Goodbye, D.C.
This Friday marks my official countdown to “Farewell D.C., Hello California.” I technically have two weeks remaining, but with only one weekend left it really feels close to the end. I don’t know, right when I feel like I can actually stand living here, I have to pack up my things and fly home.
It took me a while to get to this state of mind. My initial opinion of D.C. still stands, that the town is full of narcissistic pompous trust fund babies who, like my good friend Amy said, all act like they’re going to be the next president of the United States. There’s this feeling of entitlement and general douchebaginess I just can’t describe, but when you come here, you’ll know. I suppose that I came at the wrong time, since during the summer power-hungry college kids flock from all over the country to the capitol with their Abercrombie gear and popped collars. The weather is disgusting, so humid that you can’t breathe and you feel the sweat begin to accumulate down your back within 5 minutes of stepping outside the house or office. And please don’t get me started on how much I miss authentic Asian food.
Washington D.C. is to me the perfect run. I absolutely detest running, the whole huffing and puffing for three blocks before I start getting bored or tired. But sometimes, sometimes there’s that one night when the weather is actually clear and the air is brisk, and the light from the fading sun still lingers, and you feel that urge to just go, run, run! And soon you’re jogging by the Potomac, watching the river lap away at the banks, the trees on the other side dark and silent, the soft yellow lights of Rossyln in the background. Airplanes keep you company as they follow the river down to the airport, and in the distance you can see the Lincoln Monument, white and glowing. Round the corner the Washington Monument exudes the same luminescent aura, and you’re thinking “Shouldn’t I have collapsed by now?” But for some reason, your iPod’s shuffle function is pumping out all the right songs at the right moment, and you can’t not run, not continue down the stretch along the Reflecting Pool to the tumbling golden fountains of the World War II Memorial. Even when you stop to sit on the steps by the water to catch your breath (or is it really, just to pause to sort out your thoughts), you’re still stuck in the same spell that carried you from the Watergate Hotel to a few steps from the Washington monument.
That’s my D.C. When the conditions are perfect, when you have a long afternoon to stroll the National Art Gallery, or when the evening breeze is cool enough so the roommates and you can dine outside on the wine bar’s patio, when everyone’s in the right mood to bring out the Shiraz and share stories of grimy ex-boyfriends, when the Metro trains arrive just when you want it to, and when friends and strangers, encouraged by a silly drinking game, spill dirty secrets-that’s when D.C has a chance of keeping me here.
When people ask me if I miss home, I often tell them I miss San Francisco. Coming from southern California, where the notion that LA is a city is a laughable as the ditzy celebu-wannabes that live there, San Francisco was the first city that I got to know. Even then, I know I only scratched the surface, that the soul of the city can only be discovered if you live there and walk the streets every day. When I think about it, I probably spent more hours in D.C. than in San Francisco. And there’s something about that place that I can’t pin down. It doesn’t boast as many tourist attractions as Washington D.C. does, or have as many cultural institutions like New York. But there’s something about that city, intangible like the fog that blankets the city each morning, that is so pervasive and enchanting.
And maybe I’m in love with San Francisco because I’ve only known love there. From romantic evenings of ballet and jazz, to dinner with friends or shopping with the best. To staring at the city skyline from Treasure Island, Coit Tower, and the Berkeley hills. Driving across the Golden Gate bridge with the sun warming my arms. Watching neon fireworks explode against the black skies. I was loved.
I guess that’s the fundamental element missing from D.C. I enjoy traveling, and I love to explore great, old cities. Put me in city where I can roam the sidewalks or cobblestoned streets, where I can brush my fingers against walls of thousands years past, where I can taste new foods and breathe in new scents. But how long will that sustain me before beautifully designed buildings seem empty and what once was exciting turns bland? I need a soul, a heart to keep me going, and the only place to find that is in people, my people.
So goodbye D.C. I hated you, I loved you, I hardly knew ya.
