Twice this week I've gone to Washington, DC. I don't live far from there--not even ten miles--but suburbia has a way of sucking you in and I can go months at a time without visiting.
I've lived in and around Washington most of my life. I love the city, its colors and rhythms and neighborhoods. Most of the years I lived there---in Georgetown twice, Capitol Hill, Cleveland Park, Adams Morgan, and Chevy Chase--I did not own a car. I had motorcycles, bicycles, in-line skates. I rod the Metro and buses; the public transportation system if used only within the city, was not that intolerable. Mostly, I walked.
Today, Washington was gorgeous, a splendid capital full of autumn reds, yellows, browns and tans, hues that made me nostalgic for a time when I had both far less and far more.
The first place I lived in was half a floor of a Victorian townhouse on N Street. I rented from an elderly lady I called Mrs. Fuzzybee who was known to don a full mariner's yellow slicker when she hosed down her front stoop. I remember coming home from work one day to see Mrs. Fuzzybee frantically pacing the sidewalk. Her car was gone, she was sure it had been stolen! Would I mind riding my bike around the neighborhood looking for it? Of course I did, looking for a green 1957 Chevy. As I widened my search, it struck me as odd that in Georgetown, even then home of Mercedes and BMWs, someone would choose to rip off an old Chevy, but stranger things have happened, and the car was not to be found. I pedaled back to the house, knocked on the front door, told Mrs. Fuzzybee her car was indeed gone and it was time to call the police. She gave me an odd, unfocused look. "Car?" She said. "What car? I sold my car in 1962!" Then she slammed the door in my face.
Georgetown was where I had my first brush with crime. A beautiful watch given to me by a girlfriend was stolen when someone broke into my place. The cops came, took one look at my hippy-length hair and suggested I not bother them again.
I cooked on a hibachi set in the fireplace, smoked a lot of bad dope, played guitar incessantly and listened to the Moody Blues. It was a good life, lived on a salary of $87.50 a week.
From there I went to Capitol Hill, a large house where a commune of sorts had been set up. On a daily basis, seven to 15 people lived there--an airline stewardess, a gorgeous black woman trying to break into modeling, two pot-smoking brothers who were never straight, a strange little man called Narji who wanted to be a cowboy, dressed in denim and boots and smelled of liniment, a young Jewish couple trying and failing to have an open marriage. Gallo wine was consumed by the gallon on a daily basis and I learned to fashion lamps from the large round bottles. I bought my first sportscar while living on the Hill, a grey Datsun 1200 that one day burst into flames as I was driving it on First Street NE. I rolled out of the car as fire licked the dashboard and there was a solid "whumpff" as the almost empty gas tank exploded. I lost my entire collection of 8-track tapes that day... But there again, innocent times and happy days.
Today, Washington was gorgeous, a splendid capital full of autumn reds, yellows, browns and tans, hues that made me nostalgic for a time when I had both far less and far more.
The first place I lived in was half a floor of a Victorian townhouse on N Street. I rented from an elderly lady I called Mrs. Fuzzybee who was known to don a full mariner's yellow slicker when she hosed down her front stoop. I remember coming home from work one day to see Mrs. Fuzzybee frantically pacing the sidewalk. Her car was gone, she was sure it had been stolen! Would I mind riding my bike around the neighborhood looking for it? Of course I did, looking for a green 1957 Chevy. As I widened my search, it struck me as odd that in Georgetown, even then home of Mercedes and BMWs, someone would choose to rip off an old Chevy, but stranger things have happened, and the car was not to be found. I pedaled back to the house, knocked on the front door, told Mrs. Fuzzybee her car was indeed gone and it was time to call the police. She gave me an odd, unfocused look. "Car?" She said. "What car? I sold my car in 1962!" Then she slammed the door in my face.
Georgetown was where I had my first brush with crime. A beautiful watch given to me by a girlfriend was stolen when someone broke into my place. The cops came, took one look at my hippy-length hair and suggested I not bother them again.
I cooked on a hibachi set in the fireplace, smoked a lot of bad dope, played guitar incessantly and listened to the Moody Blues. It was a good life, lived on a salary of $87.50 a week.
From there I went to Capitol Hill, a large house where a commune of sorts had been set up. On a daily basis, seven to 15 people lived there--an airline stewardess, a gorgeous black woman trying to break into modeling, two pot-smoking brothers who were never straight, a strange little man called Narji who wanted to be a cowboy, dressed in denim and boots and smelled of liniment, a young Jewish couple trying and failing to have an open marriage. Gallo wine was consumed by the gallon on a daily basis and I learned to fashion lamps from the large round bottles. I bought my first sportscar while living on the Hill, a grey Datsun 1200 that one day burst into flames as I was driving it on First Street NE. I rolled out of the car as fire licked the dashboard and there was a solid "whumpff" as the almost empty gas tank exploded. I lost my entire collection of 8-track tapes that day... But there again, innocent times and happy days.
A couple of years ago when I thought I might move back onto town, a friend drove me around her neighborhood near 16th Street. Handsome row houses, some gentrified, others not. She pointed to a pockmarked wall--a drive-by had killed two drug dealers a week earlier. She'd heard the automatic fire, knew what it was, hardly paused. Her car had been broken into twice that year, and the rats in the backyard were as big as alley cats and a lot more aggressive. The potholes were cavernous, the streets a mess of double-parked cars and delivery trucks. I decided I would stay in suburbia.
The house I bought for $28,000 in Adams Morgan in '71 and gave away after my first marriage failed recently sold for $2.5 million dollars. There are Zipcars now, and espresso carts, and chichi boutiques have replaced the bodegas. But the feel is the same, the city's soul hasn't changed. It's a different place, but I still miss it.
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