Slowly my fingers slid along the surface.

“You know, that’s made of Quincy granite,” our tour guide said, as my hand went down the edge of John Adams’ tomb.

Across the room, my travel partner – and future best man – Bryan Buckler did the same to John Quincy Adams’. We were standing in a crypt a few stories underneath a church in downtown Quincy, Mass. This was the last stop on a one-week journey that led us up and down the mid-Atlantic visiting any sites related to the U.S. presidents. Or, more precisely, where they died.

It all started with a phone call I made many months before.

“Hey, why are you whispering?” Bryan asked.

“Because I shouldn’t be here,” I replied.

“Where are you?”

“Guess.”

“I don’t know, man.”

“I’m on the eighth floor of the Palace Hotel in San Francisco.”

“Why?”

“I wanted to see where Warren G. Harding died.”

Bryan and I had fostered a friendship based on our parallel upbringings. He spent his childhood playing with presidential jigsaw puzzles. Instead of “Where the Wild Things Are,” my parents read me bedtime stories from a Funk & Wagnalls presidential encyclopedia. Bryan and I were not normal suburban Boston kids by any stretch.

Throughout our days at UMass Boston, Bryan and I continued to feed into our mutual love of the presidents, whether it was visiting JFK’s birthplace or placing takeout orders under the name James K. Polk.

Naturally, when I called Bryan from the Palace Hotel, his interest was piqued, since we also share a fascination with death. Our shelves are filled with books that explore the ins and outs of presidential assassinations.

When I went to the Palace Hotel, I saw nothing that gripped my historical interests. To my naked eye, it was simply a hotel – albeit one that looked like it could double as a set for “The Great Gatsby.” But after my visit to Harding’s death site, I got to thinking: There was no obvious plaque, no mention that anything remotely important happened at the hotel on Aug. 2, 1923. (He died of a heart attack in Room 8064.) Granted, Harding was probably the most incorrigible inhabitant in the history of the Oval Office, from his extramarital dalliances (and illegitimate children) to his penchant for political scandal. But still.

Almost everything related to the U.S. presidents is considered hallowed. Their birthplaces are marked or preserved as sacred tourist havens. People collect campaign ephemera and buy countless pieces of memorabilia bearing their likenesses. Even their china patterns are kept behind glass.

So why not honor their death sites?

More than a dozen presidents died just a day’s drive away from us in Boston. The majority of death sites are on the East Coast, with just a handful in California, Texas and the Midwest.

Hotel claims him

It will all be worth it, I said to myself as we sat in Manhattan’s gridlocked traffic, a chorus of honking trailing behind us.

We were trying to make a 2 p.m. meeting at the Waldorf Astoria. In the weeks leading up to the trip, Bryan and I had been looking forward to this stop the most. For us, the Waldorf had been boiled down to two numbers: 31A and 700R. The former is where Herbert Hoover had his final moments. The latter, the Dwight Eisenhower room, was not as simple.

Meg Towner, the Waldorf’s social media manager, met us by the iconic clock on the hotel’s ground floor.

“Have you guys been here before?” she asked.

“Once or twice,” we coyly replied, not wanting her to know that we had tried – and failed – to get up to Hoover’s 31st-floor room months ago.

Both 31A and 700R had guests in them. Bryan and I had planned to see both rooms as they were being turned over. But they were still occupied when we got there.

“Can I take you on a tour in the meantime?” Meg asked.

Like us, Meg had graduated from college three years earlier. In her time at the Waldorf, she had accumulated an encyclopedic knowledge of every part of the hotel.

“I’m sorry, can you guys hold on?” Meg asked, pausing our tour to scroll through a message on her phone.

A minute later, she delivered the bad news.

“I actually can’t take you into Hoover’s room today. There’s a prime minister in there who was supposed to check out. But he just extended his stay.”

Though we were disappointed, the Eisenhower room was finally ready. This was the one we wanted to see the most.

