Rated PG, as I say some words that aren’t supposed to be said in church. I mean, they actually are, but like, not out of context- Forget it. Just read this. You’re already here. You won’t leave.
3/21/16 A Damn Good Monday
Normally, it takes you a few paragraphs to question my sanity, right? But then you saw the day’s title, and thought “Um, no. Clark’s lost his mind. Mondays are the worst.” Well, usually you’re right, but this Monday was fantastic. It was better than fantastic. It was damn good. What makes a damn good day? Well, lots of things, I suppose. Damn good friends and damn good food made this day damn good, but there could feasibly be other reasons. Also, I shall keep the swears to a minimum from here on out, but it was important for you to understand how damn good this day was.
If you’ll recall, I had turkish coffee the night before, and stayed up quite late due to this ingestion of caffeine. I believe the KIDDOS had plans to wake up around 8 and hit DC, but I assume we all simultaneously woke up to our alarms, said “If the others want to go to DC that bad, they can come wake me up” and then promptly fell back asleep. At least, that’s what I did. Even so, when I woke up shortly after 10 o’clock and wandered upstairs to find myself utterly alone, like that one episode of the Twilight Zone with the bank teller, I was rather shocked.
Looking around, I decide that it was entirely possible that my so called “friends” had abandoned me, and were in DC, doing fun stuff without me. Well, I would do fun stuff without them. I looked at our limited grocery stash, and found a box of pancake mix. Victory was mine. I began to prepare the pancakes, adding vanilla extract and cinnamon to the mix, because I’m an overachiever. I also heated some apple sauce for a topping, and found a container of whipped cream. I stepped back to admire my handiwork. I easily had more than 4,000 calories of food, and it was all for me. Ahh, it’s good to be an American.
“Good morning” said Melissa, coming into the kitchen yawning. Well, EFF. This meant we would each only get about 2,000 cal-
“Guten Morgen” said Shea, as he blearily stepped into my presence. Well, we could all have a decent amount-
“Buenos días” said Danielle. Should I even try to say a sente-
“Zǎo shàng hǎo” said Jon, alive as always.
Well, now we were all just barely able to slightly overeat, which is very un-American. Honestly, I felt a little bit communist. I mean, sharing food and eating less than the allotted amount of calories? If I had to wait in line to get the flour, then I’m pretty sure I might as well have started saying “comrade” to everyone and swigging vodka. Whatever. I’m not salty.
The pancakes were quite good. In fact, they were damn good. If you’re ever bored of breakfast, just add vanilla, cinnamon, hot apple sauce, and whipped cream to pancakes. It bring them to the next level, like steroids did for A-Rod.
After the pancakes, we all left to go see the Holocaust museum. Don’t worry, conservative mothers, I shan’t be telling any Holocaust jokes here. I do have some respect for historical crises. Anyways, all the Kiddos piled into my car like Irish immigrants onto a boat during the potato famine, and drove to the museum. Once we arrived, we found that the tickets for the day were sold out. This distressed us greatly, but luckily for me, I had a contingency plan: Jonathan Pickman.
You know how in “The Usual Suspects,” nobody would describe Keyser Soze? This situation is kind of like that, because I honestly don’t think I can give Jonathan justice. Here are a few facts about Jonathan, just to give you a semblance of what this guy’s all about:
- Jonathan’s role model for some time was Captain America.
- Jonathan has been mistake for a shorter Hugh Jackman on multiple occasions.
- Jonathan was a gymnast who broke his back, and kept doing gymnastics afterwards.
- Jonathan’s heart is made of Pyrite.
- Jonathan once killed a Taliban with a dirty look.
Honestly, I’m a little bit scared to say much more, but I think you can get the general picture. He’s a pretty interesting individual. Weirdly, even though Jonathan goes to Xavier in Cincinnati, the week Union was on spring break, members of Xavier’s PPE program were in DC, talking to rather important individuals and gaining real world experience. He had some free time, and so I decided to ditch the KIDDOS and grab coffee with Jonathan.
We decided to meet up and then figure out where to go afterwards, so we said “Let’s meet on the mall.” For those of you unAmericans who don’t know what the mall is, it is the large stretch between the Lincoln Memorial and the Capitol. I underestimated the amount of grass between the Washington monument and the Capitol, so I had to walk some time before I got close to where Jonathan was. Looking around at the hordes of people, I decided it would be best to call Jonathan and find out where he was.
