In line with the Washington Monument, each on different sides, is the Lincoln Memorial and the Capitol. Perpendicular to this line, also on opposite sides, is the Jefferson Memorial and the White House. Consequently, from the top of the Washington Monument, you can see one of these out of each of the four windows at the top. This interesting design explains why the Jefferson Memorial is way across the Potomac River instead of with the other monuments; we didn't get to see that or the FDR Memorial, which is nearby. We did, however, see the Lincoln Memorial, which was very impressive. I stood and looked up at Mr. Lincoln for quite some time, soaking in the mood of the place. The Korean War Memorial was striking for how realistic the faces on the statues and on the wall etchings were -- each face looked very real, with penetrating expressions. The many faces on the wall, at least, were real: each was modeled after a real soldier. The faces on the statues likely were, too; they were far from that "generic" look artists give their subjects. These weren't perfect or beautiful faces in the conventional sense; rather, they were human faces, and that humanity shone through every one.

I was completely unprepared, however, for the Vietnam Memorial. Dave has already described this memorial well, and so I will not attempt to do so again here. As he said, it's deceptively simple: a list of names of the people who died in the Vietnam War. Although the effectiveness of the memorial is in part in its construction, it is the interminable list of engraved names that hits home. Walking along the wall, I tried reading as many names as I could. The deaths that occurred in the Vietnam War are less removed when you're reading actual names instead of a number. I was saddened and mournful, but I hadn't even gotten started. The height of the wall grew as I walked, and soon I could not read individual names anymore: they melded together as my eyes scanned the wall, up and down and over, until they blurred together in an unthinkably long parade of men who had given their lives for their country. I wasn't half way down the wall when I wanted to cry. I kept walking, mesmerized by the wall and what it meant. I stopped once or twice and averted my gaze to regain my composure before continuing. By the end, I could scarcely speak. I don't think I said a word the whole time. So caught up in the names on the wall was I that I didn't even notice until I had walked the entire length of the wall that people had left things -- flowers and the like -- beneath the names of their friends and family. I would have let myself cry, probably even before the half way point, if I hadn't been with a group of people, and that was before it suddenly hit home for me that my father might have been listed on that wall. He served in Vietnam as an engineer. After bombings, my father would run out into the fields and measure the depth and angle of impact of the holes made by the bombs -- with those measurements, calculations could be made to determine where the bombs had been fired from. He might have been on that wall. Thank you, God, that he isn't. As I said before, I didn't cry. Later I felt I cheated myself out of something by holding it in, and so, two days later, I did. The pressure builds behind my eyes even as I write this, three days later, so powerful was that experience for me.