The White House is just a big white building, its lawn a striking green. Outside the iron fence, crowds of people are taking photos; tour guides wave small flags and shout instructions, while tourists crane their necks to see. A child, perched on his father's shoulders, points to a window and says he sees people, when in fact there's nothing there. Walking halfway around, the large trees in the backyard look older than the building itself. An old man stands across the street holding a sign, but no one pays him any attention. After ten minutes, my neck aches from the sun, so I turn and leave. Looking back, the building sits quietly on the lawn, just like in the postcard.