Field Trip: Day II.

I've forever determined that wake-up calls will never be pleasant for me. To me, waking up is a sacred event, one that shouldn't be rushed. The only time wake-up calls should be used is in an emergency. Someone sprained their ankle? Let me sleep for 45 more minutes, then we can figure it out. The building is engulfed in flames? Yes, please inform me of this. Halle Berry calling my room to tell me that not only were we spending the day together in a tropical location (clothing optional) and that she was buying me dinner still would have left me disgruntled. Following a 21 hour day, an ear-piercing, fear-of-an-explosion chest-gripping 6:30 wake-up call wasn't a step in right direction. I needed far more sleep for the amount of shit I'd be putting up with and schlepping around the hall knocking on the kids' doors to get them up and ready was not my idea of a pleasant morning.

The big event of the day was the tour of the Capital Building. This was a time bomb set to explode. Our normally laid-back tour leader was a nervous wreck. "Years ago, I could just walk into these places," I heard him say several times to me. He'd then raise his hand and shut his eyes for a second and slightly shake his head the way Italians do and finish with "not anymore; those friggen terrorists."

The addition of highway traffic into the city really put him on edge. But when all was said and done, we got to Capital Hill in time and corralled the students around the teeming lobby full of eighth grade tours. The kids sized each other up, especially if they both had the same flat-brim FBI novelty hat on. After literally pushing kids in the direction, we took our seats for the HD, surround sound movie about the US Congress. How fascinating! It was just like the Die Hard series, just without all the action scenes and entertainment. Following the feature film, we packed up ourselves and headed on a tour through the building. We saw paintings, sculptures, statues, the original Supreme Court room and more paintings. Luckily enough we got a chance to sit in on a real live session of congress! Finally, the kids would be able to see government in action. Screw you, CSPAN! We had the real thing right in front of us with no commercial breaks. My excitement quickly left me as I, like the other students, was struggling to stay awake as a whopping eight people sat on the congress floor below, talking about the housing market or something I had a hard time hearing in the first place. I woke up the kids who fell asleep, much to the chagrin of the trained killer that was our security guard, and gathered the crew to leave.
After walking and going down an elevator and going up stairs and going down an escalator, the kids were getting antsy. I knew it was time to leave the Capital when I heard the words: "those kids will be arrested, seeing as that is a federal offense." Some of the rebels, ironically wearing the FBI flat-brim hats and skater shoes, decided they'd pass the time while we figured out the next plan of events to drop things on people from a balcony overlooking the lobby. These rent-a-federal-security-guard guards were not pleased and we quickly exited stage right.

The day outside was gorgeous. The sun was shining, attractive girls were running all around and the snow that had blanketed the capital city was quickly vanishing. The fresh air was invigorating, but the wind would subsequently be taken out of our sails as we ventured over to the Supreme Court. I have to preface this part by saying that I've always been fascinated with this stuff. Back in high school I took a constitutional law course, intimately studied case law, even met a US Supreme Court justice, but this was not something I'd put on the "Things to do again" list. Firstly, the armed security guards at the courthouse were either disgruntled Secret Service washouts or, hell I don't know, relatives of former Gestapo members. Either way they were on a wicked power trip. "Ladies and Gentlemen. We ask that you PLEASE KEEP QUIET!" They were on high alert as if President Obama himself would walk through the double doors at any moment. But that's the thing, nothing was happening. I mean I would understand if court was in session and there were high-profile witnesses or prosecutors or members of the Court moseying around, but there weren't.

Literally nobody was there.

You're putting eighth graders that go to an all-boys school in line next to attractive females, there's going to be some chatter. I was surprised they didn't fire shots at the ceiling like it was a bank robbery and we were all the hapless civilians soon to be face down on the floor, handing over our wallets. With the permission of Judge Dredd, we silently filed into the courtroom, mindful that sneezing might bring a bullet or two to the leg and sat down on the creaky pews facing the nine empty and generally plain-looking seats. So a Supreme Court justice farted up there? Who cares? I can look at empty chairs in Staples, I thought.

Apart from the hard-nosed, drill sergeant demeanor of the security guards outside, the guy on the other side of the door was the complete opposite. Now for you history buffs out there, the Supreme Court moved its location from the Capital Building to where it stands today way back in 1860. I'd put money that the guy who gave our seated tour of the courtroom helped move furniture. Not only was he 109 years old, the microphone/public address system he used wasn't properly sound-checked. It didn't help that he held the microphone a good foot away from his mouth either, making it increasingly difficult for the already depleted crew to hear and focus on whatever boring note he was making about the ceiling tiles.
Oh, and he had a stutter.

