How Much Is That Banjo in the Window?

While Maryland is south of the Mason-Dixon line, which qualifies it (technically) as a southern state, I believe most other Marylanders would agree with me in referring to home as a "neutral, mid-Atlantic" state. Virgina, however, is the South.

I've preceded Skip by several hours, and now sit in Hyperion Espresso, enjoying a capuccino, free wireless internet, and the coeds breezing in from the neighboring university, Mary Washington, which was once predominantly a women's college. Fredericksburg is a southern town. On the main street alone they have an Old Virginian Tobacco Shop, an Apothecary Publick House, and a music store with "Pickin'" in the title and a tenor banjo in the front window. After a breif walk through this quaint little Civil War town and a quick stop in the local newspaper to do some press work for Skip, I found my way here, where I can finally sit down and capture the last few days.

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Sunday, October 5, 2008

Skip and I couchsurfed a writer's couch in DC. (We inadvertently played Footsie for two nights, as the couches were "L" shaped.) Her name is Jodi Lynn Anderson, and she is quite unassuming, unlike most writers I've met, given the number of books she's had published. I'll tell you, the day I get anything published, you will know. I will have telegraphers, yes telegraphers, exercising their pretty little fingers from coast to coast of this nation, keeping the wires buzzing with news of my magnum opus. Jodi, on the other hand, quietly shared with me a few of her novels; I told her a day later that I would try to push some for her. (You can also find more titles on Amazon.)

After loading the car during the magic hour, I gave my sleeping mat to a bum named Wade and headed for Virginia. Skip managed to secure two nights in the Watergate Condominiums in Alexandria, where we stayed with one of his friends from his Prague years, A., and her grandmother, J. (It is to be assumed that at least 92% of the residents of these condos are over the age of 70.) After a delicious pasta meal, A. took Skip and I down to relax in the hot tub. Swanky! Skip spoke a little Czech to a big, tan, lanky Czech, while I nodded and said, "Praha," the only Czech word I know. (I read it on a map about a month ago.) I took a few laps in the pool and then we all retired fairly early--Monday was a such a big day! (That one was for you, Jess and Sean.)

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Monday, October 6, 2008

We hopped on the metro and hit the streets, though not as early as we would've liked, bound for National Geographic on 17th first. With a backpack and the video camera, I felt like a pack mule. If I learn anything on this trip, maybe I will learn to pack less. But probably not.

I was pretty stoked walking into National Geographic, until I realized that we were not getting past the front desk. When we left we were up one email address. A block away we entered the National Education Association, where at least we got to speak with a PR person and tell her a little bit about PFEE. She explained to us that most of the people we would need to talk to were in Nashville, working closely in and among the hubbub of the presidential race. When we left, we at least had made a contact. We next went down to NPR, and I really started to get excited ... until I realized that we were not getting past the front desk. When we left NPR, we were up another email address. Our last stop was at the American Federation of Teachers, where I got to swap sass with the security guard who was too busy eating her yogurt to really care about who we were. (*Note: check back here in a few days for the complete exchange. If it's not printed it's because I figured it was humorous enough to turn into some creative NF writing.) When we left, we were up another contact, and I was sporting my new Obama '08 sticker.

The most exciting part of the day came when Skip and I had to do some guerrilla camera work in order to shoot part of the documentary in Arlington National Cemetery.

I was falling asleep on the metro ride back, I was so tired. Of course, the first thing I did when we got back to the condo was take a nap. A. and J. made two beautiful, succulent quiches for dinner. I had mentioned wanting to work out after dinner, but when the meal was over Skip and A. sat down to watch Breakfast at Tiffany's and eat ice cream. Now, those that no me are thinking, "Well, that's a no brainer," and it should've been, right? I surprised myself, and kept my plan to get a work-out in down in the weight room of the condo. I would have been able to sit up this morning if I had just stayed on the couch and watched the film, sucking down spoonfuls of Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough. As it was, I nearly threw up in the parking lot.

To make a long story short, I went down to the weight room and was about to get under the bench press machine when a huge Ecuadorian says to me in broken English, "We work out together, yes?" Now, I don't have a very strong filter when it comes to bad ideas, although by the middle of the second set I had by then well realized that this was a particularly bad one. I strained under the four increasing sets of bench presses, before the Ecuadorian told me I had had enough. He poked me in the chest and said, "First, we work on super you, then we work on middle you," poking me in the stomach, "and then we work on lower you." Anticipating another poke, I stepped back and said, "Yeah, OK." Previously in work outs, I have never done more than maybe 30 crunches. However, standing next to this South American poster man for Men's Health, Equatorial Edition, I grunted out 120 abdominal crunches, from resting on my elbows and kicking out, to laying on a bench and kicking up, to trying to tap my toes from a 30 degree decline position. This is the point where I starting forming "water mouth." I told Luiz I was going to get a drink of water, but instead I was splashing my face and saying, "No, no," into the water fountain. He tapped me on the shoulder and said, "Now, bee-ceps," tapping the rock he had buried under a thin skein of forearm. I did the curls, I tried to do some pull-ups, but in a relatively short time, I was in the parking lot, forearm on an antique Porsche, bent over and saying, "No, no," to the pavement below.