In March, Matt and I flew to Washington, DC. Half of it was work: a conference on Impact Aid, the federal funding that keeps school districts like ours afloat when federal land removes property from the tax rolls. The other half was the two of us doing what we do in any city, walking until something gives. I wrote a note most nights, and then one more a week after we got home, standing on a bridge in Poulsbo. That last one is why the rest of these exist. Here they are, as I wrote them.
Getting there: Cincinnati was an ambush
After four hours on the Seattle tarmac waiting to be de-iced, we finally took off, got to within about an hour of Washington, DC, and then were turned around and sent to Cincinnati like this trip was written by someone who enjoys character development.
So now Matt and I can officially say we’ve been to Cincinnati, which was never really on the vision board, but apparently was on the itinerary the universe made for us. At the moment, we’re sitting in the back of the plane with a middle school drill team on their way to competition, which means the energy around us is a mix of discipline, hairspray, and far more emotional resilience than I currently possess.
DC remains a distant rumor. Cincinnati was an ambush. And this trip is already giving us more content than I planned.
Day 1: Founding documents and a bacon cheeseburger
Day 1. Or maybe Day 2. Time has lost all meaning.
We finally made it into DC around 11 last night and checked into our hotel, just a couple of blocks from the Capitol. Naturally, the first thing I did in our nation’s capital was absolutely destroy my no-carb diet with a glorious bacon cheeseburger from Z-Burger next door. A patriotic choice, honestly. It was late, we were tired, and at that point I felt I had earned the right to make at least one terrible nutritional decision in the name of survival. It was perfect. No regrets. The diet and I are currently taking some time apart.
This morning came early, with a full day of learning about federal Impact Aid for schools. Lots of information, lots of good ideas, and the kind of conference brain that leaves you both inspired and slightly overclocked. While I was doing that, Matt spent the day wandering the neighborhood, sipping lavender lattes and revisiting Uniqlo, which apparently did not quite deliver the same magic as Tokyo. Tough but fair.
After I finished, we headed down toward the Mall and ended up at the National Archives, where we saw the Constitution, Declaration of Independence, and Bill of Rights. Very cool to see in person. Also conveniently located just down the street from our illustrious leader, in case he ever wants to swing by and do a little light reading.
After that, we wandered down to the Wharf on the Potomac, where DC had clearly decided that St. Patrick’s Day was not going to celebrate itself. The whole area was buzzing, restaurants packed, people in green everywhere, lots of energy, lots of noise, lots of people making very committed choices. We met up with my friend Stacy, who’s here for the conference too, and spent the evening soaking in the scene and the waterfront.
It was a really good day overall, though DC feels different from the last time I was here. There’s a strange undercurrent right now. The Capitol is ringed with police, and the National Guard is posted everywhere. The whole city feels a little more tense, a little more watched, a little more aware of itself. Still beautiful, still impressive, still full of people living their lives, but the energy is different. Credit where it’s due: if you have a question, the National Guard are surprisingly excellent travel guides.
So that was the day: federal policy by day, founding documents by late afternoon, waterfront people-watching by night, and just enough side-eye to keep things balanced. DC, so far, you are fascinating, a little tense, and significantly more walkable than my feet would prefer.
Day 2: Acronyms, art, and the ongoing shoelace crisis
Today was packed with Impact Aid, NIISA, MIISA, FLISA, and enough federal jargon to absolutely light up Stacy and me while putting just about everyone else into a medically concerning nap. Honestly, we were having a great time. There were strategies, possibilities, funding conversations, and the kind of deep-cut school finance talk that really says, these are my people.
Meanwhile, Matt was out on his own far more elegant DC adventure, including what I sent him to do on an urgent mission of national importance: find me shoelaces. Because yes, we are still living under the dark cloud of yesterday’s lace failure. In a city full of monuments to strength, endurance, and democracy, my mobility was nearly taken out by a limp piece of string. Thankfully, Matt rose to the occasion like the hero this trip deserves. From there he spent the afternoon at the National Gallery of Art, taking in the good stuff. Monet, Renoir, Degas, Hopper, O’Keeffe, and all the other people talented enough to make the rest of us question whether we’ve ever truly applied ourselves.
