3rd May:
The day begins with general confusion and chaos. I am hungover, and Lucien is all agog because we have been done over. It all started the previous night, before the punching of eyes and general bally-hoo. We were standing in the square, and all of sudden, Mr Lucien looks uneasy, even more than normal. I ask him what's up, and he replies that he has a sudden feeling of foreboding, like something bad is about to happen. I pass it off as the usual sort of nonsense that he comes out with, and we, or at least myself, think nothing more it.
Come the next morning, there's a message from Dooder, Lucien's friend in DC, and our host for the evening. But no, it's not to be, as our spot (I hesitate to call rightful, but...) has been taken than none other than Bridget, Lucien's ex. Apparently, it's not such a good idea anymore, though Dooder does ask Lucien if he should bring Bridget to the party (Lucien's answer; a curt and righteous 'No'.)
Well, this just wouldn't do at all, we had big hopes for this party; Lucien was even going to buy a book, and I was going to try and draw pictures of genitals in it. Pfft. Then it occurs to me, that in the haze of drunken conviviality the evening before, no doubt brought on by those evil Resurrection beers that I had pledged to pay for a hotel room, fully confident in the knowledge that our accommodation was watertight.
I am such an idiot sometimes.
One Google search and two phone calls later, I had secured us lodgings at the Chevy Chase Holiday Inn, for the princely sum of $129 + tax. Still, with the favourable exchange, I could book the whole place out and not have to worry.
After booking the hotel room, we scramble as quick as we can to get to DC and catch some sights before having to go to the party. So, a mere two hours behind schedule, we were off!
One man with many wives lives here
So we high tail it to dc, takes about an hour, the highlight being this insane looking Mormon church looming over the trees like something out of the wizard of oz. There must be a lot of money in polygamy
It's about 1500 by the time we check in. We're about 5 minutes from Friendship Heights metro station, but it takes us twice that to work out the ticketing system, which asks you how much money you have and then tells you how far you can go. The metro tunnels are supported by identical concrete moulds, and the cars have a weird 1960's vibe about them, as well as carpeted floors. Which is lovely, but a touch optimistic...
We alight from the train and look to head to The Mall, which is where all the sights are (Capitol Building, Washington Monument, etc.) I confidently point out the direction, only for it to turn out to be entirely the wrong one, which we only notice about half an hour later. With me feeling suitably chastised, we hail a cab to where we're going, grab a few snaps and then head off in search of the Holocaust Museum. By the time we get there, we've got maybe an hour, which sadly isn't enough to take it all in. It's a labyrinthine building, a little hard to navigate (though maybe everyone else found it easy, it's just that Mr Lucien and I were having an off day in terms of spatial awareness). I would recommend it to anyone going to Washington, but perhaps not as a pre-party venue.
So we took the Metro back up to Chevy Chase - apparently the town precedes the '80's comedian - via a bookstore to pick up a guide to Egypt for our hostess Kathleen. A quick shower, iron and brush up later, and Mr Lucien & I were transformed into spry young gentlemen fit to grace any soiree. I was disappointed, however, when I saw that Mr Lucien had chosen not to grace the inside cover of the gift with a crudely drawn picture of genitalia, but rather with an inscription: a missed opportunity, I feel.
Holiday Inn were kind enough to provide us with an iron, so I volunteered to do our shirts, whilst Mr Lucien washed the grime of the day off in the shower. Fifteen tough minutes later, he comes out the shower and informs me that his shirt, which I had been struggling with valiantly to get the creases out of, was linen. Bah.
The party was round the corner, in a 7th floor apartment, which had great views of more apartment blocks. We were greeted by a wholesome scene of polite young Americans sitting around over drinks and nibbles. The hostess, Kathleen, whom Mr Lucien had known since college, introduced to her parents, which lead to the following exchange:
'Hello, I'm Ed Wood.'
'Edward who?'
'What?'
'Nothing'
Sigh. Anyway, Mr Wood was a devoted wine buff, and was kind enough to share his knowledge with the group, as well as his wine. I got quite tiddly... We met some lovely people, and it showed why the Americans love Tony Blair; you can get away with murder ('moidah') in this place, if you have a British accent. The party broke up around midnight, and 7 of us piled into a cab (7!) went to Buffalo Billiards. The polite young people from before had transformed into shot drinking maniacs, and when we got to the bar, it was my round. Lucien suggested 'Washington Apples', which were tasty, and a bargain at $6 each. (There are some pictures from this bit, but they're on Lucien's camera; i assure you, they're all perfectly civil...)
The American drinking experience mirrors that of the Brit. Drink 'til you can't feel feelings anymore, and then go and eat something, preferably meat based and cheap. So, we went to here. It was an incredible sight, two storeys packed full of drunkards, ploughing through acres of flesh and fries. It brought a tear to my eye, though that may have been due to chili sauce on the burger.
Mr Lucien and I were lucky enough to be invited back to the party venue, which was long deserted. Some dude called Drew turned up at 5 in the morning, hoping to get some kind of booty call before he set off to Guatemala to set up safe soccer fields for disadvantaged children. I told him that the last time I was in Guatemala, I was hunting the deadliest prey of all...Mankind. I don't think he took it too well, but I found it amusing. At that point, a someone said, 'let's get a hooker', and my ears pricked up. Sadly, it turned it to be merely a hookah, an elaborate Arabian smoking apparatus. I mused upon the trouble that homonyms can create, and the work of John Locke, and then I passed out on the couch.
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