Missed Signals

Daily writing prompt

Name an attraction or town close to home that you still haven’t got around to visiting.

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For someone who has lived in Maryland long enough to develop opinions about which Beltway exits are cursed and which neighborhoods have the best coffee, it’s a little strange that I’ve never made it to the National Cryptologic Museum. It’s not obscure. It’s not far. It’s not even the kind of attraction that requires planning or stamina. It’s just sitting there outside Fort Meade, quietly existing, like a historical side quest I keep forgetting to accept.

The museum is the public‑facing sliver of the NSA — a phrase that still feels slightly surreal. Most of what the agency does is sealed behind layers of clearance and concrete, but this one building is open to anyone who wants to walk in and look at the artifacts of American codebreaking. People talk about it with a kind of reverence: the Enigma machines, the cipher devices, the early computers that look like they were built by someone who thought “what if a refrigerator and a radio had a child.” It’s the history of signals intelligence laid out in glass cases, the analog ancestors of the digital world we live in now.

And yet, despite all that, I’ve never gone.

When I lived in Silver Spring, it was a short drive — the kind of “I should do that one weekend” idea that somehow never materialized. Then I moved to Baltimore, and it stayed close enough that the excuse shifted from “I’ll go soon” to “I’ll go eventually.” Eventually is a dangerous word. It’s where good intentions go to take a nap.

Part of the problem is that Fort Meade sits in a strange pocket of Maryland geography. It’s not a place you stumble into. You don’t casually pass it on your way to something else. You have to intend to go there. And intention is harder than distance. Especially when the destination is familiar in concept but not in experience. I know what the museum is. I know what’s inside. I know the kind of person who would enjoy it — me. And still, I’ve never crossed the threshold.

Maybe that’s why it lingers on my list. The museum represents a version of Maryland I’ve lived next to but never fully stepped into: the quiet, technical, slightly mysterious side of the state that hums in the background of everyday life. Most people think of Maryland as crabs, rowhouses, and the Inner Harbor. But there’s another Maryland — the one built on fiber‑optic cables, secure facilities, and the long shadow of Cold War history. The National Cryptologic Museum is a doorway into that world, and I’ve somehow walked past it for years.

I’ve heard the gift shop alone is worth the trip. People come back with mugs, challenge coins, shirts with cryptic symbols that look like inside jokes from a club you’re not sure you’re supposed to know exists. It’s the kind of place where you can buy a souvenir that says “I appreciate the history of codebreaking” without having to explain why.

One of these days, I’ll finally go. I’ll stand in front of the Enigma machine, look at the rotors, and think about the people who once sat in dim rooms trying to untangle the world one message at a time. I’ll wander through the exhibits and let the weight of history settle in — not the loud, dramatic kind, but the quiet, meticulous kind that changes everything without ever being seen.

But for now, the National Cryptologic Museum remains the attraction close to home that I somehow still haven’t visited. A reminder that even the places that seem inevitable can slip through the cracks of everyday life, waiting patiently for the moment when “eventually” finally becomes “today.”

Scored by Copilot. Conducted by Leslie Lanagan.