“Jonathan, my good sir,” I opened, “where art thou?”
“Next to the trees” he replied, completely serious.
If we were in say, the Sahara desert, this statement might be very helpful. I’d look around, see the one tree visible, and say “thank you for the valuable information, Jonathan. I shall see you soon.” Little did Jonathan realize, there are quite a few trees on the National Mall, and this statement did not help me locate him.
“Could you clarify?” I asked, hoping my disdain showed through my voice.
“Next to the line of trees.”
“Oh, well why didn’t you say so in the first place? There are only like forty of those in sight. I might find yours this evening.”
After a barrage of insults and retorts, we eventually found each other, and headed out to find coffee. We settled on one of the local Starbucks (A fairly small corporation which serves various caffeinated beverages and breakfast foods) and caught up, not having seen each other since the previous year during Christmas break.
As much fun as conversations with good friends are, they are not typically very fascinating to read about, unless there is lots of table flipping and threats with guns. Since one of those key elements was missing from my conversation with Jonathan, the other KIDDOS will tell you about their luvverly time without me. Actually, they’ll just tell you about the morning in general. First up, we have Danielle.
The Morning, According to Danielle
Well, I’m sure I will never get to write for Clark again seeing as:
- I am a horrible writer, and
- I am a very horrible writer.
Nevertheless, I will seize this opportunity like the last of grandma’s biscuits at the dinner table, which of course is a grand feat until you notice that your father had swiped the last dash of butter quite some time ago. When Clark asked us to write about our first (and sadly, only) Monday, I was overjoyed with the excitement of a 2 year old. This I consider very significant because the only things in life I get excited over are watching cows swim, drinking sweet tea, buying cactuses and listening to the country song, “Buy Me a Boat”. Unfortunately, none of these events happened on this Monday.
I remember waking up and moseying down the Hall’s kitchen that morning to grab a cup of coffee and discuss the day’s plans. I know what things the KIDDOS will not let me do, and so I am constantly practicing my “Just let the southerner listen to some dang country music” face. This is all in vain because I know that we will inevitably do something super hipster and posh instead. As we were discussing our next steps for the day, Clark piped in with “Hey, so as much fun as y’all are, I think my stuffed piece of germ and I are going to hang out with other people this morning.” At this point you may be thinking: “Danielle, are you not sad that the kiddos will be trekking places without Clark?” As kind as that is for you to think, it is simply not true. I breathed a sigh of relief as I was in need of a much deserved break from being chased around by Clark’s stuffed animal tiger. It might have been cute if Clark was 6, but he is 20, and it’s rather concerning. After we all got dressed and drove to D.C. we kicked Clark out of the car and started on our own journey. We attempted to go to the Holocaust museum but apparently there is this thing called tickets and somehow we didn’t have any. Eventually (after a short debate and some tears) we decided to go to the Botanical gardens.
This of course made me very excited because (see above list) I love Cactusususes! [Clark’s note: I think she meant cactuses, but I’m not going to fix this.] As we were walking to the gardens, Melissa and I discussed how we could stop the world’s water crisis while Jon and Shea skipped ahead of us. We hit construction on our side of the sidewalk and were about to cross to the other side when Shea said, “Guys, we can just weave in and out of these men with yellow hats on and try not to step on the black sticky stuff.”
“Oh Yes” Jon replied, “It’s just like Mario Kart, but in real life.” Melissa and I decided to be law abiding citizens, so we crossed the street and saved a puppy in the road on the way.
Once we got to the botanical gardens, life was pretty much roses and sunshine (haha get it? because it actually was!). We romped around the different exhibits taking special care to look out for coffee plants and weed. Both for separate reasons of course – gotta be careful of that coffee stuff am I right ladies? Being around living things prompted a long conversation about living conditions and how many plants we could have in our room. I remember saying something like, “can we get a tree” and Melissa being the babe that she is said “of course babe.” We both have a healthy affinity for the living things. I’m pretty sure we each have at least a dozen plants. This will work out wonderfully for us, because we will be roommates and therefore greenhouse attendants together.
After looking at all the leaves and dirt possible, we concluded that meeting back up with Clark was the “nice” thing to do. I mustered myself for what I knew was going to happen next. I put on my armor of wittiness, and was prepared to sling any sarcasm needed to get through the rest of the day with that stuffed tiger thing of his.
