At the end of the first Lord of the Rings movie, the fellowship of the ring is broken up after a brutal fight with the Uruk Hai as the hobbits are separated from rest of the fellowship.
Virginia was our Uruk Hai.
With Otto carried off by the whimsy of more Chipotle burritos and covert shenanigans in this backwater of civilization and Kip keen to rekindle the friendships of many years and miles past, it was Ryan who soldiered on in the ascribed direction, my mount doom Washington D.C., tearstained face and shoulders turned eastward, the call of the Atlantic reaching deep into my soul and providing the straw that broke the flimsy spine of my loyal devotion to the fellowship such that had kept me in the mouldering orifice of Virginia for three long and irksome days.
Also, I trust that I need not add that for the purpose of this analogy Otto and Kip are the hobbits and I the three manly warrior protectors all formed into one.
On the plus side, this fellowship separation offered me the chance to drive to D.C. on my lonesome, the pelting rain no concern for this well-seasoned driver of the interstates, cagooled and safely ensconced in the fuzzed out sounds of my second hand Electric Wizard CD.
Like sunshine on a rainy day or the comforting crunch of a vegetable after too much fast food, Washington was the perfect antidote to my woes. Comfortingly peopled and perfectly not-Virginia, it was almost like being in Europe again as I wrestled once more with the burden of essential tourist sightseeing. Undaunted, I spent my pleasant evening alone making excitable ethnic friends at a local bar as Dirk Nowitski went about an historic playoff performance.
Sadly, the hostel of D.C. was not a bustling party hub, or indeed the hub of much at all, with its main demographic consisting of quiet Asians who were all wrapped up in bed with their laptops at 8:30 at night and a few night-owl grandmas, also replete with laptops. The only interesting people turned out to be 20 and unable to go a-drinking. Oh well.
The next day, anticipating an eventual call from Kip who would be making his way eastwards after an evening of moonshine and line dancing in the deeper backwaters of VA, and, irate as I was at the concept of paying $35 for a sightseeing bus around D.C., I rashly decided to embark upon a one man sightseeing foot tour.
Rashness immediately became evident as I battled malfunctioning pigeon crystals and the rain to make it down to Pennsylvania Avenue and the big park where the Whitehouse, Lincoln Memorial, Obelisk, and Capitol Hill are situated, along with piles of war memorials and statues to men whose names meant nothing to me. Strangely enough, despite my deeply entrenched cynicism and dislike of such overt flag waving and its attendant shenanigans, I felt an odd stirring of appreciative vicarious patriotism.
Maybe it was the rampant use of the word 'freedom' on everything, the hefty stoneness of it all, the flags whipping in the breeze or, most likely, the giant stone phallus, but my wanderings were far less compulsory tourist chore than intriguing trek through storied history and passionate Americanism.
With Kip finally arriving in the afternoon, we celebrated by cooking dinner with food bought from the mysterious Mexican supermarket next door, treating ourselves to a rare carnivorous feast with Otto otherwise engaged, $3 pack of chorizo held triumphantly to the breast. We managed to cap off the evening with yet more playoffs and a beer tower, one of the more imaginative ways of selling someone 3 litres of beer in a single unit.
Our final day in Washington saw Ryan the long suffering take Kip to the exact same sites visited previously. That night, however, as we labored over a pot of curry, a man came bustling up the stairs and commandeered all of the kitchen, telling us there was to be a barbecue and all were invited. With a full spread of barbecued delights eventually laid out and a fridge full of beer, we took to the deck to see what was going on. I am still not entirely sure what was being celebrated, but of the entire hostel who had been invited, it was just me and my new friend, beer-brewer and Palestinian advocate Andrew, who, for some time stood mildly awkwardly with me on the balcony, swilling free beer and bantering the evening away.
Eventually we were joined by Kip and Edison, a gentleman who had come out to D.C. on an internship for his Senator from Nebraska. The balance of all American corn fed values and radical leftism and sleeve tattoos left me feeling uncomfortable, but it was nothing that could not be smoothed over with barbecued chicken and cornbread.
The deck eventually gave way to a mini pub crawl, collecting spanish men from downstairs and a large gay black man who worked at the hostel and spent the entire time on his phone, as well as another Palestinian activist along the way. An interesting crew.
With a trip to Philadelphia looming, in order to collect Otto it was time for another trip back to Virginia, one for which I was not at all excited, fearing once again becoming mired in the listless funk of fast food and motorways. After minor unpleasantness we once again left Virginia that afternoon and, fearing the toll roads of the east coast, we set the sat nav to 'avoid tolls' and trundled off in search of Philadelphia.
We soon discovered, however, that 'avoid tolls' roughly translates to 'average 35mph, a million sets of lights, and Amish countryside vistas'. We did, however, make it to Philadelphia and just in time for some highly post-modern watching of "It's always Sunny" capped off with an evening wander down South Street that gave way to the eating of the biggest slice of pizza yet.
On a cheese related note, the next day saw a confrontation towards which I had not been looking fondly at all: the inescapable intestinal battle with the Philly Cheese Steak. Such was the tumult of its passing that almost half an hour was required post consumption for digestion with no extra energy available to even hoarsely croak out conversation, swollen stomachs and sweating foreheads robustly expressing all that needed to be said.
Many hours later saw the celebration of our escape from the shackles of protein induced catatonia with a journey north of the old city where we were staying into a gentrifying industrial area full of bars and debauch. Scattered throughout, however, and most eerie were the giant, deserted, dilapidated and decaying apartment blocks that suddenly gave way to a sprawling car park for a casino in the middle of this urban wasteland. A rather sad vision of America to be sure.
Returning in the wee hours of the morn, Otto discovered that towels are not always offered in hostels. Thus it was that a shivering wreck of a man was found hunched under the hand dryer, trying to air dry himself in a lonely hostel bathroom. It has been quite a learning experience for poor Otto.
We continued to flutter around Philadelphia for another day achieving little worthy of note beyond humble poking around in old historical looking parts, being too lazy to queue to see the Liberty Bell and settling for a quick glance through a window instead, as well as the worryingly satisfying triumph of finding another good coffee house.
Onwards and upwards.
...and a little bit East.
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