…was incredibly nice. The night of Irene I got off work around 7 because the place was empty (much to the surprise of the owners/managers at my old restaurant, nobody wanted to brave a hurricane to go to a club), so I went to my friends’ nearby house to weather the storm. Many people asked me how the storm was: the worst thing that happened was my umbrella was inverted a few times, but I did get pretty adept at reversing it back to its normal state with the wind-power. This will be useful for the next hurricane that strikes DC.
Anyway, the next day was beautiful. 75, good breeze. The hurricane-party-participants from the night before collected themselves and we ate Chipotle and smoothies on the way to Chinatown. There, we bought a kite for something like $10.
We then went to The Mall (I’m not from DC. Are you supposed to capitalize the mall?) to fly our kite. It broke on the first attempt, but in such a way that we didn’t realize it — thus, we spent a good 45 minutes trying to get it to fly with a broken wing. Eventually we thought to examine the kite, discovered the problem, and found that breaking the other wing-pole in half would let it at least fly for more than 3 seconds without veering off into the ground. However, by the time we had this epiphany we were all tired of kite-flying — particularly after watching the seven year old next to us have much, much more success. This should be marked as one of the few times in life when the glee of a child is allowed to make you unhappy.
In short, be wary of Chinatown kites if you’d like to do more with it than hang it on your wall.
I spent the rest of the day getting my bag searched by various security people at museums and trying to explain that the weird thing sticking out of it was just a kite, not an art-destroying implement.