Witnessed At: 19th St. & Pennsylvania Avenue
- …But exactly HOW did the bumper end up UNDER the car?
Getting back from lunch on Tuesday I came across the situation above; a situation not dissimilar to what happens with a dog when it chases its own tail for an inordinate amount of time.
So this woman goes up to the policeman and asks: “What happened?” His answer?
“Accident.”
DC cops are incredibly charming.
Like many Beltway residents, I’m a transplant, born somewhere else and brought to this city by both ambition and fate. When I first landed in the District — not to visit, but to live — I was seeking answers to a lot of questions. I had graduated from college the year before and was going through what people now call a “quarter-life crisis”.
From all the questions in my head, however, one was pounding like no other, begging to be answered: Who am I?
Fast-forward to today. I share an apartment with a Slovakian and a Puerto Rican. My boss is Nicaraguan; her boss is Canadian. I work in an area of the District in which it’s absolutely normal to hear Pashtun or French being spoken on the streets. My life is a melange of languages, nationalities, personalities. Any way you see it, I should be more confused, less focused, begging for my own definition, my own self.
Wrong. Quite the opposite.
Case in point: the other day someone asked me why I don’t apply for American citizenship. I live here, don’t I? And I have no plans to leave any time soon, especially given my recent desire to apply to a Master’s degree program. Seeing my discomfort, the person chose to lighten the mood with a joke. Unfortunately, it wasn’t a very good one: “Hey, it’s the only place worth having citizenship of.” My reaction was not pleasant.
I was born in Lima, Peru, at 9:22 a.m. on July 1984, and have lived there all my life until college, and then a year after graduating. Legally and emotionally, therefore, I am Peruvian. My father’s mother is the daughter of Italian immigrants, and because of this I also hold Italian citizenship. I have two passports and two legal identities. Beyond that, however, they both say a lot about who I am and where I’ve come from. To ask me to part with either would be to take away my soul, erode my core, turn me into an emotionless cipher.
Unlike New York, which demands that you adopt its own banner above all others, however, Washington has not taken anything away from me. Instead, it has embraced me with open arms as it has done with every member of its diverse population, and has given me a sense of clarity and purpose.
And that is the beauty of this city. For all the talk of Washington being a polarizing place, it actually does the opposite: it allows people of all creeds, races and beliefs to come together and remain themselves while living in the center of the American political sphere. It allows us to become its citizens since its whole purpose is to bring people together. Capitol Hill, the (theoretical) center of the city, is populated by people who live their days being identified by where they come from and yet they hold a larger bond, a unique unity of purpose. Despite appearances to the contrary, D.C. serves as a comity of nations for adopted Washingtonians of all corners of this country and the world.
E pluribus unum, indeed.
And as for me? I am Peruvian. I am Italian. I kill for oysters, bodies of water and well-prepared gin fizzes. I have finally discovered that when it comes to your own deepest core, there is no compromise or sacrifice to be had, only clarity and understanding. I am thankful to this city and its inhabitants for showing me that one does not have to lose their core and be defined by others in order to coexist, but instead one needs to define oneself for others to truly appreciate what one brings to the table.
When I was in college I used to say that I lived in Peru and studied in the States. No longer. Why? Because no matter how my day goes and how many doubts I might have over trivial matters, in the end, I have found and remain myself, and still feel part of this great city and its people. Peru is my home, but so is Washington. And I’m loving it.
Last weekend’s wonderful sunny Saturday reminded inside-the-Beltway residents that Spring is fast approaching, and with it and the cherry blossoms, ice cream carts and the outside tables at restaurants and bars being available again, come tourists.
Unlike New York, which is big enough for people to pass by each other unnoticed, D.C. is a rather small town with few entry points and very specific points of interest, so a large influx of visitors and tourists get noticed. And, unlike New York, which gets visited throughout the year no matter what, visitors to D.C. usually pick the hottest, most humid days of the year to grace us with their presence.
Now, people who live and work in D.C. are a very particular bunch, with a very clear set of rules and beliefs. So, if you’re planning to visit Washington any time soon, please pay close attention to the following suggestions, as it will be better for all involved:
1) Progress Is Made On The Left, Stand Still On The Right. If Republicans on the Hill get it, so can you. ZING! No, but seriously: some of us want/need to get down the stairs STAT, especially if we are in danger of/are already late for work/class/Happy Hour. Stairs are wide enough for two lines of people (according to Kevin Smith, albeit in a somewhat indirect manner) so you don’t really have to stand smack dab in the middle, do you? Yes, you can put your suitcase in front of you. Yes, your kid too. Thank you.
2) Do not horde the blue farecard machines. The black farecard machines are waaaaaaaay simpler. On the blue ones, you all seem to be confused by Step 1, “Select Purchase”. It’s simple: Passes are for a specific amount of days, whereas farecards work like pre-paid phones – you load them up, and use them until you run out of cash. And yes, those are usually the ones you want, and coincidentally, the ones sold on the black machines.
If this was Doom 3, the machine at the left would be at the "Hurt Me Plenty" skill level, whereas the ones on the right would be closer to "I'm Too Young To Die!" Either way, if you stand in front of them for more than five minutes during rush hour, it's a "Nightmare!" for the rest of us.