By the time the NAFIS day wrapped up, the last of our group had arrived, and we had the pleasure of getting John fully caught up on the excitement level Stacy and I had reached over federal funding formulas. He handled it well. From there we wandered over to Old Ebbitt Grill, which is apparently DC’s oldest saloon and feels exactly like Teddy Roosevelt should be sitting in the corner judging your order. Dark wood, old-school charm, political ghosts in the wallpaper, and the kind of place that makes you want to sit up a little straighter for no reason. Dinner was excellent. Chicken, steak, meatloaf, all the comfort-food classics. And after that we did what any responsible adults do after a heavy meal: walked around until we could pretend it balanced out.
We wandered near the White House, and I have to say, that part hit differently. I remember when you could walk right up near the front gate and take it all in. Now the whole area feels pushed back, fenced off, ringed with security, lights, police, Secret Service, helicopters overhead, jets in the distance, all of it creating this strange feeling of distance and fear. It’s still iconic, still powerful, still one of those places that means something when you see it in person, but it also feels colder now, more removed, more guarded from the people it’s supposed to belong to. We kept walking down the Mall in the evening, taking in the beauty of the city, the monuments lit up, the movement, the noise, the whole strange spectacle of it all. I won’t make this a political post. Most of my friends know where I stand. I’ll just say this: it made me sad. And if I’m being honest, a little fearful too.
Day 3: Classes, carbs, and weather-related betrayal
Not a lot to report, unless you’re really into classes, carbs, and weather-related betrayal. Today was mostly more sessions, more information, and more of the kind of conference learning that is very useful to me and very likely not thrilling content for the rest of you. But tomorrow we go to the Hill to meet with representatives and senators, which I am genuinely excited about. I fully expect to spend at least part of the day feeling like I’ve wandered onto an episode of The West Wing, minus the rapid walking-and-talking because, as we’ve established, I’m already doing enough walking.
Matt, meanwhile, did not get to have his own grand DC adventure today. He was stuck in the hotel on his computer reviewing ERP systems, which is about as unglamorous as it sounds. No monuments. No museums. Just spreadsheets and suffering.
Afterward, though, we all went to a great Italian place called Olio e Più, which John heard about from our Central Kitsap counterparts. I don’t believe it has any historical significance whatsoever, unless “Patrick temporarily abandoning all restraint” counts. It’s also just a block from the White House, because apparently everything in this city is either deeply historic or next to something deeply historic. I had the cacio e pepe, which they prepare in a literal wheel of cheese, and I would like to personally thank Italy for its service. Since my low-carb plan died the moment I met that late-night burger, I am now fully committed to honoring its memory by eating pasta in dramatic and excessive ways.
Then, because consequences exist, we walked about three miles back to the hotel in a noble attempt to convince ourselves we had somehow balanced things out. Also, today it was 73 degrees. Tomorrow the high is 38. So DC has apparently decided that in addition to federal policy and security perimeters, what this trip really needed was weather chaos.
Day 4: The Hill, in tennis shoes
Oh my god, today was actually so much fun. First of all, it was frickin’ cold. How does a city go from 73 to 34 in one day? Pick a lane. DC weather is apparently run by a committee with no leadership. And let me just say, there is absolutely no way to pack correctly for a trip like this when you think you’re packing for a conference, sightseeing, and maybe a nice dinner, and then after you arrive, someone casually mentions, “Oh, and tomorrow you’ll be meeting with representatives and senators on the Hill.” Great. Would have loved that information before I packed. So there I was, schlepping through the halls of Congress in tennis shoes and a sweatshirt, trying to look official enough to get by. I at least had on a button-up and slacks, so I wasn’t a total disaster, but I definitely spent part of the day trying to blend in with a group of middle school kids from Florida, hoping no one looked too closely.
And honestly? Once we got there, it was a blast. Wandering the hallways, seeing all the offices, sitting down with Emily Randall, meeting with Patty Murray’s office, and getting to meet Maria Cantwell was such a great experience. I can say this with confidence: these are our people. They actually want to represent us. They want to know what’s happening back home. Maria even wanted to talk strategy with us about how to get votes from other states, which I loved.
For those who don’t spend their free time thinking about Impact Aid, here’s the simple version: it’s federal funding for school districts that lose local property tax revenue because of federal or tribal lands, but still educate the kids who live there. In North Kitsap, that means real money. We usually get around $1.2 to $1.8 million, but if it were fully funded, we could be talking $4 to $5 million or more depending on who fills out the survey. So yes, when I get worked up about this, it’s because it matters.
