embarrassing dad moment until our rush back to Marriott Metro Center to check out, collect our bags and head to the airport. Still haunted by the trauma of poor subwaying in New York City in December of 2022 (that whole “Uptown” vs. “Downtown” situation proved problematic), I freaked out when I realized we were on a silver line train instead of a blue line train. I pulled us off the train seconds before the doors closed to the bewilderment of Carla and Harris.

“It’s the wrong train!” I said with a little more panic than was called for.

They then calmly explained that between Farragut West and Metro Center, a mere two stops, the silver and blue lines covered the same territory. It was embarrassing and not the kind of move a Washingtonian would make, but in my defense, I had made WAY worse mistakes on the subway in the past and they understood the levels of my incompetence could be nearly catastrophic. (Harris’ subway trauma was seeing me split in half by the closing doors during our 2016 trip, convinced I was about to meet my death as the train pulled out of the National Archives station.)

The return trip was as pleasant as our outbound flights, and only the rush hour Atlanta traffic that confirmed we were home dampened our spirits. Carlton was delivered to his rehearsal only slightly tardy.

It was by all measures a wonderful trip filled with treasured memories. While in D.C., we didn’t see anyone famous or powerful (that we knew of), but Carla and I were treated to a sight more special: our child in his element, choosing his own adventure and reveling in new experiences, meaningful conversation and dreaming about the future.

If that’s not monumental, I don’t know what is.