Apart from being a five-sided monster of a building alongside the Potomac River (and that's PotOmac), the Pentagon in all its glory is like a town with all the necessary facilities required to keep its thousands of inhabitants fed, watered, haircutted, dry-cleaned, gift-wrapped and, above all, shoe-shined. If your shoes are even slightly musty from the outside air - and boy, do the US military like their shoes to bristle with shineness whether in uniform or civvy dress - then the little shop just round the corner from the escalator that takes everyone up into the building from the Metro entrance entrance is always in fine business. Always a queue. Always men sitting in chairs awaiting their polishing moment. I swear the barbers are not half as busy. Big meeting in Room 987, Corridor 3, full of exceptionally serious-looking dudes in army and marine uniforms about to ponder contingency planning for invading Iran, there's an empty chair. "Where's Colonel (everyone's a colonel) Mc.....?" "Sorry sir, the colonel's unavoidably detained." "Well, hell this meeting has to start, get me Col Mc on the line." "Col Mc, where the hell are you? I want to start the meeting." "Sorry, general, the queue was longer than I expected." "Shoe shine?" "Yessir, shoeshine." "Ok Colonel, we'll wait. You get a good shine now!" "Yessir." I haven't dared introduce my tacky shoes to the shoeshine man yet. Whenever I think I'm tempted, there's a row of heavy combat guys or oversized Pentagon civvy boys waiting to be treated. I pass on by. As for the barbers, well, far too risky. "You wanna what?" "Just a gentle trim please." "No 1, 2 or 3?" "Er, in England, a gentle trim means...." "You British or retarded?" I actually heard that the other day. Not said to me but relaid by someone else.
Talking of Pentagon, I had an interview planned with a US Air Force general last week but was running late. Osama (not Obama) bin Laden had been shot a few days earlier and I had to do an instant profile of the admiral in charge of the Seals who carried out the mission. I dashed out of my house in Alexandria Old Town and spotted a taxi. "The Pentagon please and quick, I'm going to be late." The taxi roared off. One minute later the taxi driver asked: "Have you got the address?" "Er, no, but it's the Pentagon, you know that building full of generals and admirals." Silence for two minutes. "Have you got the address?" "NO, BUT IT'S THAT HUGE OFFICE BUILDING, FIVE-SIDED AND I'M GOING TO BE LATE!!" Five minutes before I'm supposed to be sitting in front of this general.the taxi driver is playing meaninglessly with his SatNav. I've been in the taxi ten minutes - he said it would take ten minutes to get to the Pentagon - and make the mistake of looking out of the window only to see the Pentagon to my left but about three highways to my left. "There it is, where the hell are you going?" He mumbles and takes me into DC, past the Washington Monument. The Pentagon has disappeared. I'm LATE. The general's aide rings me. "Where are you?" "Not the foggiest", or words to that effect. "Come to the southern car park entrance." Frankly I'd be happy with any entrance provided it has something to do with the Pentagon. I see a sign for Chevvy Chase and decide that the only option is to leap from the taxi and run back. But miraculously after three three-point turns, fourteen requests for directions from bewildered police officers and a near running over of a poodle with a tartan coat, we return within sight of what used to be - still is? - the biggest office building in the world, and by some chance of fate I spot a sign which says southern car park entrance, I scream at the driver, l pay him 20 dollars thank you very much - the metre read 48 dollars - and run like mad towards the Corridor 3 entrance where my general is waiting. Fortunately he turns out to be pretty cool and relaxed and I notice that his boots are not over-polished. Clearly needs to join the queue.
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