The City Sometimes Surprises

The city has a life and rhythm of its own nature. It churns, revs, bucks, and grinds at irregular intervals. You try to get a hang of the flow and just roll...

And sometimes, first thing in the morning, the city surprises me .

Going to work a little while back, I parked on K Street. Up bright and early were a quartet of dudes, dudes the news stereotypes into obsessively plotting criminals, dudes who are white women’s personal signal to cross the street, and the cabbies’ green light to speed on to the next waiting fare. They were in lawn chairs outside of their apartment building, and traditional work did not seem to be on the day’s agenda.

Well, “good morning” I said in my head, and began to unload boxes, bags, a dolly, and a bunch of poster boards bound for my tiny office cube. It was bright outside so I pulled a straw hat onto my head, assured myself that I looked ridiculous, and began to push the dolly. A few steps into it, I felt my jacket brush my feet. Dropping anything during the course of this movement would simply be an inconvenience. As I turned to balance everything and execute the maneuver, I looked up to see one member of the quartet walking toward it and handing it to me. I was relieved that he didn’t use his polite gesture as a way to kick game. You know what guys say these days, “My game is no game.” Uh-huh.

That afternoon, I walked to my car in the same hot sun. thought of going to the movies later. Getting closer, I saw children home from school, adults home from work, and a ganja-tinged happy-hour in full swing. I felt nervous and a bit like an outsider. The morning quartet had repositioned beneath trees in the early evening shade. I wondered again, if, when I walked past them they would give me hassle of some sort. You know how folks get with Mary Jane, and DC men love to holla at a girl. I took a deep breath, held my chin up, and looked pleasant.

“How did the presentation go today?”

Not “’Ey!” or a mumbled “Light-skin…”, but asking ‘bout my day, remembered all the riff-raff I was lugging around this morning and deduced a presentation. How ‘bout that. What took me back wasn’t their putting it all together. It's not rocket science. But they took a minute to speak about it. I smiled.

“It went well.”

“And where’s your hat?” The sun was blazing right along with them. “In the office. I forgot it.”

Folks from the Midwest and the real South complain that Washingtonians are cold, and care little about the breathing being next to them on the corner. Not at this moment. Men who the public love to vilify reminded me that for a second, somebody cared..

The city moves to its own rhythm, revving, churning, bucking…

Where the Arts Come Out to Play

Lots of couples. That's what I notice first when walking into Wolf Trap. John Legend is obviously a good date. I feel momentarily disoriented, having been part of a pair for the better part of four years. I am here now with co-workers who lug blankets and Whole Foods grocery bags. We find a bit spot off to the right with a great view of the Sequioua-tall supporting columns. M. and I instead perch on the stone ledge, careful not to block the lawn's view least we get hit with verbal barrage. We'd seen others fall victim. M. sings along, enraptured, and knows every word.

The lawn area is grooving, loving John Legend. He sings, swoons, swaggers. "I'm so happy tohave my album out. I've been on others..." grand piano chord, "What the hell are you waiting for?" "I'm calling...out to...all my..." Lord, that song... We swoon, too. The sun tires and sets, leaving us with John, his voice, the band. "Live it up..."

He finishes. We demand an encore as he instructed. He obliges. Intermission. C., who bought house tickets, reports the upper deck is stuffy. Not much energy she says, and she and J. move to the lawn where we are. Wine, cheese, turkey wraps, olives, ginger beer. Spread out blankets. Joss Stone, giggly, funky, Janis Joplin, almost unintelligible, skirts around the stage. Girls in front of us stab their fingers in the air and sway their shoulders. Clearly they've been waiting. The guys beneath the foot bridge sing like winos in a Sophoclean tragedy. Ballads are soothing and I pull out a blanket, lay on my back. And sleep.

Politics Is Everywhere

I never realized how political a city DC is until recently. Sounds odd, right? Outsiders ONLY see DC as the nation's capital, where the President lives, where Congress decides to go to war, and from where Wolf Blitzer reports when he's not in Afghanistan.

No, DC was just where all my family lives, where I went to school, took violin lessons, hung out with my friends, and generally grew up a happy, curious kid. That Congress was busy controlling our lives ten minutes from my house, or that not much farther away the President of the free world was plugging away at health care or an intern didn't often cross my mind.

But recently, a short walk through Union Station after lunch at B. Smiths--and I recommend the Butternut Soup--reminded me of how politics is everywhere in DC.

We were just passing A Gate, when the doors to the MARC train terminal opened to the hoarse-voiced shout: "Impeach George Bush!" "Impeach George Bush!" The Crazy Train arrived. Dressed in all black and walking briskly despite the weight of a backpack and a cane, this impassioned man continued to yell at intervals timed to the voices in his head. He seemed frustrated that no one dropped their slices of Sbarros pizza, or shredded their Amtrak tickets to join him immediately, which made him yell even louder and closer to our faces.

I truly appreciate civic participation, and tourists getting a dose of what the city is really like, but when the authentic scares a poor kid in from Oklahoma from eating his Ben and Jerry's...maybe we can scale back a bit.

An Early Morning Wait

What was surprising when I turned the leafy corner at the Carter Barron was how many folks were already lined up. It was 10:30 am, Sunday morning. I was number 61. At 12:00, the box office would open to hand out coveted tickets to the final free performance of "A Midsummer Night's Dream." Shakespeare isn't my favorite read, but this is the summer of discovery. Thus, I pulled on a straw hat, opened the Post, and began to wait.

Not too surprising the crowd. Lots of ol' fartsy Cleveland Park types. Dupont Circle was clearly represented, and I overheard talk about Cheverly and Takoma Park. Within seconds, the conversation turned to real estate and I cringed. While I'm thrilled for the city's renaissance, I'm bitter I'm priced out of the market. Is Washington for natives anymore? A future post...

The line itself reflected the market: every two or three minutes, the line became longer, distance between the end and the box office greater, and the crowd antsier. Glad I wasn't working on CP time, as I turned and saw folks disappearing around the bend and into the brush. But not with the same intentions as #60, who tried to creep into the woods nonchalantly. When he walked past a parked car, I noticed the empty bottle with his things and made the connection.

That was the big excitement of the wait, and finally, noon showed up, jumped to the front of the line, and we got going. We folded up our chairs, scooped up books, papers, and bagels. And trudged to the counter. Friendly faces shuffled us to the windows, reminded us of no glass bottled, and invited us to return a few hours later, for "A Midsummer's Night Dream." Was it worth it?

Just above the canal at dusk.  

"A rarity"

and we weren't referring to gemstones. Often I hear this response when I share with new acquaintances that I'm a native Washingtonian: "Oh really? That's rare!" Other friends from the area are probably nodding and thinking of similar conversations where they were momentarily an oddity escaped from the Museum of American History: see the "native Washingtonian."

But there is truth their response. In a different age, the lines of demarcation were pretty clear. We shared 1600 Penn., Capitol Hill, and part of NW with non-Washingtonians. Everywhere else... DC folk. Now? Seems like no one is from DC anymore.

Sam Cooke's prophetic change has come and the city I love is radically different. New neighborhoods and neighbors, restaurants and shops, museums and theatres. What is this place?

I'm no more an expert on the city than my being raised here allows, so I don't claim to have all the answers. Just questions and a curious eye. Stay posted for what I see.