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The National Portrait Gallery is yet another of the Smithsonian Institution’s fantastic museums.  The building in which it is housed, and which it shares with the American Art Museum, was Washington’s old post office, then was a hospital during the Civil War, where Walt Whitman volunteered.  The gallery most famously contains the portraits of the presidents of the United States.  (Normal Rockwell’s Nixon is good.)

But I was pleased to see how many other wonderful paintings and sculptures were.  Some were surprisingly old, others were simply beautiful to look at.  There were paintings of authors like Mark Twain, Henry James, Louisa May Alcott, and a child Edith Wharton, and statesmen like Ben Franklin and a young Frederick Douglass.  I am a big fan of marble sculpture, and some of what was there was extremely impressive.  I wish I would have taken pictures of some of the eighteenth century American furniture that was on display in some of the rooms upstairs.  It’s not the sort of think I’d choose to have in my house, but the highboys were beyond compare, made of the finest woods, with elaborate carving.  Alas, I forgot to take pictures.

While I was at the museum I had the place practically to myself.  Wandering through parts of the building it was just me and the security guards.  Any many parts of the building were as impressive as the art works.  The courtyard was cool, too.

Ford’s Theater is not far from the White House.  It was one of the biggest theaters in the city when Lincoln went to see a production of Our American Cousin.  The Petersen House is directly across the street from Ford’s Theater, and it was that proximity that led the slain president to be placed in a bed in a room on the first floor which the Petersens rented to a fellow who happened to be out for the evening.  President Lincoln never regained consciousness, and died in that room the following morning.  I learned all this from the National Park Service ranger stationed in the Petersen House with whom I had a long conversation alone in that very room.  It was an odd and sad feeling.

Mount Vernon is a remarkable place.  George Washington himself called it the finest plantation in America.  Granted, he could hardly be considered an impartial judge, but, considering that he never told a lie, and, having surveyed the estate myself, I cannot disagree with his assessment.

The yellow line Metro from D.C. terminates at Huntington Avenue in Alexandria, Virginia.  To reach Mount Vernon you can take the No. 101 bus for a couple dollars, or, like me, miss that bus and take a $25 taxi ride to save forty minutes.  That expense was worth it, however, considering what I saw, and would not have had I waited longer at Huntington Station.  The historic site is managed not by the National Park Service, but since 1860 by the Mount Vernon Ladies’ Association, so there is a fee to enter.  But, again, compared to what one may see about the place, the price is a bargain.

There is a visitor center at the entrance to the grounds, and within are a gift shop (of course), a restaurant, theaters which show educational films, and a museum with more authentic papers and artifacts than I could believe.  Perhaps I had just assumed that such priceless treasures would be housed at the Smithsonian or National Archives, and, indeed, I would see Washington’s hand written inaugural address at the Library of Congress.  But in the museum at Mount Vernon are many articles of clothing, swords and arms, furnishings and decorative objects that belonged to George and Martha Washington.  So, too, are Washington’s horrifying dentures.  Let’s just say that dental science has come a long way.  During my visit there was also an exhibit of presidential china, which was lovely and fascinating.

As you leave the visitor center you follow a path that leads around some trees and soon come upon the great green lawn beyond which lies the mansion itself.  The exterior walls of the house might appear from a distance to be made of stone.  In fact, it is wood siding with beveled edges.  The intricate plaster ceiling of the obnoxiously painted small dining room is original.  The rooms inside are occupied by an astonishing amount of furniture and objects original to the house.  A modest leather chair in the library was the one in which Washington sat as president of the United States.

Outside, the gardens are vast and lovely, though a bit bare in early November.  Still, in the orchard was a fox jogging up and down the grounds, and there were ample sheep, as well.  Beyond an astonishing cedar of Lebanon lies the tomb of the Father of Our Nation.

Mount Vernon sits high on the banks of the Potomac River.  From the back porch of the mansion, looking across the wide river to the dense woods, which much look much the same as they did in the late eighteenth century, with the leaves every different color of autumn, I could easily understand why Washington loved the place so much.  It is a national treasure.

