Remember class trips?
The serious ones.
I'm not referring to the Space Museum or the zoo.
I mean the out-of-state trips. The adolescent-defining kind. The kind where everyone chooses their seat on the bus or plane eight months in advance.
They caused me anxiety. Because they had the power to make or break an entire school year for a middle schooler.
When I was a sophomore in high school, we took a class trip to Chicago.
I broke a hotel bed. I broke. A bed.
I thought it would be fun to jump from bed to bed like I had when I was five. Hundreds of pounds later in life, that scenario doesn't play out well.
My classmates thought there was a drug bust in our room when hotel management was called in to the scene. But no, it was me. Causing plywood bed frames to disintegrate from the force of my projectile body.
In middle school, my tiny eighth grade class went on a trip to our nation's capital.
What could be worse than acne-ridden faces with little pre-pubescent bodies traipsing around memorials? The answer is: making us wear giant teal baseball caps so our chaperones wouldn't lose us. I think it may have been another contributing factor to the years of singleness to follow. But, good news! I didn't get lost.
All of that to say - I was really excited to come back to D.C. on my own terms. In grown up clothes! Without a hat! With deep appreciation for the freedom of our beautiful country!
AND CHERRY BLOSSOMS, PEOPLE!
(Would you look at that slumber deliciousness?)
By the time I finally made my way out of the hotel, it seemed necessary to eat. The previous day was filled to the brim with delays. I had no real meal. (Unless you count peanuts and pretzels, in which case - we need to sit down and have a talk).
It was lunchtime near the Capitol. Thanks to the recommendation of my sweet friend Hannah, I had tunnel vision for Good Stuff Eatery.
My fellow patrons made J.Crew look like Goodwill. Standing in line, I was overwhelmed by feeling so completely unimportant while simultaneously apart of a moment in which we all had something in common. That commonality was the love and anticipation in partaking in the consumption of grilled cow.
And HOLY MOLY ME OH MY it was so worth the wait. The fries, guys. Rolled around in rosemary and seat salt.
The burger. So bad, and yet so, so good.
Any establishment in which the mayonnaise is masquerading as a culinary work of art is dangerous. Chipotle! Old Bay! Sriracha! Mango! (The mango was my favorite).
Fun fact: If you have intentions of buying a wedding dress in the near future, eat as many cheeseburgers as you can. Not only will your clothes fit better than ever, but you'll feel full of energy and not sluggish at all.
This was around the time that I got lost (maybe I should have worn my teal baseball cap? And then it started to rain). I then made my way back to the hotel to take a nap. I am sure it had nothing to do with the cheeseburger.
There's something about being in D.C. that makes me outrageously patriotic. The shouting kind of patriotism. You know, standing in the street and shouting, "GOD BLESS AMERICA!"
So, who lives near D.C.? Speak up and tell me your favorites!