“Quiet!” The security guard's booming voice echoed over the Virginia hillside. " Read the sign." Was he talking to us? My friend and I exchanged incredulous glances as we surveyed the crowded alcove. The guard’s attention was still fixed on us from afar. Neither of us had said a word. We had merely giggled. Yet, here we were, being singled out as troublemakers . . . in the middle of Arlington National Cemetery. In my many trips to Washington, D.C., I had never visited Arlington Cemetery, the burial space reserved for veterans, Presidents, and American heroes. I had been determined to make the time to finally visit it on this trip. On a sunny but chilly Sunday afternoon, my friend and I made our way to the Cemetery. Entering the burial ground, we wandered along a tree-covered pathway leading up an increasingly steep hill. At one point, we took a detour off of the path, to an open-air alcove that was the final resting place of
A truthful and often amusing take on travel . . . and life, in general.