According to every published report and history book we had consulted, Dwight David Eisenhower died on March 28, 1969, at 12:25 p.m. at Walter Reed Army Medical Center from heart disease. It appeared as if it were a simple answer in a game of Presidential Clue, no mystery at all. But a few weeks before our trip, a wrinkle emerged.

“You want to see the room that Eisenhower died in, too, right?” Meg had asked as we worked out the details of our visit over the phone.

“Oh, no, he died at Walter Reed,” I replied. “We just want to see the Hoover room.”

But Matt Zolbe, the Waldorf’s director of sales and marketing (and resident historian) would tell me the same story a few days later. The hotel was one of multiple residences that Ike took up after the White House. The last years of his life were marred by Crohn’s disease. He suffered from limited mobility. According to both Matt and Meg – and contrary to the history books – 700R is where Eisenhower took his last breath.

We were skeptical but curious. When we stepped in, 700R was remarkably modest, yet marked with subtle regalities. A mid-afternoon Manhattan sun shone through the curtains, bringing the room to life. There was an unmistakable 1960s ethos, from the wallpaper down to the retro furniture, giving the appearance of a place Don Draper might sneak off to for an afternoon tryst. There was a gold presidential eagle on a wall fixture. The view from the window – a panorama of an ostensibly endless Park Avenue – appeared tailored for society’s elite. However, alterations had been made to the room in the past 50 years. For starters, I doubt Eisenhower had a flat-screen TV.

End of spoils system

Afterward, we got in my car and drove 20 blocks south to where Chester A. Arthur, the 21st president, died. Bryan and I had planned on revisiting the James Monroe (fifth president) site in SoHo, too, but traffic killed any hopes of seeing both. We agreed to skip Nixon’s death site. Visiting a hospital where someone died in the 1990s didn’t interest us.

Shortly after his presidency, Arthur suffered a massive stroke at his home at 123 Lexington Ave. in 1886. Later, William Randolph Hearst would take up residence at that address. Nowadays, it’s a specialty food store named Kalustyan’s.

You would never know the history of 123 Lexington just by walking past it, unless you took the time to read a diminutive plaque affixed to the front of the building:

“Here on September 20, 1881 At 2:15 a.m., Chester Alan Arthur took his oath of office as 21st president of the united states upon the death of President James A. Garfield. killed by a disgruntled office seeker, Garfield’s death stirred nationwide civil service reform and on January 16, 1883, President Arthur signed the U.S. Civil Service Act ending the spoils system and creating the American civil service.”

Hanging in the window was a collection of decade-old newspaper clippings that elaborated on the building’s history. But we couldn’t find any mention of Arthur’s death.

As soon as we entered, we were greeted by the smell of an amalgamation of potent spices. Bryan and I went upstairs to the deli counter hoping to speak with someone who worked there. I had many questions.

A man behind the counter politely declined to be interviewed and referred me to someone downstairs. I went to her, and she pointed me toward another employee. The next person did the same. Then the next. Eventually, someone told me to come back Monday and talk to the owner. They said he was the guy who knew the history of the place.

Still, at least there was a plaque. It just wasn’t something they wanted to heavily advertise. Come buy your lentils at Kalustyan’s! Also, a president died here!

But just a mile away is a much greater oversight.

Prince among men

Moribund and financially burdened by years of mounting debts, James Monroe moved in with his daughter and son-in-law. He would die at their home on July 4, 1831. The first time Bryan and I visited 63-65 Prince St. in SoHo, months before this trip, we were apoplectic. We always had a deep, mutual appreciation for Monroe, negotiator of the Louisiana Purchase, namesake of the Monroe Doctrine. During our first year of college, Bryan created a Facebook group called “James Monroe Is the Most Underrated President Ever.” In our eyes, Monroe is one of the greatest Americans.

But if you’re a James Monroe fan, here’s a piece of advice: Stay away from Prince Street.

