Everything is big in America except a few things.
Journalists having pizza in a Washington D.C. pub.
I wanted to have a burger in the McDonald’s. And I did that in Washington D.C. That was fun really. But I realized that the same wasn’t a fashionable thing in the US, at least not among those whom I met in my trip. “Burger at McDonald’s?” everyone would frown at me. “Boy, I never go there and you never go there again.” Poor in America are overweight than richer ones. That’s another irony in the country. Obesity is a huge problem, I had known but seeing very very fat people walking around was quite an experience. You see all kinds of people. As Lara would tell me in New York at the end of my visit, “you shouldn’t be surprised if you hear people talking in 10 different languages here in New York’s train compartment.”
Back to D.C. We were all new to the city and knew very little about the places to dine. We went up to George Town area of the city to have something for dinner. Rhino Bar and Pump house on 3295 M Street, North West turned out to be our destination for the evening. Apart from South Asians, folks from Arabic speaking group were also in the team. We decided to have pizza. (Again there was a surprise. The medium sized pizza turned out to be bigger than the big pizza that we have in Kathmandu. Well, not only in Kathmandu but in all other cities represented in the group. We started sharing the pizzas as we knew it wasn’t possible to finish alone. I will be writing more about this at the end of this article.)
As they waited for pizzas to come, folks started cracking jokes and talking with each other. A black young couple (teen) was seated on the table on the right of my side. I was occasionally throwing glances at them but wasn’t sure what exactly to do.
I was restless. Don’t know why but I was wandering and there not sitting on the table waiting for pizzas to come. I went outside, just to get a glimpse of the evening Georgetown.
A boy was standing at the gate of the pub checking the identity cards of people who wished to enter inside. He was young and didn’t seem like doing the job for long. I decided to talk with the gatekeeper. This was part of my mission to interact with as many people, general Americans, as possible in those three weeks. I wasn’t there to listen to tireless lectures from so called experts on immigration policy, democracy and journalism. I was there to learn how an American on the street thinks and feels. Continue reading