The Greatest Saunter
Part VI: The Birthnight Ball
EDITOR’S NOTE: This is an ongoing series about setting out to hike 32 miles around the island of Manhattan in a rainstorm and the thousand-mile road that led there.
Part II: Men’s Wearhouse and Mount Everest
The art of effective billboards — that was the phrase that ran through my head as I drove up I-95, the sky growing dark.
Just before I crossed the Cape Fear River, one of many waterways I wished I could have explored by boat, I saw a roadside billboard — from the FBI — encouraging people to report hate crimes, which left me to wonder just how common those kinds of things were on this part of the map.
I started scouring billboards for dinner options and found a Bojangles just up the road. Following in the Waffle House vein of sampling the local fare — a philosophy I try to adhere to whenever and wherever I travel — I locked in on the North Carolina-headquartered chicken 'n biscuit chain even though I still seriously needed some vegetables.
The experience did not disappoint. When I told the guy at the cash register what I wanted, he’d lean into a little microphone and call it out for the kitchen to whip it up and place into one of those famous yellow boxes emblazoned with red script — a star as the dot on the j.
Back on the road, the billboards of Carolina, now North, rolled on.
Exit NOW for guns
A few seconds pass.
Exit NOW for ammo
A few more go by.
Exit NOW for freedom
On a copywriting level, the signs were expertly done. But, I won’t mention the name of the outfitter who put them up — even though I jotted it down — because as we are reminded on a weekly and sometimes more frequent basis, the people of this country are far too stupid and unqualified (profoundly and tragically so), to handle the responsibility of guns. I drove past those serialized billboards on May 2. By the time I sat down to write the rough draft some three-and-a-half weeks later, there had been shootings at a supermarket, a church, and, finally, an elementary school.
At 10:27 p.m., delayed in part by my detour to South of the Border, I finally arrived at my hotel on the outskirts of Richmond, Virginia — Short Pump, to be exact. I’ll have to look that one up, I thought.
I’d planned to take it easy that Tuesday when I woke up. With that 32-mile hike around Manhattan looming in a matter of days, I couldn’t just wear myself out, exploring all around historic downtowns, making impromptu stops at the strangest, most remarkable roadside reptile farms/sombrero towers, and driving six-plus hours.
I succeeded, somewhat.
The next stop was Alexandria, Virginia, the Old Town to be precise. My destination was about two hours up 1-95, perched on the western bank of the Potomac River some seven miles south of Washington, D.C.
The sky was gray heading up north, but there was green on all sides. So many trees threatening to burst out onto the road. It looked like there was a knot of traffic just before Fredericksburg — another one of those tremendous names — which reminded me I needed to look up Short Pump.
Right around the present-day site of a 7-Eleven, a Taco Bell and a Walmart, there used to be a tavern built in 1815, according to the Richmond Times-Dispatch. These days, an old green metal sign — the kind of historical marker you can find up and down the East Coast — identifies the spot and begins with the delightful expression, “According to legend. . . .”
The tavern, which doubled as a stagecoach stop, had a short-handled water pump under the porch where horses would drink from. As the plaque explained, “. . . the drivers would often say, ‘I’ll see you at Short Pump.’” And so, the memorable, unusual name was born.
More signs, and names caught my eye.
“Stonewall” Jackson Death Site
Spotsylvania
Po River
Ni River
Apple Maps had successfully anticipated the snarl just south of Fredericksburg — the worst, and really only traffic I’d hit in 700 miles. A good run.
I stopped at Wawa, the convenience store and gas station that is so much more than a convenience store and gas station, which I’d first been introduced to the summer prior in Avalon, the New Jersey coastal community with stunning dunes and impeccable beaches. At this location, gas had “soared” to $4.09 a gallon. The price was climbing as I moved north.
It was right around that otherwise unremarkable stop when I was first advised that it might rain on Saturday, the day of the Great Saunter. Weather.com said there was a 50% chance of rain during the day and 70% by the evening. Pretty not great, I thought to myself. But, I wasn’t freaking out. I felt calm. What could I do? And who knew what the forecast would be as the week progressed.
More signs. More cool names.
Marine Corps Base Quantico
Dumfries
Manassas
Pohick Bay Park
Franconia
Van Dorn
St. Barnabas
I emerged from the subterranean parking garage to find myself looking up at the Alexandria City Hall, a large brick building with a tall steepled tower, and Market Square, with its central fountain, stretching out before it. I was already charmed by Old Town — all the rowhouses I drove past on my way into Alexandria — and I hadn’t even made it to Gadsby’s Tavern where I’d originally planned to start my tour.
