The William J. Clinton Presidential Center in Little Rock, Arkansas is bigger than it appears in photographs but not nearly as monumental.  The building, completed in 2004 by Polshek Partnership, is a long, glass box whose back end is firmly anchored along the south bank of the Arkansas River, and whose front end cantilevers over the water.  It has a handsome glass skin overlaid with metal balconies, patios and screens that filter sunlight and views.

The center is, fittingly, friendly and capacious, with a cool, professional sheen.  The exhibits give a rather clinical account of the work and accomplishments of the Clinton administrations.  Al Gore’s accomplishments, which include promoting the internet and educating the world about global warning, are separated into a single, stingy display.  The building is Pure Bill.  Its construction was instrumental in the revitalization of the city’s River Market district.  But it’s sited a distance from the liveliest blocks, sits out of alignment with existing streets and, rather than facing the heart of the city, looks far and high across the river in a hopeful, metaphoric gesture.  And this is also Pure Bill, reaching rhetorical eloquence while stumbling on mundane tasks.

I’ve been streaming “Morning Becomes Ecclectic” from KCRW as I work and it has got me pining for the city of Los Angeles, where I spent a blissful month-long sabbatical two years ago.  That time, and the city itself, now seem galaxies away.

What do I remember about LA?  The streetscape, which is quiet but rich in spectacle.  The landscape, with its hills and views.  The pace, which is purposeful but relaxed.  It’s the space within the city that I miss most, the expanse of parking lots and green lawns and empty sidewalks and uncluttered aisles at the grocery stores.  These are spaces for contemplation and spaces for rest and spaces for things to take root and unfold.  The music that DJ Jason Bentley selects each day has a soft and jangly edge and unfurls quietly in the background.  That sense of possibility is dear.

The Memphis motel where Dr. Martin Luther King was killed in 1968, along with the rooming house from where James Earl Ray shot him, have been converted to the National Civil Rights Museum.  Inside the buildings compelling, expertly-compiled displays give accounts of the civil rights movement, the work of King and his followers, and the killing itself. 

The museum is educational, inspiring, and morbid.  The entire site has been preserved as it was the moment of the assassination.  The interiors of King’s motel room have been recreated, as have Ray’s bedroom and the bathroom from which he fired the fatal shot.  The museum is undergoing an expansion now, and when I visited there were construction workers and equipment crowding one end of the parking lot.  Two huge vintage cars there, part of the recreation, were wrapped in protective shrouds.  Their muffled forms expressed a sadness that was entirely missing from the museum displays.

There is nothing that distinguishes one Waffle House from the next.  Each of these coffee shops I’ve visited while driving through the south is similarly located (tucked in the awkward corner of a highway exit or entrance ramp) and similarly finished (with flat brick facades and a low yellow roof).  The interiors have an authentic, sleepy, diner feeling, with sweet waitresses, mild coffee, and a mess of cooking paraphernalia (including professional waffle grills) visible behind the counter.  There are red plastic banquettes, counters with spinning stools, and low-hanging white globe lights.  The store’s signature feature is the mile-high sign out in front, which frames each letter individually, Wheel-of-Fortune-style.  It’s a beautifully balanced graphic.

McDonalds used to provide the most consistent presence on the highways.  But nowadays you don’t know what you’ll find when you step into one: a large restaurant with a giant play area, a fancy one-off prototype (like the one in Times Square in New York), or an old design with depressing, out-of-date finishes.  In comparison Waffle House provides a comforting predictability.  Forget the golden arches–