How to see DC in 2 days

One of the things I love about DC is that there’s.so.much.to.do. Monuments! Memorials! Museums! Oh my! It’s definitely too much to cover in one trip. However, when a favorite aunt comes to town for only a few days, that’s when ya make it hap’n, cap’n.

DC in two days? BRING IT.

Having done a fair amount of traveling, I intimately understand the sadness of not being able to do all the things you’d like to do in a destination city. (London, I will return to you.) Thus, here are some quick tips to help you out:

Condense your city into a concise list of priorities.  Don’t feel badly about the things you leave out – it’s tourist season, Jefferson won’t even notice that you stood him up for Lincoln. He’ll be too busy fending off about a quadrillion 8^th grade tour groups.

It’s ok to fudge the numbers a little. You want to see the Smithsonian. Awesome. Me too. But the Smithsonian consists of no fewer than 19 museums and 9 different research centers, and each of those museums has multiple floors and multiple wings, with rotating exhibits and 3-D movies and fancy gift shops. Is it physically possible to see all this stuff? Erm, no. Soooo…pick one. Bam. You saw the Smithsonian. (I recommend the Air and Space Museum – it hits a lot of cool stuff you don’t necessarily get in school.)

Wentelteefjes: Belgian “French” toast.

Go with some city-savvy locals. (Ahem, I’m city-savvy now, my blog says so in the title!) Locals will show you how to navigate the metro system quickly and efficiently (escalators: stand on the right, walk on the left!), tell you what’s worth seeing and what’s not, and introduce you to cool little holes-in-the-wall that the guidebook didn’t mention (Belga Café – my favorite brunch spot!).

Never.stop.walking. If you do, you’re done. You’ll never get started again. Just ignore your aching limbs and bruised feet – pain is weakness leaving the body.

Refuel with mango margaritas. Okay fine, it’s ok to stop for alcohol.

Be spontaneous. I like to think of The Plan as more of The Suggestion. Sometimes adhering so strictly to The Plan actually just makes us miserable. So, if you get the sudden urge to walk barefoot through the grass at Arlington Cemetery, or dip your toes in the pool at the Sculpture Garden, or run naked around the Washington Monument, do it.

Okay, maybe don’t do that last one. Let someone else do that, and then you can gawk and get pictures as they get dragged away by police.

And finally, enjoy your exhaustion at the end of the day. You earned it. 

Do we look related, or what?

Fried chicken, donuts, and BEER: a Churchkey experience

I’ve been meaning to write this story up for a while, but hey, sometimes life happens – say, perchance, your car gets towed (through no fault of your own, might I add), or you realize you’re a legal American citizen and must therefore pay taxes – and before you know it three weeks have passed and you’ve almost forgotten that you had a blog in the first place.  

Contrary to the tenor of my last couple posts, this one should serve as a reassurance that I am, in fact, enjoying my life here in DC. Really! It’s true! My friends are great, my sis is great, and as always, everything is better with beer.  

So. A couple weeks months back, The Sis and I decided to leave work early and take advantage of the unseasonably warm spring day. How best to do this? Hop a few blocks over to Churchkey for happy hour, of course. For non-DCers, Churchkey is one of, if not THE best bar for beer in the District. It boasts a selection of over 500 beers from all over the world, as well as a pretty yummy menu. Being an employee of a liquor store, and therefore knowing a bit more about beer allotments for the District than your average Joe, I can say with some authority that Churchkey is often allotted certain specialty beers that almost no one else receives from distributors.  

Sadly, I had not yet been to Churchkey before this day. *shamefacedly hides in a broom closet* 

The Sis and I arrived at about 4 o’clock. The bar was largely empty at this early hour, except for some sort of film crew that was occupying all the tables near the windows. I grumbled to myself – living the last year of my life in windowless cubicles has made me crave sunlight like a withered plant – and sat down at the bar, as near as possible to the windows.  I assumed the film crew was updating the menu, taking new shots of meals and such. I didn’t pay them much mind, largely because The Sis and I had engaged the bartender in a lively discussion about beer. 

Another plus of working in a liquor store: I actually kind of know what I’m talking about. We chatted about hops (this girl is NOT a hops fan), maltiness, fruity crisp notes, and the inherent superiority of Salmon Fly Rye, a beer brewed out of Montana. (Okay, I talked about the inherent superiority of Salmon Fly Rye, and the bartender listened patiently and had the good sense to agree with me.) Occasionally other bartenders would meander past us and offer their opinions. 

After a few minutes of this, a member of the film crew sidled up on my right and leaned his elbows on the bar. Score one for being a cute girl in a bar, where the only other competition is your look-alike twin sister, I thought. 

“Hey,” Film Crew Guy said. “You ladies seem to be having a very dynamic conversation here…you sound like you really know what you’re talking about.” We do. As already established. “Would you be interested in participating in our TV show?” 

Say what? Sure!! I washed my hair today, so why not? 

