America's Birthday and You're Invited

As a kid, I spent Independence Day watching the Larkspur parade and fireworks at the Marin County Fair. All those years I lived in England, the day was marked solely by an email from my mom describing my Dad's band concert and barbecues. It sounded like fun, though to be honest, Halloween and Thanksgiving were the holidays I really missed. Last Saturday was my first 4th of July in the States since 2001 and I celebrated with a walk in the woods.

Jayne, our ferociously athletic 60-year-old Meetup.com leader, was slightly daunted when twenty-two of us showed up for the hike. Once, one of her wards got lost on this very trail and she had to call the police. And that was with a much smaller group. "Stay with someone who has a map," Jayne said. Our route took us along ten miles of trails in Virginia's Shenandoah National Park, about an hour and a half drive from my home in Washington, D.C.

Trekking in Nepal last November strengthened my leg muscles. A less desirable side effect is after the Himalayas, most scenery gets demoted from beautiful to...pleasant. Folks say Shenandoah is at its best during the fall, but this time of year I saw nothing but green, deciduous forest. Piney Branch River slices across the trail and several times we gingerly picked our way over rocks, only to cross back minutes later. The river was one of the most visually interesting features and it wasn't even especially attractive. I quickly decided I was there for the exercise and conversation.

While climbing the steepest stretch of "Little Devil's Stairs," I chatted with a southern lady about horses. The path leveled off but there was no view. However, I got a thrill seeing my first sign for the legendary 2,175 mile Appalachian Trail. I felt an instant connection with Carrie who wants to hike to the bottom of the Grand Canyon and we chatted for most of the day.

Another hiker, Ross from Guildford, works in D.C.'s British embassy. Not meeting many Britons out here, I wanted him to know my connection to his island nation which was my adopted home. I told him I lived in London for seven years and miss the slang.
"Bollocks," he said in nonsensical agreement.
"It's the dog's bollocks," I said, equally out of context. I miss these words.
"I've been picking up new slang though," Ross said. "I watch 'The Wire' and I'm learning Baltimore drug-runner slang."

Jayne told us to keep an eye out for the old cemetery, though she might have been a bit disturbed by several of us hunkering down between the gravestones to eat, a la Day of the Dead. We shared our food, trading trail mix for breaded chicken. A man in a baseball hat offered watermelon with lime juice.
"We shouldn't tell the others we stopped for lunch," Ross said.
"Yeah," Carrie said. "They're probably waiting for us in the parking lot."
"We shouldn't tell them for two reasons," I said, looking around the tombstones.
We spotted one of our group hovering outside the gate.
"Hey, want some food?" Yelled the woman who made the chicken. The man shook his head, though I'm not sure if he objected to the cemetery itself or our location for an impromptu picnic.

"Bollocks?" Carrie asked in the car back. The hike was a success and no one got lost. "Am I even saying that right?"
"You're saying it fine." I said.
"What does it actually mean?"
"Balls," I said. "But 'the dog's bollocks' is a good thing. I guess because not many dogs still have their balls."
"Kind of like the bees' knees."

That night, I relaxed on the grass with a college friend, Capitol Building at our backs, phallic Monument ahead. The National Mall was laden with families, many wearing American flag t-shirts. Not my style, but I guess this is the day.

Fireworks exploded. The crowds voiced appreciation with predictable oohs and ahhs. I silently enjoyed the show. A lone firefly blinked a tiny display of its own. The novelty of fireworks in July. Not Guy Fawkes Night, not New Year's Eve. It was a warm evening and afterwards I walked home, legs aching.

- Washington, D.C.