cricketmuse

a writer's journey as a reader

Cricket’s Great Hamlet Adventure:Day One


The day was certainly full:

  • Up at 3 am to catch a 6 am
  • Fly over at least 3 time zones
  • Learn quickly how to ride the MARC from Baltimore to DC
  • Figure out my hotel from Union Station
  • Where to eat dinner? Back to Union Station because the pub next dinner is not on my budget
  • Move with the masses to the Mall for fireworks–crowds are not my fave, but Fourth of July at the nation’s capitol? I got over myself and blended, absorbed, dodged, and weaved.
  • I claimed a spot and waited.
  • There were so many cultures represented I felt I was at an outdoor Ikea festival (okay, my odd personal reference since whenever I go to an Ikea it’s like a UN day, either that or my smalltown bubbling is showing)
  • The big moment:  

NOTE: our smalltown event lasts about 10 minutes consisting of very dramatically spaced singular shots. I was indeed properly dazzled by this pyrotechnic dazzlement. 

  • And then my approximate 19 minutes back to the hotel turn into an hour long “lost, yet flowing with the masses walking tour of DC at 10 o’clock at night”–it would have been scary except for there being two cops for every second block. Locals were very friendly and helpful in redirecting me. At one point after asking directions once again (I forgot to turn on my precise location indicator on my Google Maps–now corrected) a nice young woman caught up to me on the sidewalk and sincerely cautioned me about steering clear of the sketchy 8th street area. And I thought DC would be harsh and sense my smalltown girl and chomp me up. Everyone, especially the police, have been very nice.

DAY TWO: squeezing in Dorothy’s shoes before dinner

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    3 thoughts on “Cricket’s Great Hamlet Adventure:Day One

    1. Avoid 8th St? Getting lost? Kid’s stuff… How about the ultimate Washington tourist dilemma. Back in the day, this out of towner, out of stater, out of continenter was visiting Arlington National Cemetery. Locked the keys of my car inside the car. Way past 11 on a scale of one to ten was the ghoulish combination of embarrassment and “got to ask anyway” as I ploughed my way along the line of occupied cars in the parking lot, asking politely to the obviously emotionally charged occupants in the Britishest accent I could muster, whether they might have a wire coat hanger with which to break into my car.

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