The Morning, According to Jon
Bleary-eyed and with gaping yawns, the KIDDOS filed into the Envoy. It was Monday, the third full day of our time in Washington D.C., the dearest capitol. Being the local native (all references to the talented indie rock band unintentional) I volunteered to drive. I’m sure by this point, the rest of the kiddos had grown weary of my erratic driving style. Yet, much like Eastern Orthodoxy, they yielded to tradition which, again like Eastern Orthodoxy, probably has the best results.
With a smile and a prayer, I began to drive. Until this point, the narrative of the story has been penned by my Napoleon-esque friend, Clark Hubbard (Napoleon was unusually tall for his time, look it up). As I remark on several happenings of the day, I also will attempt to describe the characteristics and personalities of our jolly crew.
Having safely directed the vehicle to the inner depths of the metropolis, I parked it several steps form the Jefferson memorial, a charming spot. Suddenly, Clark informed the group that he had another friend he planned to meet during the morning. Shea, a jovial, thoughtful, and joking character remarked, “You have other friends Clark? Hehe.”
“No, just the one,” snapped Clark, demonstrating his traditional quick witted style.
“Just a joke, Clark, you know you’re the lover of my impossible soul,” thought Shea.
“Huh?” everyone else thought.
“All things go, all things go…” Shea hummed to himself.
Shea is one of my favorite people. However, the lyrics of Sufjan Steven songs often work their way into his dialogue, probably unknowingly. I honestly don’t remember if this precise conversation happened that day, but there’s a good chance that it happened at one point or another during our trip.
“Allons-y!” I reminded everyone, forgetting that my frequent french quotes simply make me look more pompous than necessary.
Off we walked.
En route to downtown, Clark swung from a tree by the Jefferson memorial, bringing shame to a great number of Virginians.
It wasn’t that embarassing.
While Clark planned on chatting with his friend, the remainder of the Kiddos had hoped to go to the Holocaust Museum, this was our second attempt. The greek goddesses of fate, however, chose not to smile upon us that day, and we were unable to enter the museum. Alas, that exploration would have to wait.
Dreaming of warmer weather, I suggested that Shea, Danielle, Melissa, and myself all go to the botanical gardens, a Smithsonian-sponsored greenhouse just down the road. They agreed. En route, the KIDDOS minus 1, discussed children, thrift stores, and communal living—basic hippy stuff. At the botanical gardens, we saw cacti and palm trees and coffee. It made for a good respite from our wanderings, but quickly wanderlust emerged, and off we went.
Now you, reader, may not be very familiar with Washington D.C., but the layout is fairly simple. Most tourists are interested in the monuments and the Smithsonian. Conveniently, they are placed beside one another. The Capitol building and the Lincoln Memorial are placed directly opposing one another with approximately a mile between them. Fairly close to the Lincoln memorial is the Washington monument. Along the sides of the patriotic quadrilateral resides much of the Smithsonian. The Botanical Gardens lay directly in front of the Capitol. Considering the placement, the 4 journeywomen (and men) started towards the capitol.
The real world equivalent of the Death Star. Because lots of people are killed in here.
I’m ashamed to admit at this point that I’ve mentioned the three boys but not the two ladies. Unfortunately, my error may be representative of the trip in its entirety. Much like the last 6,000 years of human civilization, our Spring Break trip was dominated by the guys. However, such flaws merely reflect the dormant sexism in the men and does not speak to the quality of the ladies [Clark’s note: Speak for yourself]. Melissa and Danielle are two of the greatest women you may ever meet, and truly offered life and optimism to the entire adventure. The remainder of my paragraphs will focus on our two beloved compatriots. Trotting merrily along, Melissa, the aesthetic ponderer and Danielle, the artistic creator considered the relative benefits and beauty of the classical architecture of Government buildings placed adjunctly to the blossoming trees of spring. Danielle, ever with the artistic eye, requested that Shea and I stop and model for photos. Melissa, aware of the location, ensured that the photos would not be tainted by the ill-placed rays of the sun and framed the shoot perfectly.
You might say that this scene serves as a microcosm of what the trip should have been: the creative female minds direction the men so that all might run smooth. Unfortunately, that wasn’t necessarily the case. C’est la vie! (There goes my french again).
