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FALLING IN LOVE WITH THE CAPITOL CITY

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Woe to the European transplant in Washington, DC, who drives passively, eats moderately and doesn't go to church, writes Rebecca Nicolson.  But with a little patience (and help from Dr Seuss), she discovers that embracing the city simply required a new lexicon ...

From INTELLIGENT LIFE magazine, Winter 2007

My daughter has been reading Dr Seuss's "On Beyond Zebra", which is about the letters that exist outside the boring old 26 we all know. "The old alphabet isn't enough," he writes. And after 18 months in the American capital, I've found navigating life here requires more than the "a" to "z" that I used back home in London. The place names are deceptively familiar and the critique is well-worn--it will not surprise anyone to hear that Americans drive on the right and serve food in big portions. Less well known are the subtle pleasures to discover beyond the "zee".

My first few weeks saw travel narrow my mind as the "inner burbs" of Washington, DC, closed around me. The capital of the most powerful nation in the world could not have been more depressing if it had been Reading. I had arrived in the United States with two young children and a suitcase full of off-the-peg European prejudice about the country--too big for its boots--and the people--too big for their XXL shirts. At first these prejudices seemed to fit.

This is the land which grows the corn which makes the syrup which soaks the food which fattens their bottoms. "You still working on that?" asks the waitress, who says she is here to help. I tell her that eating is not a job. She doesn't understand.

This is the town where men dress in shorts with belts. And socks.

This is the strangely square capital city where George Bush lives and I cannot walk my daughter to school because the pavement inexplicably runs out half-way there.

So we drive (yes, on the right) and, I ask myself every morning, why do American cars have indicators? They are never used. No one changes lane without an angry palm being pressed on the horn of the car behind.

Here, a Stop sign means Stop. For a minimum of three seconds. Otherwise you can be pulled over by a scary-armed policeman and get a $50 ticket. Rules are observed, strictly, and it often feels pointlessly, in the land of the free.

You can only park if the car is pointed in a certain direction. Mecca? Minneapolis? I get put on a tow truck, even though I'm still sitting inside. The driver is passive, then aggressive. An old lady in her relatively small car glides, expressionless, into my stationary jeep and then starts screaming at me.

And then there is the contented goodytwoshoesness of this Southern town; prudes who can't bear to see nudity even when the body in question belongs to a one year-old baby. Why can't I say "fuck" or buy a bottle of wine on Sunday? "What church do I go to?" None! Children are told to refer to me as Mrs Rebecca. It feels like the 1950s, even down to the black people who are, in effect, still segregated by education and economics, if no longer by law.

But what is it that Dr Seuss says? "So, on beyond Z! It's high time you were shown/That you really don't know all there is to be known." I decided I must really try harder to get past the small print of everyday life. And, no matter how thick my haze of irritation, it lifts in a few minutes' drive through Rock Creek Park, a strange, 1,700-acre sub-tropical forest, which runs mile after mile through the middle of the city.

A bit further and the kids are kayaking through the rapids of the Potomac, marathon runners are training along the canal. Driving on, I hit Virginia's hunting country which looks like England is supposed to, but never does. Then civil-war battlefields, Manassas, Fredericksburg, Shenandoah Valley, Blue Ridge Mountains and eventually the sinister Appalachians, setting for many a spooky movie.

Within an hour of central DC, you can drive to Middleburg. The town, established in 1787, is an American version of Moreton-in-Marsh. There are a couple of inns, green-welly shops and pot pourri outlets. Twee maybe, but the surrounding countryside, which stretches and rolls right up into the Blue Ridge Mountains, is gorgeous.

The civil war shed much of its blood near here. Manassas National Battlefield Park is an easy 40-minute drive from the city centre. The national park has preserved the ground where at least 3,000 lives were lost. For a "don't know what to do with the kids" day, drive into Maryland and visit Wheaton Regional Park, 500 acres with train rides, ice-skating, a carousel and horse-back riding.

Past "zee" and, back in DC, I find things that before I did not see. Pristine playgrounds, civilised empty roads, large detached clapperboard houses, a distinctly un-European cleanliness, museums built on a scale designed to rival Stalin: the National Gallery of Art, for instance, is a rich maze and merits at least a year of weekly visits. There is, if you look more closely, anything you want. Almost. Organic farmers' markets; cheap--slightly frumpy--clothes, and a vast, if as yet unexplored, range of dermatological treatments.

The weather here has the power to amaze. A soft spring matures into the big American summer heat, with its mosquitoes, thunderstorms and family rows around the lido. Then "fall" with chocolate, copper, Raspberry Ripple leaves (so that's what the fuss is about), and trick-or-treat and rain so heavy it knocks down trees. A foot of snow is dumped on us overnight, then ice storms turn Washington into a toboggan track for my reckless daughter when school is cancelled because it's a "snow day"--or three. Here children still have a childhood.

Beyond "zee". There is a gentleness, a generosity and optimism to suburban America that shames the shrill, sneering voice in me. The time and space of this continent opens up the soul, even a jaundiced one such as mine, still infected by our own crowded island. Our lovely neighbours let the kids help in the garden, answering a thousand questions with patience. The Americans, at least those inhabiting their capital, don't judge or look for fault, so why should we? Beyond "zee", beyond "DC", there's a whole New World out there.

(Rebecca Nicolson is co-publisher of Short Books.)