Film Crew Guy explained that his show, ABC’s The Chew, was doing a special about different eateries around DC. Churchkey was chosen for its beer reputation and for its unique sandwich called “The Luther.” The Luther is essentially a behemoth of fried chicken, donuts, and maple syrup. A surprising combination, and surprisingly good. (UNsurprisingly, it’s probably worth at least 4 heart attacks.) 

FCG introduced us to the host of the show, a jet-lagged but energetic Kiwi named Jason, and explained that they would do a couple takes of Jason interviewing us, and then us actually eating the sandwich and commenting on how much we loved it. [Obviously, we loved it…people aren’t interviewed to give their REAL opinions.] We ran through these scenes quickly, eating little bites of the sandwich each time. The Sis was a little hesitant about eating too much of The Luther, and rightly so; one bite had to have been at least 1,000 calories.  I had every intention of maintaining discretion as well, but…hey, I actually did really like the sandwich. [Meaning I ate the whole thing.] At one point FCG complimented us on our acting skills and presentation – “Wow, you guys actually sound perfect, like real actors!” Why thank you, I told him. I actually had the lead in my 5th-grade Christmas play.

For those interested, the clip of the Chew can be seen here. Thanks to my friend Jon for pointing it out! And ignore the fact that I sound like a ditzy sorority girl.

At the end of the shoot, Jason gestured toward our drinks. “What are you guys drinkin? Next round’s on us.” Why thank you, Jason. We chatted with him and the crew a while longer before meandering back over to the bar, which was packed at this point with people just off from work. Actually, a little crowd of them had been watching us during the entire interview. 

Our favorite bartender came back over and chatted with us for a moment, but he was much busier now. Didn’t matter too much, the people next to us were very interested in our interview and what was going on. [Note: by “people next to us” I mean “that guy next to my sister,” and by “interested in our interview” I mean “interested in her phone number.” But I digress.]

Eventually, one guy approached us and introduced himself as the manager of the bar. “I hear you ladies are the new face of Churchkey!” he exclaimed. We are? Okay, I guess I can handle that.  We chatted with him about beer and other things, explaining just how good a tall Coldsmoke is – it’s another beer out of Montana, a rich stout that people also make into a special ice cream. The Sis and I made it very clear: if he wanted his bar to TRULY be the best in the District, it needed to import some Montana beer. After all, we have one of the highest ratios of micro-breweries to people in the entire country!  

True fact. Maybe.  

Point is, we convinced him, and discussed a few different import strategies. And as we were talking, he mentioned that Churchkey does its own version of a beer ice cream, and insisted that we try it. On the house. The Heart-attack Yummo Sandwich Luther followed by beer ice cream? Okay, I guess I can handle that. 

“Well, it’s been lovely chatting with you ladies,” the manager said, preparing to depart. “How about we comp your tab for the rest of the night?”  

I think my eyes bugged out of my head. Free beer and food at Churchkey for the rest of the night!? Okay, I think I can handle that. 

I had been about ready to leave the bar – I had a date that night across town. After the manager’s offer, though, I quickly dialed my date and explained the situation. He agreed to the change in plans immediately. Smart guy.

And that’s how I got interviewed for a show on ABC, got a free tab at a favorite bar, and arranged to import Montana beer all in the same night.

I guess I kinda like this DC town.

....and neither is staying up all night

I haven’t been sleeping well lately. Usually this isn’t a problem for me – ask any of my college roomies, and they’ll tell you about my astonishing capacity to nap almost anywhere, anytime. (Seriously, my Cultural Anthropology textbook became a second pillow during my sophomore year.)

But these days, I find I have too much rattling around in my brain for me to drift off peacefully. Naturally, these are all issues I should tackle during the day, when I’m actually a functioning adult and can do something productive to work them out. Doesn't seem to work that way, though.

Invariably, I lay down to sleep, curl into my pillow, relax all my muscles and think, Aaaaah, this is the one time when I don’t have to think about *anything*…and then my brain wakes up. Interferes. Meddles.with.my.sleep. What should I think about this? What should I think about that? Does this random and minor comment that so-and-so made actually mean something else? Do I have time to wash my hair tomorrow? Should I take the bus or the metro to work? Look, Aftan, my brain says, it’s 2 am. A perfect time to ask ourselves if we should cook lasagna this week.

Beneath this peppering of banal trivialities lies a whole separate layer of Deeper Issues. What do I want to do with my life? Why am I an intern failure? Why hasn’t my boss talked to me about x event? What should I do about That Friend? Am I making enough money to pay my rent? Why do I live in the city?

And the more I try not to think about these questions, the more I try to find answers for them. Gradually my muscles tense up, my scowl at the ceiling grows more severe, and I feel like I've downed one of those gross Monster energy drinks.  I have become a crazed ping-pong ball, volleyed back and forth between competing thoughts, lacking control or direction.

For original meme, see Hyberbole and a Half

In short, my brain punishes me for all those mornings when I tried to sleep my problems away. Oh, Aftan, you have some down time? That must be nice, cuz ITS NOT LIKE YOU STAYED IN BED FOR 13 HOURS YESTERDAY.