Having contemplated the beauties of our grandiose seat of government, the kiddos, being scholastic, trekked towards the library of congress. Here, we viewed a disgusting melée of humanism and nationalistic religion as well as Clark (not a disgusting melée).
Thus ends my notes.
The Morning, According to Jon According to Melissa
Memories of the arbortoreum are hazy, just like the mist that smacks your face right as you walk into the Washington D.C. Botanical Gardens. What is an arborteoreum? We still aren’t sure, who is? [Clark’s Note: Apparently, these are actually called arboretums, but I lobby that we change the spelling to Arbortoreum, because that is way better]
Shea and I can remember little about Monday morning, but two things are clear: 1. Clark was not there and I missed the snot out of him. 2. Shea and I illegally crossed the sidewalk where there was clearly a sign that said “Do not cross. Construction.” Maybe it was due to a struggle to display our male dominance over Danielle and Melissa, perhaps we simply just wanted to turn a ten minute walk into a desperate fight against wet cement for thirty minutes only to be forced to turn around and take the same path Natalie had suggested earlier. [Clark’s Note: Natalie is a member of the KIDDOS of Destiny that joined us shortly after $pring Break, but apparently Melissa likes to take creative liberties so, whatever.]
Anyways, Melissa, Natalie and Danielle, clearly thrilled by our stunt, patiently waited across the street like three angels. We reunited with them and apologized profusely. We proceeded to the outside courts of the botanical gardens, which were mostly dead. Melissa joked, “why don’t we jump in the fountain?” to which Danielle echoed the question to which myself and Shea said “no” because I had already agreed with Shea that we were not going to have fun outside of the confines of moderation.
We went inside to find numerous species of flora–also various fauna, specifically teenage girls taking selfies with wild fruit. We walked around and pointed at all the cacti we wish we could have. It was there, Shea and I decided that life in the desert of New Mexico would be worth it if only we could have sufficient succulents and cacti to Instagram.
We now return to our regularly scheduled program: The narration by Clark Hubbard
Ah, wasn’t that nice and refreshing? Like a cool frosty glass of fruit juice or something like that. Now, let us return to the main narrative.
After many good discussions with Jonathan (Pickman, not Hall), we decided to go see the Library of Congress. Walking in, we found it to be far less crowded than we had expected. There were a couple security guards, but not much else. After a short distance, we found ourselves in a large, cubical opening, surrounded by hundreds of offices.
“I thought a library might have some books” said Jonathan, truly displaying his massive intellect.
“As did I,” I said, still trying to figure out what some of the longer words Jonathan had said meant.
We found an elevator in a hallway, so we decided to go up several stories. It’s common courtesy to use an elevator whenever one finds one, and as the reader already knows, Jonathan and I are super courteous. Once we stepped out of the elevator, we were disappointed to find even more offices. Offices as far as the eye could see. Offices for days. So many offices, that we began to suspect that we were in the wrong place. Now, most people don’t know this, but there are actually three libraries of Congress. The architects did this on purpose to confuse terrorists, but it has the slightly negative effect of confusing tourists.
“Well good chap,” said Jonathan in his best British upper-class accent. “It appears that we have been duped.”
“Indeed,” I replied, “those bloody capitalists have tarnished our mission, monocle, monocle.” Note: It is important to end at least one third of your sentences with the exclamation: “monocle, monocle” if you are using a British upper-class accent.
We both headed downstairs, exited the building, and saw the real Library of Congress right next to us. Unfortunately, Jonathan had a meeting that he needed to leave for, and we bid a tearful goodbye. What a guy.
Anyways, I soon headed back to the rest of the KIDDOS who had been doing whatever they wrote about above. We all decided to go the real Library of Congress, and I told them of the wonders of the weird library of congress.
We saw many things in the Library of Congress, but it wasn’t really a highlight of the trip. Despite my frantic begging, Jon and Shea would not come help me search for the President’s secret book, and I didn’t want to get arrested by myself. I attempted to see the Gutenberg bible, but all of the fat, selfish tourists wanted about 18 pictures and 3 selfies with it, as well as a professional documentary style interview next to it, so I just gave up, cursing the American culture which makes people take pictures of things like that. I would rant more about this, but I already did that in one of the previous entries on this trip.
After a few hours of adventure, the KIDDOS were hungry. Really hungry. Like, flight 571 hungry. The genius that he is, Jon searched for nearby restaurants on his smartphone, and found a Potbelly, about a mile from our current location.
