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A MUST SEE IN WASHINGTON D.C.

By Karen McQuestion

            Unlike most tourists visiting our nation’s capital, my family of five didn’t waste time looking at mundane sights like the Lincoln Memorial or the White House.  Instead, we went someplace most people never go—the Department of Agriculture, a large building filled with people whose biggest concerns include soybean production and drought monitoring.

            If you’ve been to Washington D.C. and didn’t get a chance to visit this impressive office building, I’m here to tell you about it.

            To begin with, Washington D.C., as seen on tourist maps, appears to be well laid out, with everything in easy walking distance. HA HA HA!  A person could walk their fingers around this map in a matter of seconds, which is what my family should have done, and then got on a tour bus and called it a day.  Instead we went the pedestrian route.

            We slogged along that day in July, held upright only by the heat rays radiating off the pavement.  The whole process ground to a halt when my children announced in unison that they were hungry.  By fortunate coincidence, this happened right in front of an ice cream vendor.

            My oldest son opted for a fudgsicle—the perfect accessory for his white T-shirt, my daughter chose a multi-colored snow cone, and my younger son picked an ice cream face on a stick, solely for its gumball nose.

            We stopped on the steps of the Department of Agriculture Building so they could eat their delicious treats.  The kids were uncharacteristically quiet, a fact I attributed to their overwhelming gratitude.

            Within minutes the silence was broken.  “This isn’t like the snow cones at home,” nine-year-old Maria said.  Her face had that rain cloud look.  “It’s as hard as a rock.”

            “Why don’t you wait awhile?” my husband suggested.  “Let it thaw out a bit.”

            We never got a chance to see if his idea worked because just seconds later, the snow cone catapulted off its paper cone as if propelled my poltergeists.

            “She did that on purpose!” my oldest son cried.  And then to his sister, “That ball of ice cost three dollars, so if you think they’re going to buy you something else you can just forget it.”

            My daughter cried.  “Now I have nothing to eat and I have to go to the bathroom.”

            I took my daughter in search of a rest room leaving my husband behind to pry out the gumball nose with his pocketknife.  I didn’t realize, at that point, that the Department of Agriculture took up an entire city block, which of course it would, since it houses such things as the Farm Service Agency and the Food Guide Pyramid.

            We’d circled the block and were getting frantic until I saw a door that said Visitors.  Weren’t we visitors?  Didn’t the Department of Agriculture belong to all taxpaying citizens?  At least that’s what I rationalized, because by then I really had to go as well.

            Once inside, all that stood between the bathroom and us were two women in uniform who took their job and personal grooming very seriously.  I interrupted their nail filing to explain the purpose of our visit, pointing to my daughter who, fortunately for me, looked miserable.  The two employees exchanged glances like oh, the old bathroom story—you expect us to fall for that?  But eventually they put down their emery boards and allowed us to enter.  For insurance they took my driver’s license, which they promised to give back if we ever returned.

            The ladies restroom was distinguished by stall doors that hung high off the floor, like saloon shutters.  Apparently privacy is not a priority when you work for the Department of Agriculture.  As a citizen I was glad to see that employees in that building won’t be lingering in bathroom stalls, at least not on taxpayers’ time anyway. 

             As we exited the building the two women handed over my driver’s license without any signs they had mocked the photo or my claimed weight.

            The rest of the vacation was not nearly as exciting.  Once my younger son got over the trauma of the gumball rolling into the sewer grate, everything else seemed anti-climactic. 

            Next time we’ll have ice cream at home.

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