The White House, May 2007. My first trip to Washington D.C. came as part of a fantastic three-week tour that took in New York City, Nashville, Lynchburg County and Memphis. After the amazing assault on the senses that was The Big Apple, D.C. felt like a sleepy little backwater town in comparison. With its wide spotless streets, melting pot architecture, world-class museums and sleepy, unpopulated cafes, I found myself instantly wishing I’d allowed for another day or two. Staying with a friend in an apartment on 16th Street (location! location! location!), it was barely a ten-minute meander down to The White House. On arrival I was met by a modest gaggle of loitering tourists, a crazy man wandering around with a box on his head that read Me For President! and a pacing sniper on the roof looking like he was ready for action. In the wave of excitement that hit me, I foolishly approached a couple of meathead cops (crew cuts, square jaws, dead behind the eyes) to enquire if Mr. Bush was currently in residence. “Why are you asking this sir?” “Don’tcha watch the news sir?” “What is your current address in this city sir?” They were still at it when I lost interest and walked off.