And then, because this day apparently needed a bonus plot twist, we were walking out of one of our meetings when Mark Kelly went right by me. There was some kind of security thing happening, he was moving fast and snapping photos, and I had one of those weird awe moments where your brain just fully leaves your body. I pointed him out to Stacy, who tried to say hi and mostly just tripped over her own words, which was honestly great because it kept me from looking like the only fool in the hallway. We are such political goobers.
The whole day was just a lot, in the best way. Great people, great stories, amazing kids from Toppenish, and that weird feeling of walking through halls where so much history has happened while you’re there in tennis shoes trying not to look lost. And yes, I noticed the vibe differences between offices. Most of the Democratic offices felt hopeful. Affirmations, purple butterflies, messages about hope and community. Then you’d pass Republican offices and it was like walking by warning labels. Charlie Kirk posters, “make DC safe again,” all the visual warmth of a chain email from someone’s angry uncle. One side felt like hope. The other felt like side effects may include paranoia.
Matt, meanwhile, had none of this fun and was stuck back at the hotel working on ERP systems all day, which is deeply unfair. But now I’m done with conference mode, and for the rest of the week we get to move into the professionally unsupervised portion of the trip.
Day 5: The Library, the Capitol, and Lincoln after dark
Only 24,000 steps today, so apparently we really took it easy. My feet are having full-on flashbacks to Japan and are beginning to understand this trip is not a vacation so much as a sustained walking assignment.
Today was the Library of Congress, a tour of the Capitol, and the kind of wandering that leaves you tired in body but strangely awake in your head. I’ve been thinking a lot lately about patriotism, or, more honestly, my complicated relationship with it. There are days when the news makes this country feel exhausting, embarrassing, and heavy. There are moments when it feels easier to imagine leaving than to stay engaged. And yet, being in these places, these rooms, these halls, these buildings meant to hold the weight of democracy, memory, and public life, stirred something in me I wasn’t fully expecting. Not blind pride. Not some easy flag-waving feeling. Something quieter than that. More complicated. Maybe grief mixed with hope.
Because that is the strange thing about Washington. It can make you feel proud and heartsick in the exact same moment. I’m sitting in the Senate museum watching C-SPAN while they debate making it harder for people to vote, and the whole thing feels almost surreal. You are surrounded by the symbols of democracy while listening to people casually chip away at it. It is chilling in a way that sneaks up on you. Not loud. Not theatrical. Just a slow, unsettling realization that the ideals carved into stone and framed in glass are only as strong as the people willing to defend them.
Later we wandered the neighborhood near our hotel, found a brewery for a beer, then moved to our new hotel in Foggy Bottom, which still sounds like the punchline to a joke someone forgot to finish. There is a younger energy down here, more movement, more life, more possibility. Tonight we made our way to the Lincoln Memorial, which stopped me in the same way it always does. There are places that ask you to look at them, and then there are places that ask something of you. The Lincoln Memorial feels like that. It feels solemn. It feels still. In an odd way, it reminded me of temples in Japan, not because they are the same, but because both invite a kind of reverence. They ask you to quiet yourself enough to feel where you are.
Maybe that’s why the behavior around it got under my skin. I know I sound like I’m inching toward my grumpy old man era, but mid-March in DC is apparently peak season for busloads of middle and high school students treating sacred spaces like a recess yard. Running, yelling, filming TikToks, playing tag, all while standing in places built to honor sacrifice, loss, and history. I know they’re kids. I know kids are kids. But still, it made me sad. Not because they were loud, but because it felt like they weren’t being taught how to sit inside the gravity of a place. In Japan, there is such a clear social understanding that some spaces require something different from you. Here, it feels like we’ve lost some of that.
We went to the World War II Memorial, which feels expansive in exactly the right way, built to hold the scale of all that was given and lost. After that, the Vietnam Veterans Memorial. I had been there before, and it hit me just the same. The voices lower. People stop performing. The air changes. And every time I walk there, I feel this tightness in my chest that I can’t really explain except to say that grief lives there. Not abstractly. Not historically. Presently. You can feel it in the silence.
So that was today. Not just sightseeing. Not just another day in DC. More like moving through spaces that reminded me how much this country asks us to hold at once. Pride and disappointment, beauty and failure, memory and fear, cynicism and hope. I don’t think patriotism, at least for me, means pretending everything is fine. I think maybe it means standing in the discomfort of loving something enough to be honest about what it has become, and still believing it is worth fighting for.
