There is a quality to the sky’s colour in this historical stretch of American coast. Through the interaction of humidity and latitude, its blue manages to appear both pale and royal. I find it distinctive, and name it ‘Colonial Blue’.

I expect this celestial hue has little changed since it greeted Captain John Smith in 1608, when he sailed up the Chesapeake estuary, charting its labyrinthine beauty as he went.

Today, Smith would recognise little else. Change is the modus operandi of humanity. Man walks the world with a giant eraser, jotting down ideas, rubbing them out; carving beliefs in stone, scratching them out again. Little is forever under his forever skies.

***

I am in the bougie DC neighbourhood of Georgetown, on a few days break. Dressed comfortably, I dedicate myself to a lesser-known pursuit – the foraging of First Ladies.

Naturally, my first port of call is Mrs Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis.

Pink, beloved Jackie.

In the months following her husband’s assassination in Dallas, she took tenancy of a mansion here in Georgetown, so her kids could continue their schooling uninterrupted. My mission is to find those bricks.

The wealthier Americans become, the more the exteriors of their homes crave Halloween. I pass by mansions clad like ghoulish movie sets, tumbling with scary pumpkins, skeletons and the outsized webs of spiders. Jackie, I feel sure, would not approve. Her aesthetic was so resolutely un-American.

Then, a ‘Neighborhood Herb Garden’ where the wholesome mansion-owner encourages the passerby to pick what they like. The bespoke signage invites people to climb the garden steps, all the better to search for mint, basil and other aromatics.

‘But only if your mobility allows’, it adds, in italics. I instantly feel patronised, and walk on. Screw them and their parsley do-goodery.

This leafy suburb was once its own incorporated town, on the banks of the Potomac. Georgetown was a major port of the New World, from whence Virginia tobacco was shipped to Europe.

Tobacco.

Inhaling the ‘T-word’ creates a frisson in my body. Tobacco meant big business. It meant hot sun and hard work. It brought slavery and cruelty.

It shocks me still that the first European settlers came to this bountiful land and set about plundering its wealth, rather than nurturing its majesty. The impulse of the Tobacco Barons is shared with that of activists who throw thick soup at priceless Da Vinci paintings. There is both recklessness and rectitude in blind conviction.

Jackie smoked Salems. Three packs a day. There are some moody candid shots of her, over the years. There she is among friends, a Salem dangling from the hand.

That’s 60 smokes daily, and she did so throughout all her pregnancies too. We can only act on the things we know. My own mother smoked 20 a day while carrying her own precious cargo. I used to joke with her that her Albanys robbed me of five centimetres of height, and five million neurons.

She assured me I was plenty tall.   

***

Ms Kennedy lived here. I have found the place. The mansion she rented, after things all went wrong, is on N Street and 31st.

In 1895, when Georgetown was subsumed into Washington DC, the neighbourhood lost its street names. To my great delight, her cross-streets were once called Congress Street and Gay Street. An accurate cultural summary, perhaps: two parts calamity, one part camp.

The house has no front garden. It sits on the path, though the building goes way back from the road. I speculate that the Secret Service must have taken over the fresh widow’s street-facing rooms. There is a beautiful forked tree protruding through the pavement, directly in front of the front door.

She must have loved it, and its generous summer leaves.

***

After a sustaining, fruity coffee in Tatte (like latte) Café, it was time to climb towards Dumbarton Hill, in search of Hillary.

When she left the White House in 2001, Hillary Rodham Clinton had been elected the junior senator for New York. In order comfortably to do her Congressional business, she and Bill purchased a mansion on Whitehaven Street.

This is in the ambassadorial tranche of Georgetown, at the end of a cul de sac, surrounded by forest to one side. The Danish flag flies opposite the Clintons’ home. She could pop into the Ambassador for butter, I suppose. Or bacon.

Dog walkers pass me in the wooded ridge below Whitehaven Street. I am transported to 2016, when, after her loss to Trump, the Secretary of State went awol for a few days. She showed up eventually, found walking her dog in the woods. A random lady met her, had a chat, and they took a selfie.

I am prepared for such an event, of course. But alas no. The Clintons’ blinds are drawn. Ms Rodham regrets that she’s unable to lunch today.

***

Because I imagine that Melania and Dr Jill are today otherwise engaged, my thoughts turn to Ms Obama. As if written in the stars, the Zagat guide to Georgetown restaurants tips me off that Michelle loved a cute little French place, around the corner.

Kiki, my niece, and I decide to give Chez Willy Sud a whirl. I mention that Ms Obama likes it, and Kiki seems unmoved. I guess I didn’t care much what Rosalynn Carter was up to, either.

We arrive, and I feel a little under-dressed. The men are wearing ties. The women have heels. The conversations seem professional. You know; beltway stuff.

While Kiki pops back to the apartment for her passport (carding is strict because Georgetown is also a college town), I survey Michelle’s joint over a sherry cocktail. In truth, it feels a tad pretentious. Willy’s walls are full of the art he imagines Parisians would like. Somehow, I doubt it. His menu is full of veloutés and pureés, like it’s trying to be better than its guests.

But hey, his food is damned good. And you don’t have to love everything, to like something lots.

This reflects my current relationship with Michelle. Her 2024 stomp speech during Kamala’s run didn’t land for me. She seemed hectoring; like she and Barack were losing trust in voters. She was overly referential of the Obama presidency; too hope-y. She let slip, in between the lines, that dammit, Kamala would need help. I took this as preparing her anticipation of defeat in advance. She then took swipe after swipe at the Orange One, despite her famous avowal to go high, when others do the reverse.

But hey, we each can pivot as we please. Michelle has seen a thing or two. She’s largely moved on from DC, of course.

Heck, from Chez Billy Sud, too.

***

For Kiki’s last morning, we rented electric bikes and pedalled to Arlington Cemetery, across the Potomac. Our Lime wheels were a hoot. She kept shouting ‘This is lovely! This is lovely!’ as we pedalled.

Parking up outside the National Monument, she swiftly changed gear, scandalised by Lime charging her $18 for 30 minutes’ saddle time. I enjoyed the unexpected lesson for us both. In life, things are great, until they ain’t.

School groups crisscross our path as we climb the incline of Arlington Cemetery, in search of JFK’s eternal flame. Americans memorialise their history through people, more than events. Perhaps they derive more emotional connection in celebrating consequential lives. A young nation may need to feel its elders watch over it.

We stand at his grave. The kids are fully quiet. Their teachers have given clear instruction. I am moved to be here.

The horizontal flagstone of JFK’s grave now has its mirror. Since 1994, Jackie lies alongside him. Her flagstone is of equal size and stature. Flanking both are two smaller graves.

The most public couple of the 20th century experienced searing private grief. Their first child, Arabella, was stillborn in the third trimester, in 1956. She lies to the right of her mother. Their last child, Patrick, lived for three days in the summer of 1963. He lies to the left of his father.

A heat-haze surrounds the Kennedys’ eternal flame. Skyward, it drifts; drawn by the call of Colonial Blue.