On Saturday, John, Nicole, Rudi, and I took part in the annual Seersucker Social.
We met at Fort Reno — along with several hundred other cyclists — in our best bibs and tuckers.
We biked a modest four miles across Rock Creek Park to the Hillwood Estate.
We ate, drank, and attempted to dance the Charleston to the sounds of a live band. Some of us were better at this than others.
We laid on the grass and talked. We walked through the gardens. I got tossed out of the mansion.*
The croquet course and badminton courts were full, but there was no line to play with the hula hoops.
We danced a bit more and then pedaled back down to town, having passed a perfectly lovely afternoon.
(The rest of the shots I’ve posted are here.)
*Rich old ladies do not like you to walk around their homes without shoes on, even when they’ve been been dead nearly 40 years.
It should be noted that I was shoeless because my shoe broke, not because I was being willfully anti-establishment. It also should be noted that while I was not thrown out of the Met for touching a sarcophagus (I know, I know. I was a teenager who did not, at the time, realize what a stupid thing that was to do.), I was for a rather trifling violation here.
I’d also like to mention that I knew they were going to toss me out and that I skittered off to see what I could before they caught me. Turns out, when you have to come back to the main hall to move from one room to the next, that that’s only two rooms — neither of which contain the famed Fabergé eggs.