Today the husband and I had lunch on the Hill and made a day of seeing a selection of sights. Selectively seeing sights. Seeing selected sights. However you want to say it, we wandered around to some of the museums we wanted to check out and did so at a leisurely pace, knowing we can always go back tomorrow. We didn’t look at everything or even read the signs in front of exhibits, so bold we are in our new surroundings.
One thing that strikes me is the astounding number of tourists–often with eastern European accents–stopping and stooping to take pictures of squirrels around here. A bit of research into the matter confirmed two things: first, squirrels do in fact exist all over the world and are not unique to DC and second, we aren’t imagining the constant photo ops.
I hate squirrels. They are twitchy, mangy, unpredictable, carry disease, their ugly beady little eyes don’t blink, and they have sharp teeth and a lot of nerve for creatures the size of a slipper.
Not only do people take photos of these nasty and entirely pedestrian little turds, but they FEED THEM. This disgusts me. One squirrel scaled the fence it was behind and stood on top, eye-level with the young Russian woman taking his picture. She had the sense to back away quickly, which was more sense than the two kids nearby had, as a squirrel they were chasing with a snack turned around and chased them because the filthy little thing no doubt saw them as a snack. Squirrels are gross. In DC they are a gross and aggressive and a large part of the reason I wear boots when strolling on the Hill.
In the American History Museum, the husband proudly added his sticky note answer to the question of the day board. First person to guess the husband’s favorite player gets a private Capitol tour. I know a guy.
For dinner we chose Founding Farmers; the husband is still talking about it. Now we’re hoping I get a job soon not only because I’m going to get bored and lonely if I don’t, but because we want a celebratory excuse to go back. Anyone reading is welcome to join.
Me: What does it take to get into a foreign embassy?
The husband: I don’t know. Which one do you want to get into?
Me: The Canadian one.
The husband: Why?
Me: Because I want to see what it’s like. OH! And because I have that $20 in Canadian money and I wonder if they would change it for me!
The husband: I can ask someone in the office.
Me: Don’t worry about it, I’ll find out myself. I’m working from home next week. Speaking of embassies, is that the Mexican one?
On our way to dinner, the husband and I stopped in our tracks and put my iPhone to use to determine if the small and outdated-looking building across the street from us was the Mexican Embassy or a parking garage. It was the Mexican Embassy.
For the record, this is the Canadian Embassy. Where hopefully I can trade in my Canada money.