A lesson that’s mostly gone down the brain drain: it’s always necessary to perform more than cursory research when writing a story. I was flabbergasted to find out that Washington, D.C. set a record for tourism in 2024, with bumper numbers also projected for this year. And it’s not only the sporadic and ineffectual scrum of protestors who shout slogans in front of the White House and Capitol, celebrated in the media. It’s the traditional destinations like the National Gallery of Art, Washington Monument, the Smithsonian and Lincoln and Jefferson Memorials, all of which I visited as a kid in the 1960s, whether on an overnight field trip from Long Island, or as part of an ongoing “history tour” that my parents took their brood on, depending on the age of the boys.
I’ve read in the past year that U.S. tourism is suffering, since this country is the “laughingstock of the world,” because of Trump and his belligerence about… you pick: fealty to Israel and Bibi, on-and-off feuds with NATO, ICE madness, calling various American cities “shitholes” and “slums,” and his double duty as president and host of an informercial network hawking his cheapo trinkets. According to the European press, the U.S. is too violent for a safe overseas vacation.
New York’s jammed with tourists as well, but that’s always been the case, no matter how expensive it is (or crime-ridden) or what the dollar’s currency rate is compared to the Euro, pound, yen and peso. But D.C.? I haven’t been in a few years (granted, when I commuted there in the early-1980s on far more reliable MARC trains from Baltimore to work on our Washington City Paper, I mostly had my fill, although I can still taste that Cuban grub in the now-shuttered Omega restaurant in Adams Morgan) but the last time I was taken aback at how low the once-exciting Union Station had fallen. It’s still an architectural gem, but the building, once crammed, on several floors, is nearly empty. You’d get off the train, make a stop at the well-stocked Hudson News, maybe grab a coffee or Mexican nosh, do some shopping and then go outside and gape in wonder—if that’s corny, tough luck—at the Capitol.
Our family, in the past 20 years, often accompanied by my in-laws, have attended Nationals games at the dilapidated RFK Stadium (worse than the old Shea in Flushing for neck-cramps) and the relatively new Nationals Park (opened in 2008), as well as the usual sites. In 2024, D.C.’s National Mall was ranked as America’s second biggest tourist attraction, behind Central Park; the Smithsonian came in at fourth, just below NYC’s Times Square. (That latter’s a mystery to me since the once-filled-with-curiosities Times Square, marvelously seedy and unique, now looks like an AI invention, just like Las Vegas, which is why, I suppose it’s still so popular.)
The picture above is of my parents, along with my oldest brother, in D.C., a long time ago back (before commonplace air-conditioning) when it was called a “sleepy swamp by the Potomac,” but still a “must” for families on the East Coast, for all the architecture, history and museums. An era when Americans didn’t roundly despise (with good reason) the creeps who foul the Business of Washington, meaning the politicians, lobbyists and journalists. Even when I was there in the mid-1960s, when huge demonstrations were the norm, there was a Mr. Smith Goes to Washington air around town. It was mythical, as the media routinely looked the other way at scandals, like JFK fucking his way through the city, J. Edgar Hoover, despised, but never “outed” as gay, and God knows what the CIA and FBI were up to. I remember spending an hour in the “guests” gallery at the Capitol, intently watching the speeches of Congressmen, holding forth in stentorian tones and making you believe they were the “good guys.” I’d wised up by 1968 or so, but it wasn’t the worst illusion for a 10-year-old.
Take a look at the clues to figure out the year: The Lions defeat the Browns at Briggs Stadium in the NFL Championship; the Boston Braves move to Milwaukee; the real Rocky (Marciano) rules in the ring; it’s a Ben Hogan Year on the golf circuit (although not for total purse); Fred Davis wins the World Snooker Championship; Walt Disney’s Peter Pan premieres in Chicago; John Ford wins his third Best Director Oscar; Jacqueline Lee Bouvier is married; Mary Steenburgen is born and Bill Tilden dies; The Wall Street Journal’s Vermont Royster wins the Editorial Writing Pulitzer and William Inge wins for Drama; Arthur Miller’s The Crucible opens on Broadway; City Lights Bookstore opens in San Francisco; J.D. Salinger’s Nine Stories, Raymond Chandler’s The Long Goodbye and Jim Thompson’s Savage Night are published.
—Follow Russ Smith on Twitter: @MUGGER2023