I’m going back to the heights, where a pathetic mall and strips of Chinese food restaurants await me. Where a few friends remain, and where my grandma patiently sits at home and counts down the days till I return.
I’m going home.
It took me a while to get to this state of mind. My initial opinion of D.C. still stands, that the town is full of narcissistic pompous trust fund babies who, like my good friend Amy said, all act like they’re going to be the next president of the United States. There’s this feeling of entitlement and general douchebaginess I just can’t describe, but when you come here, you’ll know. I suppose that I came at the wrong time, since during the summer power-hungry college kids flock from all over the country to the capitol with their Abercrombie gear and popped collars. The weather is disgusting, so humid that you can’t breathe and you feel the sweat begin to accumulate down your back within 5 minutes of stepping outside the house or office. And please don’t get me started on how much I miss authentic Asian food.
Washington D.C. is to me the perfect run. I absolutely detest running, the whole huffing and puffing for three blocks before I start getting bored or tired. But sometimes, sometimes there’s that one night when the weather is actually clear and the air is brisk, and the light from the fading sun still lingers, and you feel that urge to just go, run, run! And soon you’re jogging by the Potomac, watching the river lap away at the banks, the trees on the other side dark and silent, the soft yellow lights of Rossyln in the background. Airplanes keep you company as they follow the river down to the airport, and in the distance you can see the Lincoln Monument, white and glowing. Round the corner the Washington Monument exudes the same luminescent aura, and you’re thinking “Shouldn’t I have collapsed by now?” But for some reason, your iPod’s shuffle function is pumping out all the right songs at the right moment, and you can’t not run, not continue down the stretch along the Reflecting Pool to the tumbling golden fountains of the World War II Memorial. Even when you stop to sit on the steps by the water to catch your breath (or is it really, just to pause to sort out your thoughts), you’re still stuck in the same spell that carried you from the Watergate Hotel to a few steps from the Washington monument.
That’s my D.C. When the conditions are perfect, when you have a long afternoon to stroll the National Art Gallery, or when the evening breeze is cool enough so the roommates and you can dine outside on the wine bar’s patio, when everyone’s in the right mood to bring out the Shiraz and share stories of grimy ex-boyfriends, when the Metro trains arrive just when you want it to, and when friends and strangers, encouraged by a silly drinking game, spill dirty secrets-that’s when D.C has a chance of keeping me here.
When people ask me if I miss home, I often tell them I miss San Francisco. Coming from southern California, where the notion that LA is a city is a laughable as the ditzy celebu-wannabes that live there, San Francisco was the first city that I got to know. Even then, I know I only scratched the surface, that the soul of the city can only be discovered if you live there and walk the streets every day. When I think about it, I probably spent more hours in D.C. than in San Francisco. And there’s something about that place that I can’t pin down. It doesn’t boast as many tourist attractions as Washington D.C. does, or have as many cultural institutions like New York. But there’s something about that city, intangible like the fog that blankets the city each morning, that is so pervasive and enchanting.
And maybe I’m in love with San Francisco because I’ve only known love there. From romantic evenings of ballet and jazz, to dinner with friends or shopping with the best. To staring at the city skyline from Treasure Island, Coit Tower, and the Berkeley hills. Driving across the Golden Gate bridge with the sun warming my arms. Watching neon fireworks explode against the black skies. I was loved.
I guess that’s the fundamental element missing from D.C. I enjoy traveling, and I love to explore great, old cities. Put me in city where I can roam the sidewalks or cobblestoned streets, where I can brush my fingers against walls of thousands years past, where I can taste new foods and breathe in new scents. But how long will that sustain me before beautifully designed buildings seem empty and what once was exciting turns bland? I need a soul, a heart to keep me going, and the only place to find that is in people, my people.
So goodbye D.C. I hated you, I loved you, I hardly knew ya.
I’m going back to the heights, where a pathetic mall and strips of Chinese food restaurants await me. Where a few friends remain, and where my grandma patiently sits at home and counts down the days till I return.
I’m going home.