I think I’m a D.C.ophile.
For one, I always talk about how great D.C. restaurants are, express wonder over the funky home furnishing in people’s windows, and I smile idiotically at mothers pushing their hip-hop 2-year olds in strollers. I think I really annoy my friends from N.Y and California, who just shake their heads at me with a smile that says “poor girl, she doesn’t know what she’s missing”.
But really. I sometimes walk home from work, a 1.5-hour stroll, from the heart of the business district, to my ghetto neighborhood I call home.
I walk from the Capitol, through Gallery Place Chinatown, trying not to bump into the hoards of Capitol fans (hockey) in their identical red sweats and baseball caps.
I then snake around through Mt Vernon Square/Convention center, with all its chichi new modern condos.
I follow through in Shaw/Howard University and wave to the babies in their strollers, and the old men chewing sunflower seeds on their stoop. I slow to a crawl to look over a prim lady’s yard with wind catchers and plastic flowers.
And I stop at the yellow house with pale ivy across from the community center.