“Can you guys wait a little bit to eat?” asked Jon, already starting to resemble a slice of Chicago style pizza to my eyes.
Our drooling silences apparently served as a “yes” for Jon, and we all followed him, wondering how much we actually needed our left arms. After about a half mile, Jon stopped.
“It appears that we have been going the wrong way,” said Jon. “There’s another Potbelly this way, and since we’re going to the monuments later, we’ll have to head this way eventually.”
I’m not sure about this, but I think in ancient times, Julius Caesar said something along these lines, and then found himself with a few knife wounds in the back. Luckily for Jon, Danielle had left her knife back at the house. We grudgingly followed Jon, and eventually found the Potbelly, hidden deep within the recesses of a large building.
When you’re really hungry, there really isn’t any point in eating a Potbelly sandwich. They’re really good, but there just isn’t enough substance there. In addition to that, I started the rumbling engine which is my digestive tract. I fed it a little bit, and then it just wanted more and more. This is very similar to when you give a teenager a little bit of freedom, and then they come back two hours later, drunk and carrying a rather diversified Roth IRA. What ever happened to youthful innocence, huh? Don’t worry though, because dinner, much like breakfast, was damn good. In fact, it was the best food of the whole trip, so if you get bored with the rest of this narrative, just look forward to dinner.
After this brief respite, the KIDDOS began our tour of the Washington Monuments. There’s no point in describing the monuments, as one really has to see them for oneself, but there were a couple situations which stick out.
First of all, the World War II memorial was incredible. We got to see the tributes to the various states, territories and provinces that participated in the fight, but we also got to see some good old American idiocy. You know what? I’m just going to write an essay on Americans and tourism. That’s what needs to happen. I’ll do that soon, so look out for that. I’ll talk about this a lot more in there. If you can’t wait, here’s a brief summary: people, especially teenage girls, are incredibly disrespectful to American monuments. Hey, maybe I’ll also talk about the monuments as temples to America in my essay. We’ll see.
The only other part of our tour of the monuments that really stuck out to me was the Vietnam memorial: a black wall inscribed with the names of all the killed or MIA soldiers from America’s stupid, stupid conflict in Vietnam. The memorial itself is really gorgeous, but I wouldn’t have thought anything of it, had I not leaned down and read a letter to a fallen soldier from a kid. I don’t remember what the letter said, and honestly, it wasn’t well written. This kid was probably seven, and had horrendous handwriting. Judging just from that letter, I’d tell that kid to avoid journalism and calligraphy when he starts to look for jobs. The message itself was cliché; something like “Thank you for protecting me and mommy and daddy.” I read this message, and immediately had some sort of weird allergic reaction, because my eyes starting watering a little bit. I don’t know what it was, but some pollen storm must have been passing through town. It certainly wasn’t the message that made me tear up, because none of those dead soldiers saved that kid’s life. They might have killed some guerrilla villagers, or saved some South Vietnamese farmers, but unless the butterfly effect had very strange and far reaching effects, that soldier didn’t do anything for you. Maybe, the pollen storm came in because each and every one of these more than 58,000 men fought for their country, and died for nearly nothing. They never even knew that they were accomplishing nothing, but they died because their country called them, and they didn’t run from their duty. It’s powerful.
And now, something funny to distract from the reality of life.
Yes, we went through the rest of the memorials, but nothing terribly significant happened. By the time we had nearly finished, we were all quite hungry again, and we just skipped Jefferson. He wasn’t that great anyways. We got into the car, and saw that it was already late: about nine o’clock. With that in mind, we decided to make dinner from scratch. What dinner, you ask? Pad freaking Thai. That’s what.
One of the cooler things about DC is the diversity. So many cultures are represented in one way or another, and this offers many unique opportunities, from eating other foods, to interacting in different cultures, or participating in some good old espionage for the US of A. Sadly, the KIDDOS were only able to participate the first two of these three activities (officially). To shop for Pad Thai, we went to an asian supermarket just outside of Gaithersburg. We bought seven or eight kinds of soda that we had never tried before, as well as a bottle of aloe vera drink. Also, should you ever need a gallon of soy sauce, go to an asian supermarket. They have what look like gasoline cans of soy sauce. If you ever need to drown a cat, but make it look like you were cooking it, these cans might prove useful.
