My standard reaction to most things American:

 

 

American Square Dancing

Every month, The Folklore Society of Greater Washington hosts an evening of American square dancing in St. Stephen’s Episcopalian Church near Columbia Heights. This is some good ol’ fashioned foot-stomping, rollicking, barn-shaking dancing, complete with a live band and caller. The caller was, after the fiddler, the most appreciated person in the room as everyone would otherwise have gotten completely lost between the many turns, lefts and rights and general hopping around in squares and circles.

Jolly dancers sitting down to receive instructions. Lovely blurry photo.

As a novice I quickly realised that the dancing experience became exponentially better better the older my partner was. So I made it a rule to only dance with men over 50. Then at least one of us would know what was happening and where we were going. My best partner was without a doubt a man in his early seventies. I think his name was Bill. Dressed in jeans and a white T-shirt with a red handkerchief in his back pocket, this old fox learned barn dancing at school in his native Maryland. And boy, did the man know what he was doing!

Our improvised barn reached  boiling point and I stepped outside for some fresh air with Bill. This was on the 22nd of June, the night of the super moon and warm, gentle evening. Bill suddenly looked me square in the eyes and asked :”Can I take you for a spin?” nodding towards his motorcycle parked next to the church. High on dance-endorphins and moonlight I almost hopped on his bike, but, alas, reason stepped in and I kindly declined. I am not the kind of girl to go on moonlit bike rides with strange men. At least not when they’re in their seventies.

Some liquid courage for the shy stomper, served in a mason jar.

Boots that are made for dancing:

I carried on home solo and very very sweaty after the last dance and met two marines on the metro. We were going to the same pizza place so we chatted and compared our evenings. They had been to the cinema and seen the awful Man of Steel and were jealous of my dancing escapades. They were from Maryland and Virginia respectively and used to square dance back home. It turned out that they were both body bearers, meaning that when a soldier falls, they carry the casket to the funeral, wraps the flag, hands it over to the family and then shoots in salut. Thinking that this was a rather somber business to be in I quickly asked how long they were required to do that, as it in my mind seemed like something perhaps every marine has to go through to understand the importance of life, or something. They looked at me in chock and simply said: “Ma’am, it’s an honour”, i.e. this is their full-time chosen occupation. We chatted for a while whilst waiting for our pizzas and then I bid them good night.

The evening was far too beautiful to stay indoors so I called Brian to come and join me downstairs for some pizza on the moonlit benches. Reluctantly he dragged his ass downstairs and kept me company. The local DC cockroach population were of similar outdoor mood, and Brian did some improvised tap dancing on the aforementioned cockroaches during our evening stroll. Ah! Sweet, sweet summer memories!

Sweetlife Festival

Summer and Festival, perhaps the two most enjoyable words in the English language. Last May, a merry group of eight ventured to the Sweetlife Festival at the Merriweather Post Pavilion for some rain, music and mud. Once again I approached this excursion sleep-deprived and hungover (remarkable how often that happened in the US). That is what happens when you try to outdrink two US Navy Officers at a embassy intern party. Luckily there was coffee and excitements awaiting so I pulled myself together and seized the day

The day started off gloriously with sunshine and tailgating. However, it rather quickly became clear that Americans are not used to festivals, and as we entered the pavilion there were scores of people already passed out or vomiting at 2 pm (the gates opened at noon). There wasn’t either any of that amicable, cheerful ‘talk to random people’ atmosphere, but instead a rather uninterested and nonchalant feel to the whole thing. Perhaps it was because it was only a day festival and the majority of the crowd seemed to have just turned 18? There was simply no need for joyous frivolities with strangers. There was a strict dress code at the event: Hunter-boots, flowers in straightened hair, skimpy shorts and loose tops for the women and colourful sunglasses, tank tops with absurd messages such as YOLO, AIDS= CHOCOLATE and SWAAAAG, together with cool, floppy hair for the gents.

 

Yes, me and Angelica had the appropriate foot-wear as well. After having been laughed at at the parking-lot by our sandal- and flip flop- wearing companions, it was us who managed to keep or toes dry and mud-free by the end of the evening. Less of a fashion statement, more a practical solution drawn from previous festival-escapades. As the day progressed and the ladies bathroom turned into a swamp of questionable substance, I thanked myself for the choice of footwear.

The line-up was rather good with Solange Knowles, Yeah Yeah Yeahs, Passion Pit, Kendrick Lamar and Phoenix.

Yeah Yeah Yeahs giving it all!

 

Love-birds being romantic.

 

Me, disturbing the love-birds. The rain-filled clouds were ominous at this point.

 

Yup. It started pouring. I bought a fancy see-through-parka for $10, very good investment it turned out.

 

After rain, there is sunshine! And then some more rain, and thunder, and then sun. Just general festival-schizo-weather.

 

Affection and beer keeps you warm. Beer got a bit watered-down by the rain though.

