Red, White and Blonde

"You know what the three most exciting sounds in the world are? Anchor chains, plain motors, and train whistles."
~ George Bailey, It's a Wonderful Life

That was exactly what I was thinking as I stood, poised to go, in Baltimore's Penn Station. It's a beautiful, big old station, with a giant Christmas tree in the middle, Frank Sinatra crooning carols in the background. I still think there's something sort of romantic and exciting about train travel. Or maybe it's just that escaping from tour is always exciting.

I practically leapt onto the Amtrak, and a mere 45 minutes later, I was in Union Station, greeted by a giant tree decorated with American flags. Red, White and Blonde: the interstate ingenue does DC!

I metro-ed to Dupont Circle, to make sure I got in a trip to my favorite bookstore, and obvi to check out the gay holiday cards at Lambda Rising (I JUST missed the Gay Men's Chorus Baby It's Gay Outside holiday show, there are no words for how upset I am). I was so happy surrounded by all the cheery, attractive gay couples in expensive sweaters: it truly felt like home for the holidays. I walked from Dupont to the mall, saw the White House decorated with Christmas garlands, and the National Christmas Tree!

In 1923, Grace Coolidge wanted to decorate a national tree, so they got one from the President's home state of Vermont - yes, the first national christmas tree was donated by none other than MIDDLEBURY COLLEGE! I was so excited. Like embarassingly excited. Like one voicemail away from being an official middlebury alumni stalker excited.

In addition to the big tree, each state (and rando territory like Samoa) does a little tree. For the first time, it hit me just how many states I've been to, and I started to get a little mushy. There was Connecticut, with its slightly stodgy Harriet Beecher quotes. Michigan, with perfectly quilted mini-mittens. Wisconsin, with sequin popsicle sticks. Indiana, with a hot mess that I think was supposed to be calico log cabins. I have seen so much of this country, and although all of it so different, I feel like I understand it better. More than ever I feel like I know what it means to be an American, and standing in all those Christmas trees, surrounded by the arts and crafts glue-stained blood, sweat and tears of a hundred elementary school art classes, at the dawn of a new era in American politics, and I felt...hope. Pure, simple, hope. From Maine to Michigan, we're all just people stuck with shitty popsicle sticks and Elmer's glue, trying to make something better, you know? And I feel like it will be better. It was a little christmas miracle.

Before I started crying on the tree of American Samoa, I headed over to the Lincoln exhibit at the National Portrait Gallery, then Museum of American history, which just just JUST reopened in November, so I spent nearly three hours geeking out. I then met up with a friend from highschool who lives in Dupont, and works distributing pediatric AIDS care/preventative medicine to Africa (yeah, it's sort of amazing, she's sort of amazing, the clusterfuck that is the current administration's policy towards AIDS prevention/contraception is amazing in the bad way), and we had a girly sleepover/long, gossipy 2 martini dinner at a little Italian place.

The next morning, I saw the Christmas trian at the National Botanical Gardens/Conservatory, gave the Museum of the American Indian a second chance (I really think it could be much better done), and spent a fifth of my paycheck on shoes. I know, I know, I'm bad - but they were blue faux-suede! And the brand was "Poetic Licencse of London!" And they had Leopard-pint heels!" And as the salesguy shook his dreads and told me, "it is all about the heels, girl!" He said, "put em in box, stick em under your tree, and say 'Merry Christmas to me, you fabulous little thing you!' You deserve it!" He's right. I do. Cha-ching.

On the way to the metro, I strolled through the Dupont farmer's market, and ran into a friend from school, of all things. Long story short, I got kicked out of a farmer's market for being too loud. I think that's pretty special. But really, what do you expect when two theatre majors unpexpectedly run into eachother in the streets and start catching up from their diaphragms?

All too soon, I was back on the Amtrak, then back in Baltimore. I will say this for Towson, MD: it obviously has a sense of style, as people love my clothes here. The girl at the Bel-Loc diner wanted to know where I got my pink coat (J.Crew Outlet in Lancaster, PA, bitches!) One of the front desk girls wanted to know where I got my alpine-y jumper (Charlotte Russe in the Asheveville NC Mall, hos!) As she said, "I like me that hookup. I need to get somethin for New Year's, and I like that hookup." I like my hookup too.

I leave this weekend four books and two leopard-print high heels richer.
Land of the free and home of the brave, baby.