Anyway. 24,000 steps. A beer. Several existential thoughts. And tomorrow, I’m sure, more walking.
Day 6: Dead things, the Hope Diamond, and a seat below Lincoln’s box
No big updates today, just a casual day of wandering through the Natural History Museum with dinosaurs, fossils, mummies, dead things, and the Hope Diamond, which honestly feels like a pretty solid lineup. Very cool museum. Also absolutely packed with kids of every size, age, and volume level running in every direction like it was a competitive event. After about three hours of that, we headed next door to the American History Museum, where there was, as advertised, lots and lots of history. We did manage to casually stroll through all the exhibits, but by that point we were definitely in museum overload mode, where you’re still walking and nodding like engaged citizens, but your brain is quietly filing things under too much, process later.
After that, we finally figured out the DC Metro, which is actually pretty great if you want to avoid driving or walking. And let me offer this public service announcement: never drive in DC. Ever. It’s absolute chaos. I’m not entirely sure why they even have traffic lights, because the second it turns green, the person behind you leans on the horn like you’ve personally ruined their future. If you’re in an Uber, my advice is simple: do not look up. Just trust the process and let Jesus take the wheel.
We made it to dinner, which was excellent, and even better because it involved sitting down. Then we had the pretty special experience of seeing 1776 at Ford’s Theatre. I’ve always wanted to visit Ford’s. Was I dying to see 1776? Not especially. But honestly? It was really good. The performances were strong, they clearly wove in some current themes, and we ended up enjoying it a lot more than I expected. Our seats were just below where Lincoln sat, and I don’t know if it was just the weight of the place or me being in my feelings, but you could almost sense the history in the room. The energy around that spot, knowing what happened there and what it meant, was something else. I’m really glad we did it.
Tomorrow: more museums with a light sprinkling of neighborhood exploring. And I have to say, I’ve really enjoyed DC. I love the energy, the history, the neighborhoods, and the feeling that around every corner there’s either something important, something beautiful, or at the very least somewhere to sit for a minute.
Day 7: Air and Space, Embassy Row, and a presidential meatloaf
Last full day in DC, and I’d like everyone to know we continued to take this city very seriously by walking ourselves into total mental collapse.
We started the morning at the Air and Space Museum, which was honestly a lot of fun. The Wright brothers’ plane, Neil Armstrong’s suit, the Spirit of St. Louis, and enough legendary artifacts to make you feel both inspired and deeply underaccomplished. At some point, though, Matt and I had to admit our brains were officially mush. Just fully cooked. So naturally, we did what any two exhausted tourists would do: we wandered into the IMAX theater and let Robert Redford calmly lull us into a near-spiritual nap while he soothingly explained the majesty of our national parks. It was less “educational film” and more “guided meditation for people who have done too many museums.”
After that, we took the Metro to Dupont Circle and walked down Massachusetts Avenue admiring all the embassies. It just kept going. Country after country after country. It felt like the opening ceremony of the Olympics, but with less spandex and more security gates. Then we made our way into Georgetown and had Greek for lunch, which was fantastic and also a pointed reminder that Kitsap County needs to get its act together. I miss Greek food. DC understood the assignment.
From there we wandered down to the Potomac and the Georgetown waterfront, and because I refuse to simply turn around and go back the same way like some kind of amateur, we took the scenic route. This likely confused Google Maps and absolutely added extra miles, but I stand by the decision. If you’re going to wander, commit to the bit. We got to see more neighborhoods, more side streets, and more charming little corners that would have been missed had we behaved rationally.
We also wandered through Georgetown University because, apparently, we had not yet walked enough, and then made our way to dinner at Martin’s Tavern. I did not realize how much history was packed into that place. Apparently, Truman and LBJ were regulars, Nixon kept coming back for the meatloaf, and JFK proposed to Jackie there while living just down the block when he was in the Senate. This city really cannot help itself. Even dinner comes with a presidential backstory.
We had a ghost tour booked for later that night, but by then it was getting wet and windy, and we were full, tired, and one small inconvenience away from becoming the ghosts. So we made the bold decision to skip being haunted and head back to the hotel instead.
Tomorrow we’ll try to squeeze in a couple more sights before heading to the airport in the afternoon. And yes, after the Seattle-to-Cincinnati-to-DC nonsense that launched this adventure, we are once again daring to hope for a calm, quiet trip home. Growth. Delusion. Who can say.