 

I had never heard of Kendrick Lamar before, so his gig was a great discovery. An absolutely amazing and humble performer, Kendrick engaged with his audience by being chatty and asking what everyone wanted to hear and telling little jokes and anecdotes. It was also amazing that as soon as he came on, there was a wall of weed-smoke fired up by all the people around us. Being white and middle-class in America is, after all, very tough.

Passion Pit were also good, very energetic, whilst Phoenix focused mostly on their latest, rather boring album.

Excuse me, do yo know where I can find… No? Oh. Ok. Thanks anyways.

The Best Burger

One of the most important quests on American soil was to locate and consume the best burger. My mission reached a climatic success when I had a cheeseburger at The Good Stuff Eatery near Capitol Market. Juicy, succulent and perfectly balanced in flavours this bad boy was perfect! One of the things that was so perfect was the size, one could eat the whole burger, enjoy the fries frivolously and still be able to move at full capacity. Ordering the salted-caramel milkshake, however, was pushing the limits of my stomach. But I regret nothing! It was so very, ridiculously delicious!

All wrapped up in the best of America. Goodness, gracious me!

The E Street Cinema

This establishment is a true DC-gem! After the excitement surrounding the Eurovision Song Contest had subsided (yes, I made my dear American friends watch this annual, visual mayhem) me and Mike went to the E Street Cinema midnight showing of The Big Lebowski. A cinematic masterpiece and no doubt one of the most relevant, and quotable, films of all time. This was my second time at the E Street Cinema and they are truly fantastic: cocktails, cult classics, fancy, and not so fancy, snacks. Mike ordered us some double, and very large, Caucasians (or White Russians as I call them) and we joined the rather rowdy audience for two hours of solid quote-along movie history.

Mike is a bit Camera-shy and refuses to participate in any cinema-selfies. He is not shy to drinks though, which made the movie experience even better. There’s a good boy.

I learned a few fun facts before the film started: the movie actually did terribly at the US box office and have only over the last couple of years risen to cult status, and it is based on work by Raymond Chandler. Now you know.

Apart from showing fun, and slightly silly, classics such as Batman (Tim Burton version), The Rocky Horror Picture Show (complete with live performers) and The Sound of Music, The E Street Cinema also shows the latest releases from Tinseltown. Not that I would abide to such commercialism, for those who know me know that I prefer Danish existential dramas from the 1930s. However, exceptions are made when one can join the other night owls of the city, sip cocktails and contemplate the importance of having a good rug.

Madness

My exact reaction as I entered the flat when Syracuse was playing:

 

Although I must admit that I, to a certain extent, understand the excitement: Young men in college running up and down a field wearing the equipment equivalent of a small stealth submarine is indeed a vision that rattles even the most steadfast personality. Yet, the combustion of orange, shouts and general commotion in the apartment made me fear for my life.. But hey! Happy days when there is football! I remember when me and Angelica went to New York and I saw a neon sign advertising the Super Bowl in 254 days and my immediate reaction was: What is wrong with these people? How can this sport be better than rugby? Than NORMAL football? Some small advise to all to-be US travelers: NEVER question the importance of football, it may well be the last thing that you do.

 

Can’t wait.

Hot ‘n Juicy

The title inspires several inappropriate jokes, which I will refrain from at this instance. One is, after all, a mature young woman who knows what is right and wrong in this world. Who am I kidding? The day I stop barking out indecencies and obscenities is the day I die! Hot n’ Juicy?  Add in a bit of ‘bothered’ and you have your average Saturday night at 3 am.

Joking aside, this is not about the state of women near bar closing but rather a wonderful restaurant in Adams Morgan that Kara and I went to a few days before I left DC. They specialise in Crayfish in true Louisiana fashion, meaning: it’s spicy, it’s wet, it’s a lot of work. All in all a very intense food experience. We ordered one of their specials: Crayfish, Shrimp, Andouille sausages, corn on the cob and potatoes. All of it swimming in Hot N Juicy Special seasoning, strength: Spicy.

Kara rocking the bib-look. They keep it rather simple here, which is nice. You get the food in a plastic bag, get a bib, a roll of papertowel and a bucket to toss the shell in. Straight to the point.

It was delicious! Exquisite company and food, perfect for a warm summer evening.

Posing with the bag before the mayhem of sucking, ripping and devouring the poor creatures commenced.

House dynamics

What it usually looked like when Mike and I came up with something HILARIOUS, laughed hysterically and were unable to speak for the next hour, and Brian patiently waiting for the laughing fit to end:

I mean, who doesn’t think it is hysterical to send Cadbury chocolate into space, turn into an old grumpy jewish man, and complain about the drink sizes loudly?

West Virginia

I had no idea that West Virginia was a separate state. I was absolutely convinced that we were going to the ‘western’ part of Virginia, which tells you a lot about my knowledge of US geography. Never again will I mock and scorn the poor Americans who can’t separate Slovenia from Slovakia as they backpack across Europe. I will however draw the line at the Norway/ Sweden confusion. Such mix-ups are unacceptable.

