Necropolis at Arlington: Confronting Mortality, National Mythology, and My Luggage

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Bjørn and I wouldn’t have had the chance to check out America’s premier military cemetery at Arlington, if not for Amtrak. (More on that later.) Despite wanting some easy (and free) tourism during a layover, I wasn't quite expecting to be confronted with my own mortality at so many turns. I also wasn’t prepared for the vastness of the grounds, or for how easy it was to get there. Even in the blistering heat, I’m glad I got a chance to see a place that made me question a lot of things about myself and even my convictions about national mythology.

It started out easily enough. I didn't even have to leave the train station to get to the DC Metro, since Amtrak's Union Station is on the metro's Red Line. Change at the aptly named "Metro Station" stop for the Blue line, and Arlington Station is only a few stops away. The cemetery is at the top of a hill, with the train station all the way at the bottom. No worries, though, since you’ve got escalators to get you from the station up to the main level of the cemetery. Once you reach the top of the escalators, the entrance to the cemetery is in plain view.

It was REALLY hot today, though, so that’s gonna color my entire story. The other thing that will color my entire story is my travel companion, Bjørn. Bjørn and I have been on many trips together, mainly since I found out that he could come accompany me inside an airplane without having to be checked at the gate. You see, Bjørn is my carry-on luggage: a handsome, blue, hard-shelled suitcase with rolling wheels and an extendable handle. And he can expand at the waist, too, in case I need to bring back more stuff than I took with me on the trip. (Full disclosure: This is actually Bjørn, Jr., since the original Bjørn resides at my parents’ house, and has been there since 2015; I’ve only had Bjørn, Jr., since 2019. But for the sake of brevity, I’ll refer to the younger one as Bjørn, since the older one doesn’t factor into the story.)

If not for Amtrak (part 1), I wouldn’t have even been able to go to Arlington, since I wouldn’t have dared try to stop in DC on a road trip. The traffic and parking, not to mention expensive hotels, don’t really make DC a good place to do drive-by touristing. But because I took the train, I had an 8-hour layover in DC, and I figured it was as good a time as any to visit the cemetery, since I hadn’t been able to fit it into my travel plans a year ago.

So Bjørn and I made our way to the top of the escalator, at which point I needed to delve inside of Bjørn for a change of clothes. The heat was brutal, the sun unrelenting. No clouds entered the picture. So I took off my long-sleeve shirt (needed for the chilliness of the train ride) and applied sunscreen to my bare arms. Then I made my way to the entrance of the cemetery, with Bjørn in tow, his wheels loudly clacking at each groove in the pavement.

I was apologetic about Bjørn's presence with the first park ranger I saw, but she was sympathetic. “You’re not the first person I’ve seen with their luggage here.”

If not for Amtrak (part 2), I would’ve been able to store Bjørn with the rest of the luggage at Union Station. But, despite claiming on their website that luggage storage did exist, this was a lie. I suppose there is a room designated for luggage storage, and a sign, and window, but it’s all behind a gate with no employees.

Question: Who totes their luggage with them all around DC?

Answer: Anyone on an Amtrak layover who wants to see the sights. It was my turn to do it, but at least I wasn’t alone in my struggle.

I was also relieved that it was standard practice for EVERYONE to put their belongings through an x-ray machine before being allowed into the park. I didn’t feel so called out, being the only person in line with a suitcase. When they asked me to open it afterward, I wasn’t really surprised. But the reason they wanted me to open it was because they thought I was smuggling alcohol!

“Do you have a flask in here, sir?”

“A what?”

“A flask.”

“Oh, I bet that’s the aftershave container. It’s glass and looks like a flask.”

I extricated the container, and they were all in awe. They’d never seen one that looked like that. I opened it up just to show it wasn’t fake, and I even offered them a smell, if they wanted. Both the women were impressed and wanted to know what brand it was, for future reference. The male guard said he couldn’t smell it, so I let him sniff again. I think he might’ve had Covid. After they were satisfied with my belongings and had found a new gift idea for their significant others, I packed Bjørn back up and moved along.

I passed by the ticket window before heading outside, and I strongly considered paying the $20 (or so) for the trolley ride around the cemetery. But ultimately, having no place to store Bjørn, and not wanting to pay that much for something I could do on my own feet FOR FREE, I opted to keep moving. In some ways, I regret it, but if I had done it, I wouldn’t have had nearly as much of a unique experience that day.

As I’ve said, it was HOT. I’ve never been more thankful for the shade of trees, which only covers the paved walkways intermittently. I also enjoyed every encounter with water fountains, which is something I haven’t seen operational since this whole pandemic began. When I glimpsed a child drinking out of the first fountain I came across, I almost wept for joy. I had an empty bottle from the train, so I filled it up. I think I filled it up a total of 4 times in my 2 hours at the cemetery.

But being a solo traveler carrying a Bjørn in tow led to quite a few stares. Especially when Bjørn tried to drink some water. I’m kidding, but I did prop him up next to the shorter fountain when I drank out of the taller one next to it. It probably did look like I was trying to give my suitcase a drink. Alas.

