It’s true. Most people who live in the DC area, including me, complain about tourists. You stand on the left side of the Metro escalators. You think the National Mall is a place to shop. You gripe about the high cost of everything.
But in our heart of hearts, we love you. We love sharing this wonderful place that is our–all of our–national capital. And tonight, I 
was reminded anew of the gifts tourists share with us.
An older gentleman and two women, one who appeared to be his wife, the other their daughter, got on Metro the stop after I did. The women sat together; the man sat with me. He looked very much like the man in this photo. They were chatting away about the usual tourist stuff–are we on the right train? Are you sure you know how to get there? So I asked for their stop, and let them know they were indeed headed the right way.
I asked where they were from, and the man said Nebraska. I offered up that I lived in Lincoln for two years, and we chatted for five minutes about football. It would have been a lovely enough conversation–except then I asked what they were doing for the evening. The monuments, he said, including the Vietnam Veterans Memorial. He was a vet. It would be his second time at the memorial; the first was in 2012 at the 30th anniversary of its dedication.
“That must have been hard,” I said.
“It was,” he said. “I lost a lot of friends on a hill. For a long time, I couldn’t sleep all through the night, wondering why I came home and they didn’t.”
We were quiet for a bit. Then he said, “I went back to Vietnam last year. I went to the hill.”
I put my hand on my chest. “And?”
He looked at me a few seconds. Then, apparently deciding he could trust me, he went on.
“I saw them. All of them. They wanted me to know they’re fine where they are and they’re waiting for me.” Long pause. “I haven’t had trouble sleeping since.”
The train pulled into their station. We clasped hands, and he and his family were gone.
Tonight, I’ll be thinking of this veteran, and thanking him and his buddies for their service… and him for the gift of his story.
