Baila, baila

The Silver Spring Thanksgiving Parade has an agreeably funky local feeling. I don't always go, because it's on a Saturday morning and I belong to the Church of the Sacred Lie-In, but when I have crawled out of bed in time I've enjoyed myself. You get the might-as-well-be anonymous councilmembers perched on the back of convertibles, marching bands from the various area schools and the Washington football team, assorted scout troops, and, eventually, Santa. It's cute but a little staid, or at least it used to be.

Because now, the Bolivian dance troupes have discovered the parade, and these days it's like Philly's Mummers Parade by way of the Andes, which is to say sparkly, jingly, and sometimes deeply strange. It can also occasion profound audience sympathy. Flying Lily mentioned the other day that her students were wearing shorts on a 13-degree day; is that better or worse than having to shimmy down the street in a miniskirt when it's 20 degrees with the windchill? Discuss.

After the parade, most of the girls wrapped heavy blankets around their waists. You wouldn't have known it to watch them dance, but they were definitely feeling the cold.

ETA: I eventually retreated into Nicaro, home of the dreaded Negroni debacle, for brunch second breakfast and general thawing out; the restaurant's huge window onto Georgia meant that I could enjoy the parade while restoring feeling to my fingers and toes, not to mention while narfing down an omelet full of asparagus and brie and, oh God, the free brunch offer of hot beignets with creme fraiche. AND they offer dessert after brunch. How can a poor girl stand such times and live?