Anyone who took an eighth grade geography class knows that the Washington, DC metropolitan area is comprised of the District of Columbia and a handful of Virginia and Maryland suburbs. What you don’t know until you live here is that there’s a hierarchy of geographic superiority among these jurisdictions. Marylanders fall at the bottom of the barrel. A guy I know who grew up in Northern Virginia (henceforth, NoVA) has a t-shirt that reads, Friends Don’t Let Friends Live in Maryland, and it just about sums up Virginians’ opinion of Maryland. However, Virginians have their own place in the ranks: a Washingtonian I know has a t-shirt that reads, Virginia is for Commuters, a play on the unofficial (or is it the official?) Virginia state motto.
The ironic thing about Washingtonian smugness is that very few of us were actually born here or stay for any real length of time, so our sense of superiority isn’t rooted in anything real. This really pisses off all the natives I know. Nonetheless, our sense of self-righteousness prevails. Whenever I have to leave the District (or, journey to the interior, as I am prone to say) I like to joke about packing flares and trail mix. A couple of weeks ago, a cute NoVA guy came into DC to take me out on a date, and I jokingly asked him if they served peanuts on his plane ride. Because NoVA guys are so easily provoked, he reveled in the chance to tell me what my neighborhood looked like five, ten years ago and essentially relegated me to some kind of urban sheep who followed the pack to the latest Starbucks opening. By the time he was done, he’d come up with a t-shirt of his own: DC is for Haters. Oh snap! (But can I get it on Busted Tees??)
And really? He’s right. There is something about the suburbs that I find absolutely disorienting. I have a pretty great sense of direction, but if you dropped me off in the center of Rosslyn, I’d be hard pressed to find my way back. Ditto Bethesda. That said, this weekend I found myself spending a lot of time outside the safe confines of DC, and lo and behold it didn’t totally suck! My roommate, being the bestest roommate ever that he is, tossed me his Jeep keys before he headed out of town, so I took advantage of the rare access to wheels. Each time I set out from home I got lost, and at one point the Jeep may or may not have caught on fire, but I got to feel the wind in my hair and have some killer frozen custard in a quaint NoVA neighborhood.
Then this evening, the weirdest thing happened. As I crossed over the Wilson Bridge on my way back into the District, I didn’t feel smug at all. Instead, I felt a swelling sense of curiosity about this city that increasingly feels like home to me. Since I moved here three years ago, I’ve spent most of my time within a half-mile radius of my apartment (did I mention it’s ridiculously, amazingly located?), but I’m finding myself itching a bit lately. Hmmm…perhaps it’s time for a little pioneering. Starbucks, anyone?
The ironic thing about Washingtonian smugness is that very few of us were actually born here or stay for any real length of time, so our sense of superiority isn’t rooted in anything real. This really pisses off all the natives I know. Nonetheless, our sense of self-righteousness prevails. Whenever I have to leave the District (or, journey to the interior, as I am prone to say) I like to joke about packing flares and trail mix. A couple of weeks ago, a cute NoVA guy came into DC to take me out on a date, and I jokingly asked him if they served peanuts on his plane ride. Because NoVA guys are so easily provoked, he reveled in the chance to tell me what my neighborhood looked like five, ten years ago and essentially relegated me to some kind of urban sheep who followed the pack to the latest Starbucks opening. By the time he was done, he’d come up with a t-shirt of his own: DC is for Haters. Oh snap! (But can I get it on Busted Tees??)
And really? He’s right. There is something about the suburbs that I find absolutely disorienting. I have a pretty great sense of direction, but if you dropped me off in the center of Rosslyn, I’d be hard pressed to find my way back. Ditto Bethesda. That said, this weekend I found myself spending a lot of time outside the safe confines of DC, and lo and behold it didn’t totally suck! My roommate, being the bestest roommate ever that he is, tossed me his Jeep keys before he headed out of town, so I took advantage of the rare access to wheels. Each time I set out from home I got lost, and at one point the Jeep may or may not have caught on fire, but I got to feel the wind in my hair and have some killer frozen custard in a quaint NoVA neighborhood.
Then this evening, the weirdest thing happened. As I crossed over the Wilson Bridge on my way back into the District, I didn’t feel smug at all. Instead, I felt a swelling sense of curiosity about this city that increasingly feels like home to me. Since I moved here three years ago, I’ve spent most of my time within a half-mile radius of my apartment (did I mention it’s ridiculously, amazingly located?), but I’m finding myself itching a bit lately. Hmmm…perhaps it’s time for a little pioneering. Starbucks, anyone?
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