I've been a part of boring classes in high school and college, in fact I've even been guilty of catching a little shut eye, but that was typically picked up on and addressed by all teachers, snapping anyone out of their drooling, beach locale nap. Until that day, I've never seen anyone continue speaking with so many people asleep in front of him. I was astonished. I panned the crowd, seeing most of our kids zonked out. The Asian boys in particular were completely down for the count. They didn't give a shit about this stuff; I'd probably do the same thing if I was in their position. But I noticed a large amount of other tourists were slowly dozing off as well. About 20 minutes into the 45 minute speech, it looked as though someone had sprayed a fatal nerve agent over the crowd, sparing only those few with strong immune systems. I turned around at one point to see a teacher in our group reclined in his chair with his sunglasses on. Bastard. I could tell he was near the end of his monologue and he wrapped it up by asking if there were any questions. Finally we'd be getting out of here. I kicked a couple kids to, gathered up my coat and got ready to leave. Suddenly I saw hands shooting up. One, two, three. What the hell were these people thinking? I turned to my left to see the outstretched hand of one of the goofier kids in our group. "Nick..." I declared, "Google it."

Following the Supreme Snooze Fest, the students had about three hours of "free" time. We stood in the middle of the Mall and passed out the meal vouchers and I instructed my group of 11 kids not to get arrested, not to go outside the Mall parameters and enjoy as many museums as possible. A few of the younger faculty and I opted to forego the complimentary Filet-O-Fish sandwich and, with the power of the iPhone, found a relatively cheap and delicious Mexican restaurant only a few blocks from the Mall. As salivating as cold glass of Dos Equis Amber can be, it was only matched by the handmade guacamole right at our table. I ordered a pan-fried chicken sandwich on ciabatta bread with a chipotle spread, chihauhua cheese (the dog?), avocado and black beans. You can't beat cold beer and cheap, good food. I finished my second beer, we paid the bill and went our separate ways to soak up the rest of the free time by visiting a few museums. I broke off with the other intern and went into the American History Museum. They had some pretty fascinating exhibits including a the original stars and stripes that flew at Fort McHenry way back when, the Puffy Shirt from Seinfeld and a pair of Muhammad Ali's boxing gloves; all integral parts of American history.

As my time of freedom winded down, we reconvened with the gathering group of children tossing around a football they probably stole. The lone female teacher traveling with us is an interesting character. She actually made an appearance in Beard-Me: Yes as the bright-eyed and bushy-tailed teacher who proudly exclaimed "Chivalry is not dead!" after I held the door open for her. Let's just say she would probably fit in better in the 1850's rather than the blossoming technological millenium era. It was fun explaining to her how to turn on the cell phone (she borrowed from our athletic director) on the plane ride the morning prior, and I always had to smile and nod when she would mention her love of Abraham Lincoln's dense vocabulary or the lovely daffodils planted outside the museum. Two African-American women walked by and braced themselves for impact as the Nerf football wooshed by their heads. "I tell y'all, that ball bettah not hit me! Y'all be sorry." The same teacher turned to me and with genuine regard exclaimed: "I love that speak...the black speak." Upsettingly, none of the other guys I work with heard.

I chatted with a few kids that weren't playing football and was pleased to find out no one got arrested. Some of them informed me that they talked to "mad biddies" during their free time. I naturally made fun of them and turned towards the door of the museum to see a Latino security guard with a diamond earring and sheriff hat escorting one of our kids who looked as though he had just been released from Camp X-Ray. The teachers collectively held their breath. What'd he do? I thought. Steal one of the gun's from the Waco, Texas exhibit? Practice his skateboarding moves on the fragile fabric of America's original flag? Tried Cesar Chavez's union jacket on? Started punching old ladies with Ali's mitts?

No.

What Super Cop caught our student in the act of and proceeded to interrogate the poor kid in a You've-Stolen-From-Our-Museum interrogation rooms like you see in the movies and called one of the other faculty enjoying his free time to come down to the museum early was simply going down an up-escalator. That's it. This kid didn't even shoplift from the gift store. The Hispanic Serpico decided he'd put the fear of God into the child. Oh well, this particular kid kinda deserved it.

Several head counts, a terrible dinner at the ESPN Zone and a play at the Kennedy Center later, Day II came to an end. Power-tripped security guards, a tour from Father Time and seeing the Puffy Shirt was all the stuff I'd dream about until being ripped out of a comfortable night's sleep by the 7 o'clock wake-up call to finish the third and final leg of the DC tour.