Correct me if I'm wrong, but I got the idea that this great Nation is currently obsessed with Health reform and the question of obesity - each high on the political agenda this season. Curious then that the Capital should be chock a block with slightly less than sylph like middle Americans seeing the sights by means of the ubiquitous Segway. Wherever you looked there seemed to be a sea of snaking segs propelling their 'person' from monument to museum and back again. Paul Blart's 'Mall Cop' aside - I had never espied this odd contraption in the flesh.
Weirdly, having spent the last few years in New York with its fitness frenzied Alpha types buzzing from work out to work, and dodging the slew of International tourists bumbling along the sidewalks - I had not been blessed by the sight of the great American tourist in its natural habitat. Rest assured, they are out there, and seemingly mostly in DC.
When confronted by the species en mass and after 2 days traipsing behind 'him indoors' on his trek round the tourist spots, I began to see the appeal of hopping on to one of those beauties.
The problem was, it didn't stop there - I caught myself taking an envious glance at the comfy sensible Merrel's on my neighbor in the ticket lines. Those bleached 80's relaxed fit jeans that tapered just so, (that surely every American worth his salt over 30 must possess somewhere in his closet), began to look like a travel must. Even the families proudly sporting matching sweatshirts with 'Washington DC' emblazoned upon them started to look chic.
It wasn't until we hit the National Museum of American History, where we came across Dorothy's Ruby Slippers, that it suddenly struck me - doing the tourist route in this country is akin to being sucked into Oz - I was merely morphing into a modernist munchkin, sadly without the benefit of a professional Hollywood wardrobe department to ensure sartorial elegance is maintained.
For a Fashion Stylist its a slippery slope from checking out a persons threads to assuming a whole lot about their persona. Taking a quick scan of the archetypal tourists I was amongst - I spotted the hillbilly 'scarecrow' sporting dungarees and a plaid shirt and the amiable cuddly middle aged 'lion' in his sports bomber jacket trooping doggedly after his wide girthed wife. With the sighting of the plethora of smart arty looking 'tin men' working their metro sexual drainpipe pants look my list was complete.
Making a swift mental note to enlist a friend to slap me should I not snap out of this stupor on my return to the Big Apple, I clicked my Chloe clad heels together and whispered
"There's no place like home, there's no place like home"!
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