I walked down to the waterfront, past the Torpedo Factory Art Center — an incredible collection of words that, surely, has never been strung together before — but the schedule on the docks said there were no water taxis running to ferry me out onto the Potomac. It was a shame because there were so many sitting around the harbor even an old, ornate steamship with a giant paddle wheel called the Cherry Blossom. A recreation of a 19th-century riverboat, the Cherry Blossom is one of just six Coast Guard-certified working sternwheelers in the country.
It’s hard to match the joy, the excitement of exploring around a new place — especially the beauty of stumbling down to the shores of the Potomac at the Old Town Alexandria Waterfront.
Walking along the old brick sidewalks on tree-lined streets, I had an enormous smile on my face. It was embarrassing. Every couple of steps I’d stop to take a photo of a cool historic building or a selfie of myself in front of one. What a delight to live in a place like this. What a success this trip had been. So much charm. A warm, breezy spring day that felt like summer. The houses had these little glass-encased lanterns glowing in the afternoon sun. For all I knew, one of these could have been the George Washington Town House, the reproduction of the original residence on the site where the general turned president spent his nights in Alexandria — which claims itself to be his adopted hometown.
I kept running into George Washington everywhere I went.
Gadsby’s Tavern, where I’d originally intended to eat lunch before learning that, like the water taxis, it was closed on Tuesdays, hosted Washington’s birthday in 1798 and 1799. In fact, these celebrations were not the first time Gadsby’s had hosted his birthday, or, more specifically his Birthnight Ball, which, incidentally, sounds like a blast. Rather this was just the first time that Washington, now retired at nearby Mt. Vernon, could attend. The phrase “Birthnight Ball” begged further research. The tradition dates back to the British, who used the elegant events to celebrate the birthday of the monarch. Over the years, Harriet Washington, the then-general’s niece, wrote to her uncle on at least three occasions requesting money to buy clothes for the big night, according to letters preserved by the City of Alexandria.
“I fear offending my dear and Honor’d Uncle by so soon applying for money to purchase a hat and a few articles to wear to the birth night,” the young Washington began.
In 1798, Eleanor (Nelly) Parke Custis Lewis, Washington’s step-granddaughter and adopted daughter, wrote to a friend about dancing until two in the morning at that year’s ball. There is no mention of when the president called it a night.
Right nearby Gadsby’s (which is actually two red brick buildings shoved together — a tavern and a hotel) is the erstwhile Duvall’s Tavern, which also has a Washington connection.
“On December 31, 1783, George Washington was feted by the Gentlemen of Alexandria celebrating his triumphant Return from the Revolutionary War,” boasts a tiny plaque affixed to the brick wall.
These days, it’s known as Duvall’s House and you can rent it on Airbnb for nearly $1,300 a night.
I was walking along King Street when I found myself dealing with blisters for the second time in as many days. Yikes. The issue was worrisome enough to torpedo my walk and detour me to a CVS to buy whatever I could to remedy the problem. Later, as I studied my Strava map, I realized the Washington Town House was half a block away. Without those blisters, I certainly would have made it, quite by accident.
I stayed the night in Alexandria rather than trying to push further north to Baltimore. One aspect of the trip that I’d drastically underestimated as I freelanced up the Eastern Seaboard, was just how much time I’d need to spend combing through various budget travel sites to find a suitable hotel each night.
On this occasion, I sat on the steps of the George Washington Masonic National Memorial — which offered sweeping views of Alexandria stretching out below — opened up my MacBook and connected to a hotspot. I searched around for that night’s lodgings, finally settling on a $102-a-night roadside motel about halfway between where I was currently sitting and Mt. Vernon, the site of the first president’s former plantation.
I never made it to Washington’s old estate, which sits on the banks of the Potomac. Instead, I settled for the view from the Masonic Temple, which stands atop Shooter’s Hill. The facade of the building was under renovation. So, I couldn’t go tour the memorial, with its 333-foot tower, styled after the ancient Lighthouse of Alexandria in Egypt.
That night, I finally got my vegetables. I ate an enormous salad, drank a couple of local beers and read a few pages of Bill Bryson’s A Walk in the Woods, while sitting at the second-floor bar of Virtue Feed & Grain — an impeccable restaurant recommended by my sister-in-law — that backed up to the very waterfront where the water taxis sat waiting.
After my meal, as I walked down the wooden and cable staircase, I felt confident that one day I would return. Like Charleston, I was sorry to see Alexandria go. Outside, it was cool, breezy. The pleasant smell of smoke, like a campfire, was the first thing I noticed.