The White House sits in the middle of Washington DC, reassuringly familiar, political power incarnate.
Is that power palpable across the city, an almost physical sensation? Perhaps, though that could have been the weather — heavy rain drenched your correspondent the day he admired the president’s residence. A good excuse to visit one of the other great repositories of power in the area, mind.
“On Twelfth Street, there was the Kirkwood House and, finally, on the corner of Fourteenth Street and Pennsylvania Avenue stood the centre of the city’s political and social life, Willard’s Hotel nicely situated opposite the Treasury Building, which was placed most symbolically, everyone thought, in a line with the hotel and the President’s House.”
Thus Gore Vidal in Lincoln, one of the greatest historical novels ever written. Vidal’s account of the American Civil War is filtered through an array of perspectives, but his identification of Willard’s as the heart of Washington’s political life was recommendation enough for me.
If anything he understated the case. Almost every US President has stayed at the Willard — under threat of assassination, Lincoln himself overnighted there before his first inauguration day.
The Battle Hymn of the Republic was composed when Julia Ward Howe heard the singing of Union soldiers drift up to her room; a century later Martin Luther King drafted his ‘I Have a Dream’ speech in another room there.
In 1922, Calvin Coolidge, then US vice-president, was awoken in the Willard by a fire. A fireman stopped him on the stairs.
“Who are you?”
“I’m vice president,” said Coolidge.
“Of what?”
And so on.
Anyway, I had a fancy for breakfast at the Willard — the scrambled eggs were fine but, dare I say it, the home fries less than toasty-warm.
Still, it was clear the hotel retains its reputation as a centre of political life in the city. How else to explain the three suits along from me, chatting quietly and exchanging documents? Or the gent who sat at the next table, keeping his expensive-looking leather briefcase close at hand?
Well, that was my first impression. The three buckos raised their voices and started hurrooing about some coach or other: lacrosse bros, probably. The secret operative who sat next to me blessed himself when his breakfast arrived, which didn’t seem the obvious opener of someone plotting to overthrow a small Latin American regime.
After breakfast, I headed for another famous part of the hotel.
The lobby of Willard’s is a little different to the scene Vidal describes from the 1860s (“The lobby was high-ceilinged and smelled of coal smoke. Huge dark armchairs were set haphazardly about the room, each with its shining spittoon to hand. Benches of horsehair lined the walls. A few forlorn guests stood surrounded by luggage, waiting to be taken away.”)
These days the spittoons are gone, and the armchairs are upholstered in lighter material, well spaced out around the premises, though there were few guests, forlorn or otherwise, hanging around. However, in its time the lobby was favoured by one of American history’s great names.
Ulysses S. Grant was the general who turned the American Civil War in the Union’s favour decisively. Of course, when he came to Washington to consult with President Lincoln there was only one place to stay.
(Vidal again: “The short, slight man was at the reception desk at Willard’s. Washburne had just come from the barbershop when he heard General Ulysses S. Grant say to the clerk, “I’d like a room. For myself and my son here.” The son was a weedy boy of 14, who was staring about the crowded lobby with a certain wonder.”)
Grant became President in 1869 and presided over a staggeringly corrupt administration. He liked to relax at the Willard with brandy and cigars in the lobby, but he was often approached by people seeking jobs, advancement, and various other favours.
Annoyed, Grant referred to them as lobbyists and the name stuck, though the House of Commons might have something to say about that provenance.
When I visited there were neither smooth manipulators nor industry mouthpieces on hand, sadly. A little underwhelmed, I was intercepted by the concierge on the way out.
“Cab, sir?” I asked where the nearest International House of Pancakes was, and fair dues to the Willard’s taxi rank, 15 minutes later I was there.
Gore’s recommendation worked out eventually.