Today is Veteran’s Day, but a week ago, on election day, I took the Metro across the Potomac to Arlington National Cemetery.  The first time visitor is bound to be most impressed by the vastness of the place.  The white marble grave stones seem to stretch off to infinity, past the trees and rolling hills.  The sheer number of markers is almost overwhelming, arranged in neat rows only deformed by the irregularity of the landscape.  You don’t need to look far to find a cross inscribed with the gold letters that indicate that a recipient of the Medal of Honor lies beneath it.

The Tomb of the Unknown Soldier is prominently situated near a memorial amphitheater in the middle of the cemetery.  The honor guard that keeps watch over the tomb is precise and focused; their uniforms are impeccable.  Following the changing of the guard, I watched three wreath laying ceremonies, one on behalf of the Italian ambassador to the United States, who was flanked by a dozen or so Italian military officers, themselves in fancy uniforms covered with medals and ribbons.

Of course, the grave of President John F. Kennedy is at Arlington, and Mrs. Kennedy is buried at his side beneath the “eternal flame” at the foot of a grassy hill below Arlington House.  A few short steps from the president’s grave is that of his brother, Robert.  The marker is as modest as can be, but there is a fountain behind it with quotes from the slain senator, including from his famous speech in Indianapolis following the assassination of Dr. King.

Of all graves in the entire cemetery, though, the one most scenically situated is that of Pierre L’Enfant, the architect of Washington, DC.  From his monument you can see across the river, to the Lincoln Memorial and beyond.  It was overcast while I was there, but on a clear day the view must be spectacular.

L’Enfant’s grave lies in the garden of Arlington House, a memorial to Robert E. Lee, who lived there with his wife, whose family built the mansion.  Lee met, proposed to, and married Mary Custis all within that building’s walls.  Six of the Lee’s children were born in the house.  The day I was there the building had begun undergoing restoration, so all the furniture had been removed.  But I did get to walk upon the original wood floors that are still in place upstairs, on the floor where the family’s bedrooms were located.  The National Park Service ranger even showed me a room usually off limits, which the Lee’s used as storage, but which still has original finish on the walls.  In a museum nearby, many of Robert E. Lee’s personal possessions are on display, including insignia from the general’s uniform, and a lock of George Washington’s hair which he kept in a small decorative pin.

That might be all most visitors to Arlington bother to see.  But I remembered the Maine.  The mast of that ship stands above a monument to the sailors who died in the explosion that sank it.  The ship’s bell and anchor are also there.  Oddly, right beside that memorial is one that came as a complete surprise to me: the grave of Jan Paderewski.  Who knew?

Few people probably take the walk out to the memorial to the Confederate soldiers buried at Arlington.  The monument is large and elaborate; the sculpted figures are actually rather affecting.  There is also another tomb for unknown soldiers–2,111 of them–at Arlington.  Erected in 1866, it holds the remains of unidentified dead from several Civil War battles.

Arlington is a cemetery, and a beautiful and peaceful place.  It wasn’t as emotionally wrenching for me as the Normandy American Cemetery and Memorial was when I visited there in 2001.  I suppose that may have something to do with the fact that many of the graves at Arlington are of men who served honorably in battle, then went on to live productive and fulfilling lives.  Few, if any, of them died where they are buried.  At Normandy, I could not escape the fact that almost everyone buried there was younger than I was when I visited.  The location of the cemetery there, right above the beach, creates a vivid impression of cause and effect: here was a great and terrible battle; here is what it wrought.

But Arlington is a sacred shrine to the memory of countless men who wore the uniform of their country, and I doubt there is a better place to be laid to rest in this country.  Alas, as I was reminded by the repeated sounds of 21 gun salutes during my visit–indicating funerals that were being held as I wandered–it will continue to be filled.

Sunday, November 2nd was the day chosen to view the great monuments on the National Mall.  The closest Metro stop is in front of the Smithsonian castle (where, in James Smithson’s crypt, you can see some of his books, which include volumes of Samuel Johnson), which is a bit of a hike to the Washington Monument, and a very long walk to the steps of the Lincoln Memorial.  Between those two landmarks is the relatively new World War II Memorial, right at the end of the reflecting pool.  It’s a sober and dignified design, with a central fountain surrounded by stone pillars inscribed with the names of America’s states and territories, and large arches at either end representing the Atlantic and Pacific theaters.