After having been laughed at by my travel companions (real Americans who know real American geography) I can now share with you that West Virginia is indeed a separate state and has been so for a proud 150 years. West Virginia- Wild and Wonderful, as their tourism board says. The term ‘red neck’ sprung to mind after having driven in the state for a while, also the words ‘lush and green’.

We were off to meet up with Erin’s friends from Peace Corps (they were in Zambia back in 2011) who are currently hiking the Appalachian trail as part of their degree. The original plan was to go up on Saturday, camp out with them and then join them for a part of the trail,  but the weather gods were not on our side and they got delayed for a day so we could only join them for some camping site fun. The Appalachian trail, also called the A.T, is a marked hiking trail stretching from Springer Mountain down in Georgia all the way up to Mount Katahdin in Maine. The daring hikers has six months to complete the trail by foot or canoe.

The happy campers.

In all fairness, they are truly remarkable for doing this. They started off in January and has since waded through blistering cold, snow storms, pouring rain, scorching heat and sun. As part of the A.T hiking culture, every hiker needs to have a trail name. Starting from the left is: Weasel, Zambian Squirrel and Skunk Foot. The first time I saw Skunk Foot he was sitting down on the ground, topless, and fiddling around with some bones and a skull from some animal, wearing a feather in his hair. The words ‘bird flu’ sprung to mind and I quickly and manically sanitised my hands.  Note that he is wearing a skunk’s foot as a necklace. Somewhere out there is a poor amputee skunk wondering what that hell happened after that last drink.

As we drove to meet up with the hikers we texted and asked if they wanted us to get anything for them. One word came back: Fries. Such a high demanding bunch!

The hikers had some amazing stories and had learned some very hard lessons during their trek: Animals love tooth paste, Canoes break, and cats are vicious, thieving things. They woke up one morning to find that there were wholes in the tooth paste tube and some weird creature of the night had sucked the thing dry of its content. They rescued some baby geese that had been abandoned and had them as guests in their canoe. Unfortunately the canoe didn’t survive some of the rougher parts of the river and the whole thing capsized.  In an effort to save themselves, their stuff and their geese babies, Skunk Foot ushered the little ones to swim towards shore. The baby geese however had become so attached to Skunk Foot that they refused to leave his side causing much distress to the crew as they were trying to save themselves and their stuff without knocking out the little ones. The situation became unsustainable and they decided, once reaching shore, that they had to give up the mama-role and leave the babies at an animal shelter. Skunk Foot cried.

One night, in the hope to escape the rain, the trio slept under a bridge. Just before Zambian Squirrel was about to close his eyes he saw something move around above them. Eyes gleaming in the night. Ah! A cat. Nothing to worry about. Well this was a cat on a mission. They woke up the following morning and found that the darn cat had eaten their blueberry muffins.  It was Weasel’s birthday muffins! It’s a tough life out on the trail.

The Zambian Peace Corps Crew Reunion. Dan is rocking a bandana for the occasion.

This was one of their trail friends. I don’t remember his name so let’s call him Grizzly Beard from now on. Grizzly Beard had one of those life stories that you sometimes encounter and always admire. He was sick of his life as a mechanic and packed up his stuff, sold the house and the car and has been living on the trail since, happy for being part of nature and meeting some great people. Isn’t that one of the Great American Narratives? To leave everything behind and explore the wild? Well, they still do it.

They love their private property in West Virginia. One sign even said “Violators will be shot and survivors will be shot again”. Hospitality at its finest!

I have developed a love of porches since living in America, so I wouldn’t mind fixing up an ol’ place like this and settle down.

After bidding farewell and good luck to the Appalachian Three, we ventured back to DC. We stopped in a small.. I could call it town but it was really just a whole in the ground with a shop, a bar and a bike shed, to get some snacks before hitting the road. I enter the shop and they have three things on sale: Guns, Bongs, and Cock Rings. ‘Chocolate?’ I ask tentatively. ‘In the back’ the lady at the counter says distractingly.

Guns.

Shop rules for gun-buying.

Bongs.

And Cock-Rings. Welcome to West Virginia. Enjoy your stay!

We drove home in the pouring rain and stopped at a Taco Bell for some dinner. It is tough supporting those out in the wild after all.

Therapy

Mental state since leaving DC:

And when asked how I’m feeling:

The transition from US to Sweden has been much harder than first anticipated. So, in an effort to deal with this country-breakup I have decided to keep this blog alive for a bit longer and share some of the stories I was too lazy to write as they happened. Consider it being a form of therapy where I will be relaxing in a leathered chair and share my stories and you can bring out the note pad and judge me for my indiscretions and general stupidity all you want. For those of you who feel that ‘enough is enough, pull yourself together woman!’, I thank you for taking the time reading. For the rest of you: come along for the ride and enjoy it! I most certainly will.