Day 8: Jefferson, Roosevelt, King
This morning we squeezed in one last wander before heading to the airport, and somehow it ended up feeling like the perfect way to close out the trip. We walked through the Tidal Basin and past the Jefferson, Roosevelt, and Martin Luther King Jr. memorials, and after a week of conference sessions, museums, monuments, security lines, neighborhood wandering, weather betrayal, shoelace failure, and enough steps to qualify as a personal complaint, it all started to come together a little.
There was something about ending the trip there, moving from one memorial to the next, that felt bigger than just checking off one last sight. Jefferson talking about institutions having to keep pace with the progress of the human mind. Roosevelt pushing faith over doubt, reminding us that a great democracy has to be progressive or it stops being great, or even a democracy at all. And then Dr. King, cutting through all the noise with the things that matter most: light over darkness, love over hate, humanity over division, a world perspective bigger than tribe or class or fear. Walking that path, the message felt pretty clear. These places are not just here to honor the past. They are here to challenge the living.
And maybe that is what I’m taking home most from DC. Not blind patriotism. Not total cynicism either. Just the belief that loving a country means expecting more from it. It means believing it can grow, evolve, and become more worthy of the ideals it carved into stone. It means understanding that democracy is not some finished product sitting safely behind glass. It is fragile. It is demanding. And it only works if people are willing to keep showing up for it, pushing it forward, and widening its promise.
That really was the whole trip in a way. Part work, part sightseeing, part accidental endurance challenge. We came for training and left with full brains, sore feet, and a lot to think about. We learned a ton, laughed a lot, ate very well, got rerouted through Cincinnati for no good reason, saw history up close, and managed to turn the whole week into a little wandering adventure. And through it all, Matt and I did what we do best: walked, observed, overthought, took the long way, and let the city reveal itself, one neighborhood, one monument, one meal, and one existential thought at a time.
So now we head home tired, grateful, a little overfed, and very ready for a calm, uneventful flight. DC, you were beautiful, complicated, inspiring, frustrating, moving, and loud. Very on-brand for America, honestly. But I’m glad we came, and I’m glad our last walk reminded me that the story of this place is not just what it has been. It’s still about what we choose to make of it.
A week later, on a bridge in Bremerton
Last week in DC, we spent days walking among the physical symbols of this country. The Capitol, the Archives, the Library of Congress, the memorials, the White House. All the places built to hold our highest ideals. And the whole time, I kept feeling a tension between what America says it is and what it is willing to be right now. There was beauty, history, and meaning everywhere, but also fences, fear, security, distance, and a heaviness I couldn’t quite shake. I stood in places meant to honor democracy, equality, sacrifice, progress, and humanity, and I kept thinking that none of those things are guaranteed just because they’re carved in stone.
Then this week, back home, standing at the No Kings march and seeing thousands of people lined up across the bridge, I felt the other half of it. I felt the answer. What I saw in DC was the architecture of democracy. What I saw here at home was its heartbeat. Sign after sign, person after person, people showing up not because they hate America, but because they love it enough to expect better from it. We are America. We love America. That’s why we are here. That message was everywhere, and it mattered. This was not about tearing something down for the sake of it. It was about refusing to hand the country over to cruelty, corruption, fearmongering, and the absurd idea that one man should be treated like a king while elected leaders fail to represent the people they serve.
After a week of reflecting on Jefferson, Roosevelt, and King, on progress, courage, humanity, and the responsibility of the living, it was powerful to come home and see those ideas not in marble or bronze but alive in ordinary people. People holding signs that read Disgusted, not distracted. Tyrants fall when people rise. History does not forgive silence. Radicalized by basic human decency. When cruelty becomes normal, compassion looks radical. Side with love. No human being is illegal. Even the sharper ones carried truth: Stop pretending your racism is patriotism. That was the thread running through it all. Loving your country does not mean staying quiet while it is bent toward fear, exclusion, and authoritarian nonsense. Patriotism is not obedience. It is courage. It is conscience. It is refusing to confuse cruelty with strength.
That’s what stayed with me. The memorials in DC reminded me of what this country aspires to. The march at home reminded me that those ideals only mean anything when people are willing to carry them forward. Democracy is not the Capitol dome. It is not a museum case. It is not a speech. It is people showing up. It is people refusing to be silent. It is people choosing light over darkness, love over hate, humanity over fear. And after feeling so much weight in DC, there was something deeply hopeful about coming home to see that spirit alive and well right here.
— Patrick