The house where Monroe spent his last days has been torn down, and a small antiques store and a trendy clothing shop stand in its stead. There is no plaque. No statue. Just overpriced jorts.

Museum for Wilson

In Washington’s Kalorama neighborhood, there’s a fascinating Tale of Two Presidential Deaths. The S Street home where Woodrow Wilson, the venerable president who led the United States through World War I, died was preserved and turned into a presidential museum. On the other hand, William Howard Taft’s Wyoming Avenue home would become the Syrian Embassy.

John Powell, curator of the Wilson house, agreed to give us a tour on a Monday, when the home is closed to visitors. The son of a British diplomat, Powell spent his formative years traveling the world. He was only a few years older than us, and like Bryan and me, he developed a passion for all things history.

At first sight, Wilson’s bedroom reminded me of George Washington’s, which Bryan and I had visited a few days before in Mount Vernon. It was pristine – almost virginal. The bed was roped off, replete with period pieces such as a magazine and a century-old food tray. It was an attempt to make it look the way it might have on the day Wilson died.

After he died, his widow and brother-in-law would host seances to communicate with the dearly departed commander in chief. They kept detailed written accounts – which are stored at the house.

The mission of the house was clear: If it relates to Wilson, preserve it. Every detail about his life matters.

But just a few blocks away was a different tale of presidential history.

From a distance, 2215 Wyoming Ave. looks like the kind of place a president would live: a three-story muted red-brick manse with trim and a perfectly manicured lawn. But as you approach, you realize that there’s something different.

For starters, there’s a Syrian flag hanging above the door.

Over the past month, I had sent emails and called the Syrian Embassy, hoping to persuade someone to give me a tour.

“I really don’t think this will work,” Bryan said as we walked down 23rd Street to the embassy. I was trying to call it once again, but no one answered.

This bothered me. Wilson lived in a house for three years and it becomes a museum. Taft lived in one for nine years and nobody knows about it. There’s no plaque, no sign. Just a rather unwelcoming building that is gated, with barred windows and security cameras tracking passersby.

After 15 minutes, we gave up. We had to deal with the fact that Taft’s death – at least for the time being – would remain an afterthought.

Repurposed room

On our last day in Washington, we decided to join a group tour of the Capitol. We had each been there before. Many times, actually. But that was before we knew that John Quincy Adams died in the Speaker’s Room.

“Let me know along the way if there’s anything specific you want to see,” our guide said as he handed out our headsets.

At the first pregnant pause, I jumped in with our special request.

“Excuse me, but will this tour go through the Speaker’s Room? It’s a little morbid, but we were hoping to see where John Quincy Adams passed away.”

“Sure,” the guide cheerfully replied. “It’s right over there.”

We were in the old House chamber, and the room that was once for the Speaker – the one where John Quincy Adams passed away in 1848 at the age of 80 following his stroke on the House floor – was still in use.

It now happens to be called the Lindy Claiborne Boggs Congressional Women’s Reading Room – which is a fancy way of saying that his death site is now a ladies’ restroom.

Made it memorable

In our eyes, the tenants and landlords of all presidential death sites should take a page from our last stop in Washington – the infamous Ford’s Theatre.

There’s no greater celebration of death in America. In fact, without death, Ford’s Theatre might not be standing today. The story is rather well known by now. There was a play at Ford’s Theatre many years ago. President Abraham Lincoln went to see it. Assassination ensued. Theater became infamous.

Paul Tetreault, the theater’s director, met us shortly after tours closed for the evening. In a few hours, the building would reopen for its evening performance. Though his background is in theater, Paul has been fed a steady diet of Lincoln books since taking his post at Ford’s in 2004.

When it came down to why Ford’s – and not the quiet and unassuming Petersen House across the street where Lincoln actually died – became this tourist mecca, Paul reasoned: “People don’t come here just because he was shot. It’s because of how great he was. It wasn’t James Buchanan who was assassinated here. What Lincoln did in 4 1/2 years, a lesser person could not do.”