DC No. 2
November 26 - January 28, by Tom
And like that, we’ve spent two months in DC. I’ve struggled to take the necessary moments to write about our time here, because how could I bring the same perspective to this wonderfully familiar city that I have to the others? Simply enough, I can’t. A return to the first city that welcomed me as a college graduate, as an adult, that brought the doubt of novelty and just two familiar faces in my midst, that embraced me and held me close when our worlds slowed to a halt in 2020, that shared the delight of new friends, the devastation of those same friends’ departures among mid-20’s transience, that introduced me to the warm scents of Afghan and Ethiopian food, that reminded me of the childlike delight of play, that brought me to Kat. No time away, no new apartment, can wipe away what DC means to me. So I don’t try to bring the same perspective to DC as I have our other cities. I can’t.
We stayed in the first rental from late November to January 7. Nestled into the second story of an alley-adjacent rowhouse, all 482 square feet of our back entrance apartment sat just beyond Dupont Circle, to the west, brushing up against West End, Foggy Bottom, and George Washington University. Despite its underwhelming size, this was my favorite rental we’ve stayed in (aside from our floor-to-ceiling-windowed Chicago unit). Brimming with natural light and an easily accessible patio, the apartment comforted us with cozy relaxation, a clearly defined living room with couch and TV, a surprisingly usable kitchen (save for the lack of sharp knives), a comfortable bed, and remarkable closet space. Within our Airbnb, we were terribly comfortable. The neighborhood, however, may have earned my ire had I been evaluating it like I had other cities. Which is not to say it wasn’t a beautiful, walkable, and accessible neighborhood. In fact, it was all of the above. But having most recently lived in DC in Bloomingdale, just off the liveliness of U Street and Shaw, I found myself disappointed by the quiet, the youth of uncertain GW students, and the near-corporate sterility of Dupont Circle/West End. In my walks of the neighborhood, I often found myself surrounded by soulless, culture-free office buildings and hotels, a far cry from the colorful rowhomes of my old trails. Through those first couple weeks, I began to imagine myself having moved to this neighborhood for a short-term stay with no experience with or friends throughout the rest of DC and realizing that I could have left DC thinking it a sterile, work-only town without much for a beating heart or soul. Luckily, I know better. What the immediate area lacked in cultural heft upon an initial (and skeptical) evaluation, it more than made up for with parks (in which Sam and I ran far too many muddy sprints) and, just a few blocks further, the Phillips Collection, embassy row, and a raw basement gym. The warm comfort of our little apartment, the crisp cool of early winter air, the elegant prose of a good book (Collected Works by Lydia Sandgren), the rumbling excitement of Christmas to come, and the pure joy of coming home to roost filled our days and hearts. This time was complete with returns to glory – revitalized friendships, revisited restaurants, and a reinvigorated love for the city where it all began. Kat rediscovered her love for cooking elaborate meals and teaching yoga, subbing an ungodly number of classes each week, and I committed to the aforementioned morning sprint workouts with Sam, started playing pickup football every weekend, and filled my evenings and weekends with friendship, oftentimes silly, like reverse searing unnecessarily large ribeye steaks or arm wrestling at 3am. Out of necessity, I started working less, making time for group movie nights and family dinners with the Kleins. I fell in love with our small home, with our little life, with friendships and events just a short walk away. So, we left.
We stayed in that first Airbnb from November 26 to January 7. Kat stayed for the entire time (save for a few days at Christmas), but I left to LA for two weeks from December 20 to January 3. Those two weeks in LA were reflective of my time in DC: filled to the brim with activities, friendship, family, and a truly lovely time. But this is not a post about Los Angeles – there’ll be ample time for that this spring.
Initially, we were to leave DC on January 7 and fly to San Juan, Puerto Rico. Though it would’ve been a tight turnaround for my travel, we were confident in our ability to make it work. But after booking our Airbnb, I was invited to a conference in San Francisco from January 8-11. Wanting to neither miss the conference nor fly from San Juan to San Francisco the day after arriving, I pushed our time back in DC and we found a second place to stay, until today, January 28. Not-so-secretly, we were both thrilled.
