By Sara Jerome
WASHINGTON D.C. — Before 9 a.m. in the 3rd Street Tunnel in Washington, D.C.—blocked to vehicles and filled with crowds heading to the National Mall for the inauguration—the scene might have intimidated me if the throngs had formed for any reason other than this year’s inauguration. But people were in good spirits and not pushy, and the masses flowed through the tunnel uneventfully—in so far as crowds of thousands on an underground, Lincoln Tunnel-sized trek isn’t an event by itself.
But it wasn’t. Or it wasn’t the event. Maybe this was the only moment in my life where such a bizarre and seemingly ill-conceived travel itinerary—walking through a major underground throughway as thousands attempt the same—could be upstaged by something else.
(Once, when I was frustrated with the journey back to Jersey from Lower Manhattan—close in distance but impossible at rush hour—I told my mom they should build a walking path through the Holland Tunnel. She told me that was the most ridiculous idea ever, and scary and dangerous, and no one would ever use it. “Think about how dark it is down there,” she said.)
But the chance to see Barack Obama take the oath was enough to drive thousands of people underground. Amid throngs of people. Unquestioningly.
As it turns out, not everyone’s trek through the tunnel was as smooth as mine—hundreds were stuck in the tunnel during the swearing-in. I learned this afterward, when someone urged me to Google “purple tunnel of doom,” which refers the throngs of purple-level ticket-holders stuck in captivity during the event.
It would be a great ending to this personal essay if I could report that, for those who got stuck, a party broke out fueled by patriotism and excitement. A makeshift band formed because one guy had his guitar and one lady had a beautiful voice and they sang the “Star-Spangled Banner,” and no one noticed they were trapped in a dark and claustrophobic cement prison—and the crowds in the tunnel enjoyed the inauguration just as much as if they’d had a seat right next to Michelle Obama.
But I don’t really know that, and I’m inclined to doubt it occurred. I do know, though, that the people who got stuck were surprised they missed the inauguration—surprised that entering an underground passage with no end in sight, rammed full with people, didn’t turn out as they’d hoped.
And I did the same thing—failed to take stock of this incredible part of the trip; walked underground assuming it was the right thing to do; didn’t really think about it again until later. The sight of an even bigger crowd on the Mall, an oath and a speech, a benediction and the recital of a poem made one of the most striking—most dangerous? least likely?—half-mile walks I’ll ever take fade away. Like a bus ride to school or a walk to the grocery store, it dissolved, somewhere in the background of the day.