Thus when I do finally find sleep, it’s short and broken up by my feelings of guilt and continued stress. Which leaves me more tired the next day. Which leaves me less capable of dealing with my problems like an adult. Which makes me feel more guilty. Which makes me want to hide under the covers again.

It’s a vicious cycle.

I have found, however, that a few glasses of wine (or an entire bottle) tend to help with the whole "not sleepy" thing. Take that, brain.

Staying in bed all day is not an effective way to deal with stress

I don’t think I could ever be a druggie. It seems like people often use drugs (or alcohol) as an escape from their problems. While I do see the benefits of occasionally drowning my sorrows with some rum, drugs have too many crazy side-effects. I prefer to simply fall asleep and let my brain create an alternate reality, one where my only problem is how to kill all these bad guys with my sweet spy skillz. I don’t have to worry about getting a job, paying my rent, cooking my meals, dealing with boys or finding time for friends.

Sleep is the best escape. Ever.

When I wake up, my bed becomes this special sacred place where my problems can’t touch me. I mean, I definitely DO think about them, but in a detached kind of way. Hmm, I should probably deal with x issue. Later.

As soon as my toes touch the floor, though, “x issue” becomes “X ISSUE” – and I freak out. Wow, I need to deal with this *now*!

Obviously, this reaction does not drive me to leap out of bed in the morning. Which is why I spent far too long yesterday curled up with my down comforter. Sadly, like any method of procrastination, hiding from my problems does not actually solve them. Eventually, my toes will touch the floor and I’ll have to accept that I need to grow up.

Aw, crap. I hate being an adult.

Note: I’ve touched on this before, but “being an adult” does not mean you can NEVER hide under a blanket. 

When to (not) observe casual Friday

This question comes up now and then, and now that I live in such a professional city, it's definitely one worth asking. Especially if I were to wear my cute skinny jeans on a Friday, forget about an important meeting, and get asked by a colleague at that meeting if I had actually gone to work that day.

Not that this happened, of course.

But just in case you're tempted to go casual, I've put together this handy guide.

Should I observe casual Friday?

Apparently being from Montana is a liability when dancing

Given the title of this post, you’re probably about to crack some joke about how Montanans can’t dance unless we’re in a barn with hay and a fiddle. You country bumpkins are so quaint, you think, just like all those Lifetime movies with Katherine Heigl before she got famous and did crap like The Ugly Truth. Yes, I’m sure you’re thinking exactly that.

First of all, our country hoe-downs are grand fun. Don’t knock ‘em til you try ‘em. Second of all, we can also do other types of dancing. I’m a big fan of swing, myself. However, I do also love me some uncoordinated, spastic club dancing – great in a place like DC, which has so many clubs.  And gradually over the years, my awkward 80’s moves have morphed into something that can actually resemble some pretty decent club dancing (although I can still whip out the Shopping Cart or the Sprinkler on occasion).  

My point is, I love club dancing. And not in an I’m-still-in-college-and-looking-for-affirmation-on-the-dance-floor kind of way, but in an I’m-an-adult-with-a-job-look-at-me-cut-loose kind of way. Minus the job part, of course.

Unfortunately, I have a handicap.

Everyone here in DC thinks my Montana ID is a fake.

I actually found this pretty funny the first time it happened.  I was out with some co-workers, casually handed off my card to the burly Russian-looking bouncer, and prepared to receive it back with the typical “Gee you’re far from home” comment. Instead he held my card, glared at me with a look that plainly said, “Вы незаконно!” and crossed his arms, barring entrance. Luckily, my hiring manager was there and assured him that she would not have hired me had I been underage.  He grudgingly let me pass.

The second time was on Halloween. Also a funny occasion, as I stood by the door watching as Gaddafi after Qaddafi after Khadafi strolled through in their bad wigs and golden robes. This time, the bar manager had to come over to take a look at my ID. “I promise it’s real,” I told him. “I’m sure you hear that all the time, but just check with your little UV pen and you’ll see the holographic bears on it.” Grizzlies, to be precise.  The manager relented this time, too.

But this past St. Patty’s Day, my luck ran out. The bouncer, who I maintain had a chip on his shoulder anyway (something corroborated by my friends…the phrase “douchebag” may have been used), took one look at my ID and said flatly, “You’re not getting in.” And none of my cajoling or explanations made a whit of difference.

Curse you, Montana driver’s license!  

Actually, I wasn’t 100% sure that my rejection was based on my license…after all, it WAS St. Patty’s Day. But I had my managers at the liquor store take a look at my ID the next week, and all of them immediately said something along the lines of Yup, that looks really fake.

Sigh. I really don’t want to be one of those girls who takes her passport to bars. Her passport, of all things. Having lived abroad for a year, a passport is like gold and not something to be dog-eared as your bar companion. Not only that, it’s fairly easy (so I hear) to steal an identity based solely on a passport.

Nope, not for me.

Time for a DC driver’s license?

Wisdom.