Our second Airbnb was the back apartment on the first floor of the Swann Street gallery. Marcy owns the place and lives upstairs, and back in 2012 she met Daniel Kuhn, son of Robert E. Kuhn, and discovered the entirety of Robert’s life work in his studio, comprising of abstract paintings, portraiture, and sculptures. With the support of Robert’s three sons, Marcy gathered the works and turned her rowhome into a gallery. Our apartment was part of this. Walking through the iron gate on the rowhome’s brick façade, you’re immediately greeted by paintings lining the walls of the hallway. As you retreat to our home, the greeting remains. Paintings of various style don every wall, their color matched brightly by the red couch, red faucet, red towels and bathmat, and red umbrella on the patio outside. I’ve never seen a rental with such a definitive and dedicated personality. Though the availability of natural light may not have fully met my plant-like needs, the careful curation of art and furniture gave Marcy’s place plenty of soothing warmth. And the neighborhood.
Rid your mind of any qualms you may have read of the previous neighborhood. Adams Morgan, just north of Dupont Circle, was my first favorite neighborhood in DC. An abundance of beautiful townhouses is paired with the bristling and frenetic energy of 18th street and the westernmost segment of U street. The neighborhood is the ultimate in walkability – anywhere in NW DC is attainable by foot (or bike), and every walk will give you a different taste of the city, whether you prefer quiet streets with beautiful homes, incredible restaurants (looking at you, Lapis), rolling parks of grass or trees, athletic fields, or the buzzing energy of an urban bar scene, it’s available. Our street, Swann Street, was one of those quiet ones, covered in gingko trees and lined along its curves with the colors of DC: townhouses of red, blue, green, and more. Since living there, my affinity for the neighborhood only grew, and when the snow came, I was nothing short of ecstatic.
Our lives in DC didn’t change much once we moved apartments. But it did with the snow. Still continuing rapidly apace, everything and everyone slowed down suddenly when DC caught 10 inches of snow the week of January 15. Everyone, it seems, except for me. Because I had my camera. In 5 days of snow, I went through 4 ½ rolls of film (5 would’ve sounded so much better). I found myself nearly giddy with joy once the snow came, and even giddier when it came back. I chalk this up in part to growing up in LA and the continued novelty of snow, and in part to my deep love for the crisp beauty and eerie quiet that snowfall brings. The first night of snowfall, I brought out my camera loaded with a roll of Kodak P3200, seeking to capture that uncanny quiet in one of DC’s busiest neighborhoods, and hopefully get away with it without also capturing frostbite in my fingers. I finished that roll that night, and throughout the week I couldn’t stop. It was so much fun. I’ll include some of the pictures here, but I simply must emphasize the radiating delight I felt while stomping through crunchy ice underfoot and capturing the simple pleasures of snowfall.
As snow does, it melted, aided by rain and two 70-degree days one week later. This was our last week, so as we do, we loaded up our schedule to ensure we’d be exhausted and despondent that we’re leaving this city. I joke. Mostly. After excellent meals at Maydan, Lapis, Ilili, and Le Diplomate, we’ve somehow successfully rolled our lives at Marcy’s back into our suitcases, rolled out to Vienna for a one-night respite, repacked those same suitcases to be weather appropriate for Puerto Rico, and stumbled into the BWI airport for the Sunday evening flight upon which we currently sit (or lie, if you’re Kat).
Our plane is approximately 5% full, and with our bags checked (the only economical decision on Frontier airlines, but don’t ask about the “overweight bag” fee), we’ve sprawled across a row, Kat sleeping peacefully on my leg, her feet curled up under the window.
We have four weeks ahead of us in San Juan. I fly armed with 12 rolls of film, 10 days of prior experience in San Juan, and one realization made just now after having looked at when I last flew to Puerto Rico: it was also January 28. We’ll fill you in on the rest.
As always, thanks for joining this first time around.
