The Marriott Wardman Park Hotel is one of those grand hotels, not unlike Nashville’s Hermitage Hotel or Atlanta’s Georgian Terrace. It lacks the Waldorf Astoria’s prominence and fame, but the stately red brick structure rises above the trees in Woodley Park and on this day overshadows every other place I’ve slept.
The Wardman Park Hotel opened its doors in 1918 celebrating the end of The Great War. As Washington, D.C.’s largest hotel, various Presidents, Vice-Presidents, Chief Justices, and Senators called the hotel home over the years.
Eric and I stood chatting in the Wardman’s lobby. Hundreds of others like us were doing the same. Under the domed cathedral ceiling, the mass of politicians, operatives, and donors hummed in conversation uttering a strange English dialect.
The vernacular consists of words developed for the purpose of not saying anything, bureaucratic acronyms, and statistical geek appellations. It’s the political equivalent to bizspeak, kitchen talk, and military lingo. Politicos use it to determine an individual’s place in the political hierarchy.
The guy behind me finished saying, “The caucus I just left was discussing how Zogby’s new polls in the field were skewing Dem because the call center is meeting their quotas on Friday nights.”
Heads turned toward the entrance of the lobby as the aspiring consultant completed his diatribe. “And come to find out, Dems are sitting at home watching TV while “Rs” are out spending money. He’s [Zogby] created a goddamn clusterfuck with these shitty numbers. He’s only polling Dems. There’s hardly any “Rs” in the cross tabs.”
By the time the rant ended, the roar of the crowd lowered to a white noise whisper and attention focused on the entrance. Some folks in the lobby congregated around the spectacle revealing their amateur status. A pro never gets starstruck and always displays a calm assertive temperament.
In my attempt not to behave like a proletariat, I stood my ground, but couldn’t resist craning my neck to see who entered the room. Unable to sneak a peek, I turned to Eric and said, “Who do you think that is?”
He responded, “I can’t tell. Maybe Clinton. I don’t know anyone else who would draw a crowd like that.”
Earlier in the day, I sat in a room with 30 or 40 others and listened to a suave Senator from North Carolina explain why he wanted to be President. He was charismatic and appeared Presidential. After his address, he mingled with the small group without much fanfare before the next “undeclared” candidate arrived.
The next candidate, the Governor of Vermont, gave a fiery speech to a crowd half the size of the previous. The short man impressed the small crowd with his accomplishments, but his tense rhetoric made him seem a little crazy. Again, with no sense of awe, the 15 or 20 people in the room conversed with the Governor before he exited the room.
I also passed a seemingly businesslike Terry McAuliffe in the hall. Like the North Carolina Senator and Governor from Vermont, the Chairman walked the halls without turning a head.
The unknown individual entering the lobby was different. The bubble surrounding this person drew the attention of hundreds as it moved across the floor in my direction. Expressionless faces turned to smiles as the bubble of people inched closer. Occasionally, someone at the edge of the bubble let out a loud chummy laugh as if sharing an inside joke with a close friend.
Within a few seconds, a well-groomed white tuft of hair came into view. The bubble approached my position and the noise of the crowd lowered waiting to hear something. Then I heard… an animal? Was that a bark?
It wasn’t exactly a bark – more of a moaning stress yawn – but it definitely came from a dog. Before the man came into view a fuzzy black dog arrived at my feet: Then another.
Astonished and confused at the sight of these two dogs in this grand hotel lobby, I looked at Eric and blurted out, “Who the fuck brought dogs into this place?”
In an equally confused tone he responded, “Don’t know.”
The dog sniffed my leg and gave me a quick glance as if to say, “You seem okay,” and continued walking. When the dogs’ owner came into view I knew instantly what the fuss was about. And like everyone else in the hotel who prided themselves on their ability to calmly mingle with important people, I stared, eyes wide open, at the square-jawed “Lion of the Senate.” As he looked me in the eye, I could only muster a single word. I nodded and said, “Senator.” With a big glowing smile, he returned the nod, said “Good afternoon,” and continued across the marble floor. His age-spotted hand grasp the two leashes as Sunny and Splash lead him away.
That was my first trip to Washington and maybe it didn’t happen exactly the way I described, but that’s how I’ll remember Senator Ted Kennedy.