The walk along the north side of the reflecting pool takes you near the Vietnam War Memorial.  It is a profound monument, with the names of every fallen soldier inscribed in black marble.  It personalizes the conflict in a way other memorials cannot.  The nearby Korean War Memorial is poignant and underrated.

The Lincoln Memorial is awesome.  What you cannot tell from looking at a penny is how spectacularly large the structure is.  Seeing how it dwarfs the crowds of people standing upon its steps is the only clue you have when seeing it from a distance.  The seated Lincoln is enormous.  His Second Inaugural and Gettysburg Address adorn the walls on either side of the temple.

The National Museum of American History was, alas, closed until November 21.  But the National Museum of Natural History was open, and, though I thought that, in some ways, it is inferior to the Field Museum in Chicago, the Smithsonian does have the Hope Diamond, and everybody loves that.  Plus, I got to touch a rock from Mars.  So, in the space of two days I touched pieces of Mars and the Moon.

Sunday was the only genuinely cold day during my trip, and I felt especially uncomfortable on my long walk back to the subway.  The weather had turned cloudy and sometimes misty.  Later in the week it was supposed to clear up, but it didn’t until Friday, which was very warm, but Saturday the 8th it was overcast and drizzling again in the morning.

Monday morning I walked the few short picturesque blocks up Connecticut Avenue to the National Zoo, part of the Smithsonian.  It’s totally free, but almost nobody was there.  The cool, cloudy weather meant most of the animals were up and about.  I saw the fishing cat putting its paws in the water.  The pandas were sleeping in the trees.  Some of the animals’ habitats were empty.  I gathered that the animals had been moved somewhere else.  But I did get to see an octopus and a centipede, and in the bird house I saw a magpie eating a lizard, a toucan and had a close encounter with a kiwi.  That is one weird bird.  Even more bizarre: a black squirrel.

In the afternoon I went to the United States Holocaust Memorial Museum.  Photographs are not allowed in the exhibit, for obvious reasons.  Needless to say, the museum is both disturbing and heartbreaking.  This trip made me even more convinced that authentic artifacts have much more power than replicas or reproductions.  So, while the photos were wrenching and the boxcar was evocative, it was a large room piled high with the shoes of Holocaust victims that was the most personal.  Most affecting for me, though, were two genuine bunks from barracks at Auschwitz.

In future updates I go to the National Portrait Gallery, Mount Vernon and the Supreme Court.

My understanding of civics and history is decent.  I’m not an authority, of course, and there is something I would really like to understand.

Following a US presidential election, like the one we had last week, when the results come in from states across the country, and one candidate passes the required 270 mark in the electoral college, they are the winner.  Sure, the electoral college doesn’t formally convene until December, but last Tuesday night it was clear that Senator Obama was the winner, and will be president elect.

Here’s where it gets a little foggy for me:  So, Senator Obama is watching CNN, and he sees Wolf Blitzer and John King analyzing the maps, and projecting winners in each state until, finally, the 270 mark is passed. What happens then?  Obviously, Senator Obama–and everyone else–knows he’s won.  But is there some sort of formal procedure that’s followed?  Yes, the loser generally concedes, as John McCain did in a speech that exhibited a great deal of class.  And President Bush called Senator Obama, too.  But neither of those events are necessary.  I mean, even if, hypothetically, John McCain had stood up in that Phoenix hotel ballroom and said, “I declare myself the winner!”, it wouldn’t have mattered; 346 electoral college votes say otherwise.  But does some government official call up Barack Obama and say, “We’re watching CNN.  They say you have the votes, so, if you’re going to be home tomorrow morning, we’d like to come by and start telling you the all the classified state secrets you’re going to need to know”?  Something like that must happen, because, sure enough, the day after the election the NSA or CIA or some agency was briefing President Elect Obama.

Are there any authorities on US presidential history reading?