What’s that? You only have a debit card? Nonsense, you’re tourists, you have cash on you. And unless you specifically went and bought a SmarTrip card, which you shouldn’t have done in the first place, you don’t have to scan anything. No, your Exxon SmartPass is not the same thing. No, it’s not. Seriously, it isn’t.
3) There is more than one Smithsonian. Take note, for this is very, very important. ALL of these buildings can be considered to be “The Smithsonian”:
- Anacostia Community Museum
- Arthur M. Sackler Gallery (Mall Museum)
- Arts and Industries Building (Mall Museum)
- Freer Gallery of Art (Mall Museum)
- Hirshhorn Museum and Sculpture Garden (Mall Museum)
- National Air and Space Museum (Mall Museum)
- National Museum of African American History and Culture (not yet built)
- National Museum of African Art (Mall Museum)
- National Museum of American History (Mall Museum)
- National Museum of the American Indian (Mall Museum)
- National Museum of Natural History (Mall Museum)
- National Portrait Gallery
- National Postal Museum
- S. Dillon Ripley Center (Mall Museum)
- Smithsonian American Art Museum
- Smithsonian Institution Building
- Smithsonian National Zoological Park (National Zoo)
Also, there is no such thing as “The Smithsonian National Gallery of Art”. That one’s separate and not affiliated with. I know it feels like a trick question but hey, that’s the way it is.
And for the love of Pete’s balls, if you ask anyone and they ask you “Which one are you looking for?”, the right answer will never be “Well, I don’t KNOW!” Ever. Otherwise you’ll find your way on the Greenline towards Branch Avenue, and you’ll spend the rest of your days trying to find the Spirit of St. Louis inside the Anacostia Community Museum.
4) If you rent a Segway, you will be considered a lazy moron. Also, you’re supposed to ride them on the streets, not on the sidewalk. And if you can manage your way onto I-395 with them, all the better.
5) Do NOT speak loudly in Arlington Cemetery. JFK’s tomb might have a beautiful view of the District, but come on, man, have some respect, put away the Fritos and stop complaining about the hike.
Now, we’re not New Yorkers. We will help you out. With a smile. A fake smile, but a smile nonetheless. We will let you know where you need to get off if you want to get to the White House, where “that mall that’s right by the metro” is. Just keep in mind that while you might be on vacation, we’re not, so don’t push it saying that everyone who lives in D.C. is vicious or bloodsucking or, my personal favorite, “un-American”. Such comments will assure you a one-way ticket to somewhere you don’t want to be, and believe me, we have plenty of those places here in the Nation’s Capital.
(Any Washingtonians want to add to this list? Comment!)
Friday Nights
I don’t understand the role Friday nights play in our society nowadays. It used to be an opportunity to go out, to have drinks, to unwind from the long, long week and to begin was what to be, undeniably, a wonderful weekend.
That is now Thursday night. An attempt to stretch out the weekend, Thursday night is the official drinking night of D.C. It is Front Page’s busiest night; it is near impossible to get a table at Matchbox under an hour. Thursday Night is an institution to be reckoned with, a social and economic phenomenon.
So what to do Friday Nights?
Friday nights for me are a diversion; the appetizers between the drinks of Thursday and the entreés of Saturday. Going out is a no-no as I’m still nursing last night’s hangover and preparing for tomorrow; staying in, then, seems to make perfect sense. Tonight, for example, I’m watching a movie with a handful of my best friends. Tomorrow, I have a birthday party but tonight, I’m enjoying them (and the movie) thoroughly.
So what do you do on Friday nights in D.C.? You, if you’re out there?
Lies, Damn Lies and Statistics.
I am remarkably good at lying. Not just your run of the mill lying, your “I don’t have any change, sorry” white lies that let you go through the day without becoming invested in anything you don’t want to. No, I am very good at distorting the truth, from the simple to the complex, in order to fulfill my own needs and cover my mistakes. I used to think that was a good thing.
I know better now.
You see, the act of lying creates a condition of risk (whether you’ll be caught or not), but beyond that, it also creates an unintended consequence – guilt. And over the years, that guilt, like the lies that one feels compelled to build, accumulates and becomes more complex. And in the end, like a wedding cake built upside-down, it will succumb to gravity and come tumbling down, leaving you with nothing.
Lying accomplishes nothing. It not only misleads people, it deludes the liar into believing he is untouchable. The liar learns nothing from the mistakes he or she made and thus is prone to make them again, forcing him or her to lie once more. It hurts the people around the liar, and it hurts the liar’s reputation. Long story short, “look at what I can get away with” is no way to reach Happily Ever After, no matter how much you lie to yourself about it.
Oh, and on that note, the same goes for lying to yourself. It leads nowhere. The more you reject reality, the less real you’ll be. It’s that simple.
Telling the truth is harder, yes. God, yes, it is. But it’s easier to walk around with a clean conscience than to do so thinking about who you told what or whether you said was actually true or not. It opens up RAM in your brain to do more things. And admitting to things actually makes you do something about solving those nasty problems you’ve been hiding in the attic for so long.
So yes, you don’t look as good as you think. She’s not that into you. You don’t know the answers to everything. Accepting your own faults and being honest to the people around you will yield a better you and better people, since those who don’t appreciate honesty are people you shouldn’t hang out with in the first place.
Being honest in the land of lies that is Washington is a tall order. I think (I hope) I’m up to the challenge.
