(Mr. and Mrs. Claus relax in the luxury of the Willard Hotel’s elegant lobby).

Family is far away, and I was not traveling as I had anticipated on Christmas Day.

Jon-Without was in a similar position, and we batted around the idea of getting out of our respective caves and catching a breath fo fresh air while everything was closed for the holiday. Well, that is the way things used to be, and I had no reason to think anything had changed. So I suggested that we visit the historic Round Robin lounge at the fabled Willard Intercontinental Hotel.

I have a fondness for the old place. It used to anchor what we called “The Circuit,” a brief pub crawl through historic DC that we would take out-of-town visitors to see.

The crawl was inspired by a late summer discussion we had with the cheery bartender there, who described what happened on Christmas Day at the hotel, once patronized by the power people of the District, including Presidents, Judges, and business and literary luminaries. It was also the place where the Mint Julep was introduced by Kentucky Senator Henry Clay.

Anyway, the story was that the poor soul who had to man the bar on the holiday really went all out on treating the hotel guests like they were with family, and I suggested it would be fun to get dressed up and check it out. Jon-without readily agreed, and we made plans to rendezvous near his condo at noon and take a cab downtown.

The neighborhood was still moving slowly and there was plenty of on-street parking for the Police Cruise when I drove over to meet him. There were a could Red Top cabs waiting at the hack stand, and we grabbed the first for the ride down.

“The Round Robin was the first stop on the circuit,” I said. “From there we would go next door to the Occidental, and visit the booth where ABC correspondent John Scali met with Soviet Embassy Counselor Alexander Fomin during the Missile Crisis. Fomin asked if the Americans were interested in not have a nuclear exchange with them. So it is kind of a special place.”

“Sounds like it. What did you do to top that?”

“We would keep walking around the block, up toward F Street and go to the rooftop garden at the Hotel Washington. From there you can see all the Monuments, and even into the second floor window of the White House below.”

“I used to go there, too. Very cool. Hard to top that.”

“We were there one evening hen a thunderstorm hit and upended all the tables and and drinks fly everywhere. It was very disorganized, and it didn’t even occur to me we could probably have skated on the tab. ”

“Probably not open today, I wouldn’t think. It is winter, after all, even if it is unseasonably warm. I am glad I did not wear the car coat.”

I nodded. The streets were thronged with tourists, heading for the National Menorah or the Christmas Tree. Food carts lined the streets, and I asked what the new building on Constitution Ave was. Turned out to be the Museum of African American History, and considering that I used to work only a few blocks away on New York Avenue, demonstrated how long it had been since I spent any time downtown.

“Last stop would be the Old Ebbitt Grill.”

“That was the oldest bar in DC,” said Jon-without.

“Yeah, it was until they tore down down the dive in 1983. The place they call The Old Ebbitt now is much ritzier and upscale. Phony, like the rest of the town and people here.”

“Good food, though, and the oyster bar is fabulous.”

The cab pulled up to the back door of the Willard and we paid and dismounted on F Street. The back door presents the steep staircase with the brass railings and rich carpetthat leads down to Peacock Ally, an arcade fashionable Washingtonians have been parading up and down for well over a century. Or at least once the Hotel was re-opened under Intercontinental management after being derelict after the riots of the late 1960s.

On this holiday, the corridor was set up as a high-end brunch buffet, and I put my hands in the pockets of my sport coat to resist the temptation to scoop up some shrimp or a hand full of grits from the covered chafing pans.

Eventually we emerged in the lobby, where a corporate function was in progress, complete with Mr. and Mrs. Claus. We kept going toward the alcove that holds The Robin- which is just as round as you might imagine. Sunlight flooded the ornate space, soberly decorated with the portraits of the notables who have become shit-faced in the elegant surroundings. The windows look down just at shoulder height to those on the street, and all of Washington’s foibles- and tourists- are on display.

We took up positions at the bar and ordered a pair of drinks- 7&7 for me and an Absolute Pear with soda for Jon. People came and went from their places around the circle, one a couple who spent the time to consume two rounds while peering intently at the screens on their devices.

“Maybe they were texting each other,” remarked Jon-without. He looked at the glass in front of him. “Two is my limit,” said Jon, as we neared the bottom.

“Yeah,” we ought to sober up a little. Let’s walk next door to the Occidental.”

We paid up, pleased that we had come, but there was nothing particularly festive about Christmas Day at the Round Robin, except that it was indeed open at noon. We hob-nobbed a bit in the elegant lobby with the well-dressed crowd and gawked at the soaring pillars and elaborate cornices. The place was of a scale that reminded me of some of the other great hotels of the 19th Century, like the Peninsula in Hong Kong.

Back on the street and blinking at the bright sun, we strolled toward 15th street, stopping to peer in the windows of the Occidental.

“No dice. Closed up tight,” said Jon.

“Maybe the roof garden at the Washington Hotel is open,” I said hopefully, and we kept moving, turning north on 15th and past the locked door to the lobby.

“I guess they want us to enter on F Street,” said Jon, applying logic to the situation.

He was right. The F Street door opened readily and there was a modest crowd in in the lobby, hung with pictures of recent Presidents and Alfred E. Newman, which might have been the best of the lot. We asked the Concierge about the roof and were told with regret that this was one of two days in the year the roof was not available. Thinking we had struck out, we turned to walk back out to the street when I saw the lobby bar under the soaring white-painted ceiling was very much open for business.

Tone of the duty bartenders was from the Dominican Republic, and the other from Orleans in France, and the next few drinks seemed to flow by in a delightful patois of Spanglish and pigeon French with hotel guests who hailed from Persia, Stockholm, the UK and Paris.

Eventually, we decided to complete the circuit at the Old Ebbit, and found ourselves on the street with the shadows of the brilliant winter sun starting to lower. We walked past the former location of Rhodes Tavern, which they never should have allowed to be torn down, and then peered in the plate glass windows of the Grill. Not a creature was stirring, and so we trudged up to New York Avenue past the Presbyterian Church Mr. Lincoln used to attend and headed for Chinatown in search of a likely watering hole.

We wound up near my old office in the Greyhound Bus Depot, and eventually seats in the lobby of the Marriott Metro Center Hotel.

Honestly, that would have been about my last choice for a destination in the city, but by the time we had introduced ourselves to the staff, we wound up having a sort of impromptu party with them and some other guests, with broken Amharic and Korean thrown into the mix.

Against all logic, it had become dark outside, we knew that it was about time to declare victory over the Holiday and get a cab home. It was all painless, or at least it will be until the credit card bills come in January. But hell, that is a matter to worry about next year, right?

Copyright 016 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com