There really are too many graves to take in at this place. I’ve seen the stock photos of the smaller headstones in row after row, but that’s not the only thing to see. True, those types of markers do comprise the bulk of what you see, but there are many different styles, depending on period and status of the person buried there.

And once I got into the heart of the cemetery, as I approached the Tomb of the Unknowns, I had a realization that there’s probably only a couple of reasons why people come to a place like this: to find specific graves, or to be inundated by the force of all this mortality. Perhaps that goes for any cemetery we visit, but I kept thinking that, even though I had specific places I wanted to visit—the highlights, like JFK and the Tomb of the Unknowns—I still had to stop myself from thinking about my own mortality as I saw all these names and dates with dashes between them. Some of the more ornate markers listed relationships or inspiring quotes, but they still emanated the requisite piece of information: this person is no longer alive.

You'd think I’d get used to that, as I kept seeing row upon row of nearly uniform headstones, but it still hit me every so often.

Then I got to the Tomb of the Unknowns, and that was the most heartrending one of all. Not only had these people ceased to be alive, but no one even knew who they were. I can be pretty blasé and glib about a lot of the pageantry and near idolatry of America and its not-always-idealistic actions, but even I felt the need to obey the signs for respect and silence at this place. Perhaps it’s why I was annoyed when people inside the building at the top of the Tomb of the Unknowns were laughing loudly whenever the door would open. It sliced through the somber mood like a chainsaw.

Next up was the Arlington House, which was apparently owned by Robert E. Lee at some point. It’s where you can find the tomb of Pierre L’Enfant (the guy who planned the layout of DC in the 1700s), in front of the House, fittingly overlooking DC across the Potomac River. It’s reputed to be the best view of DC, and it’s not bad. While I was taking a break on the steps of the house with Bjørn (who was being a real trooper with those wheels, which I imagine weren’t designed for such long-distance rolling, especially over gravel and loose rocks), a school group came by for a stop. The group leader asked them if they knew who Robert E. Lee was, and I kid you not, one of the students asked, “Wasn’t he Black?” The leader—a Black woman no older than 30—and I locked eyes and nearly lost it. When she was finished with her talk, she came over to talk to another leader who was next to me, and we all agreed how much students were falling through the cracks in terms of history.

My next stop was the Kennedy gravesite, home to the eternal flame next to JFK’s final resting place. Getting there required an unnecessarily winding path with plenty of stairs. By the time I arrived, I would venture to say that I had carried Bjørn as much as I had let him roll. And did I mention the heat? Thanks, Amtrak.

The Kennedy gravesite is perhaps the starkest of them all in Arlington. There’s no vertical dimension to any of it. It’s all horizontal. Only the eternal flame, emanating from a torch about a foot high, has any verticality. I learned that, when taking pictures of the site in the daytime, you have to get down near the ground if you want the flame to appear in your photos. Otherwise, you hardly see anything coming out of the torch. Several families showed up while I was there, and I was trying to be respectful about getting pictures, including selfies. Do I take selfies with this? With a person’s grave? (At Oscar Wilde, it was fine—he would’ve loved knowing people still wanted photos with him. But with JFK? I’m not so sure.)

And then there were all the fake smiles—or maybe they were genuine, which is frankly even creepier in a graveyard. It’s such a weird “boundary” of what’s acceptable, or appropriate, or respectful, or just downright wrong. I hope I struck a good balance while I was there.

At this point, I was roasting, but Bjørn was doing just fine. So I made use of his wheels and carted him behind me as we took the most direct route back to the metro station. I wished I could ride Bjørn the whole way back down to the bottom (it was downhill, so that would’ve been nice, and quite a sight).

But it was only 4:30 PM, and my train wasn’t due to depart until 10:00. So I rode back over to the district and had an insanely decadent meal at my favorite DC restaurant from last year—Tonic, with yummy tater tots and some of the best mac & cheese ever. And I had a burger, but that was just for protein. Then I hopped back on the metro for Capitol Hill. I saw a bookstore that I’d heard things about, but it honestly looked just like any other used bookstore from the outside. Perhaps if I hadn’t had Bjørn, I would’ve been more inquisitive, but he would’ve just knocked things over inside. So I kept walking, toward the site of insurrectionists past. One potential highlight had been the Folger Shakespeare Library, basically across the street from the Capitol. It’s Art Deco, but also being renovated and not open on Mondays anyway, so all I could do is look at the exterior and be sad.

The Capitol looked basically as I had left it last July, with no insurrectionists and no extra fencing anymore. I would’ve gone closer, but I imagine that a solo guy carrying a Bjørn behind him likely sets off red flags for those security cameras. So I went as far as the normal fencing and then skirted the perimeter.

Union Station, my destination for the evening, was only a couple blocks away. But right as I left the plaza in front of the Capitol, I felt a rain drop. And as I raised my eyes, I saw the dark clouds coming in from the west toward the train station. I didn’t have long before Bjørn and I would be soaked. Well, I’D be soaked, and his hard shell would be getting a cleaning. But I had no umbrella, so I made it to the train station as quickly as I could. I wanted some time to change out of my sweaty clothes and check out Bjørn's wheels before we spent another night on the train.

In case you care, dear reader: we made it just fine, all dry. And Bjørn's wheels were a little worn, but still turning.

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