As we shuffled to the car, laden with our groceries, Melissa and I tried some ginger candies that we bought. I had actually tried to find these things called “corn tubes” that my roommate Joel likes, but I couldn’t find them anywhere. This might have to do with the fact that they’re WEIRD AND DISGUSTING, but hey, I don’t judge.
Hold on a second. I need a paragraph to vent about corn tubes. Alright, so first, they are packaged so strangely. On the wrapper, there’s this weird anthropomorphized ear of corn, who looks straight out of an anime, and he’s just dancing. Why are you dancing, weird asian corn? There is nothing about this product that should make people want to dance. Alright, so the wrapper is tied to both ends with these metallic clips that are almost impossible to get off. You have to actually cut past them to open the corn tube, which should tell you something. Even the people who make corn tubes don’t want you to eat these things. They tried to keep you out, putting little locks on the ends of these weird logs of protein, but people just bypass these with a pair of scissors. And now, I’ll get into the “meat” of the problem. That last sentence has two jokes for the price of one, because not only did I make an idiomatic joke about a meat product, but I also put “meat” in quotes, because God knows what that is, but it isn’t meat. Or corn. The minute you unwrap a corn tube, you have to regret what you’ve done. This weird, slimy, tube that vaguely smells of corn is staring into your soul, asking you why in God’s name you’ve had to stoop to this level to get nutrition. It kind of looks like a miniature, speckled sausage or something, but once you bit into it, you know that it is not a sausage. I made the mistake of trying one, and almost vomited. It’s like corn mom and corn dad were in Chernobyl, and then had corn baby, and corn baby had a bunch of problems, due to the radiation, and then threw up, and some factory in China said: “Let’s take that weird mutant corn baby vomit and make it look like a little sausage.” That is the perfect motto for corn tubes. For all I know, that’s what all the mandarin on the packaging stands for. Ask Joel about corn tubes sometime, because he likes them. What a freak.
Now that my system has been purged of hatred for corn tubes, I can resume narration. We got back to the Hall house around 10 or so, and immediately began to soak the rice noodles. The recipe calls for an hour of soaking, but we were not about to do that if we could help it. In the meantime, Jon prepared a spicy peanut sauce while I sautéed all the other ingredients, including the shrimp, which were our protein for the evening. Weirdly enough, once we cooked the rice noodles in the sauce, they smelled horrendous. Like vinegar’s evil stepmother or something. Once we mixed everything together, however, it smelled pretty great. We placed the food on the table at about 11, all five of us ravenously hungry for the third time that day.
Sometimes, you eat food, and it’s alright. You think to yourself, “this food, it’s alright” and then you keep eating, thankful that you have food. Other times, you eat food, and it’s awful. You eat it and say “Oh my god. Is this where you hid Uncle Rory?” then you throw up, call the cops, and spend the rest of your childhood in various foster homes. Other times, you eat food, and it’s incredible. You eat it and say “Wow, this food is great. If this food was personified, I might marry it and die happily.” Most people think these are the only categories of food, but they’re wrong. There is a fourth category of deliciousness, but it can only be achieved in moments of great hunger, after a great day, surrounded by great people. This is the damn good category. You eat this food, and say nothing, because you can’t talk through the tears that are streaming down your face. This Pad Thai was damn good, and I actually got a little bit emotional when I ate it. It was incredible. Like eating the Mona Lisa or Song for Athene by Tavener.
Look at this beauty. It pierces the soul and points it skywards.
Midway through our meal, without any sign to each other Jon, Shea, and I all stood up at the same time, with one objective in mind: to cook the remainder of the food. We had originally partitioned the food in half, thinking we would eat half of it Monday night, and half of it another night. We decided against this, and ate the rest of the Pad Thai. Danielle and Melissa left after a bowl and a half, but I’m pretty sure Jon Shea and I had ten or so bowls between the three of us. I miss that pad thai like a best friend. A best friend that I had to eat, sure, but still a best friend.
After dinner, it was 1230. We had originally planned on eating the ice cream that we had purchased for desert, but decided to save that for breakfast, because we are adults and can do whatever we want. In case you’re wondering, Leonidas was still with us, he just didn’t do a whole lot that day. I guess he was just shy. Anyways, we all went to bed, ready to wake up for our last day in Washington DC. We all slept well, except for Leonidas. Why? You’ll see.