By:
Josh Hutcheson
So there I was, sitting in Zengo, enjoying a
nice brunch of dim sum and antojitos and reading the latest issue of LunchBox. There was a fascinating piece
comparing the prices and tastes of a Ricky in Chinatown versus a Ricky in NoMa
(one locale prefers the more traditional bourbon, whilst the other favors the
more plebian gin. Natch).
I continued reading the magazine as I hopped
onto the Green Line --while jamming out to some Rare Essence, of course-- past
the Borf mural, down to U Street for
a quick little nosh at Ben’s Chili Bowl. Following that, I snagged a conveyance
from the Bike Share and made my way to Anacostia to pick up an eight ball of Hinckley
and a quart of mambo sauce. With those tasks completed, I wandered over to the
Hawk ‘n’ Dove for my shift running the glory hole in the men’s room.
The magazine article that really caught my eye
was about living like a native in this fair city. The places to go, the places
to be seen, the things to do and eat, what to wear, what to do, what people to
hate and the myriad other things that differentiate living in this particular
city from any other city in the world.
And it was all the most egregious of bullshit.
See, I live in the Washington D.C. metro area.
I was born in the city proper and grew up right outside its august gates. As
far as I can tell, there are at least three separate D.C.s:
1. There’s the touristy portion, full of free --or,
on the opposite end of the spectrum, needlessly expensive-- museums, national
monuments, hot dogs cooked in toilet water and crappy tee shirts stitched together
in Indonesian sweat shops.
2. The political side of D.C., which is anything
around Capitol Hill, (or just “The Hill” as smug, self-important assholes call it).
3. And the actual, honest-to-goodness locals, the
groupings of which can be divided into sub-categories, ranging from the scared
white people in Georgetown, to the scared black people in South East.
4. The group that tends to lead the charge when it
comes to these stories about being a local and fitting in to the area, is the
second group mentioned. More specifically, the people we call “transplants.”
These people are usually political staffers in their 20s and early 30s who
amble into town for a few years and irritatingly mandate what’s “hot” and “in”
around here. Then, after the transplants have left as annoyingly as they came,
we locals wash their stink off of us, have a good laugh at their expense and
continue to do whatever the hell it is we do. I think it has something to do
with driving like insane people.
For years, I would occasionally see these
stories pop up on the laziest of “news” websites. But over time, I noticed that
those kinds of pieces were appearing more and more frequently, and not just for
D.C. but for all major American metropolitan areas. And even non-metropolitan
areas. Which makes no sense. I don’t mind that I’m not a native of Abingdon, West
Virginia. I certainly don’t need to know the proper local etiquette for asking
my first cousin out.
But back to the D.C. articles; I would quickly look
over their checklists of local behavior to see how I measured up, and I often
found myself wanting. I would panic, because I felt that I wasn’t living right.
Yet, like an addiction, I would feel compelled to read about how I was a
failure as a native Washingtonian. I would pick up a newspaper, --or, more
likely, click on a link, because we live in Buck Rogers times now-- and thick, sour
rivers of sweat would pour down my face as I read about the restaurants and
bars that I’d never heard of, but everyone was going to, including my loved
ones and family pets.
I was forever baffled. I couldn’t understand
how I, as an indigenous dude, had missed the double-decker tour bus on all of
these wonderful things that absolutely everybody I’ve ever known had been doing
for years. And then it hit me: these
lists aren’t written by, or meant for locals. They’re written by outsiders. The
unbidden. Those who have weird geography identity issues and are OCD about
classifying humans. And, on top of that, the lists are so esoteric as to be
meaningless to anybody who reads them beyond a two block radius of the author’s
pretentious coffee house of choice.
You see Washington D.C. is a large city, using
land appropriated from more than one state. It has about nine dozen distinct
neighborhoods and a population of “oodles” according to the US Census Bureau
website. The point is that the day-to-day life of a citizen in Tenleytown can
be the polar opposite of that of a resident of Ward 8, but they’re still both
inhabitants of the same city. Just two different parts of this multicolored,
patchwork quilt we call The Former Murder
Capital of these United States.
Anything I have done as a local is
automatically something that a local does. It’s one of the simplest truisms to
ever make itself known to me (the other being Pimpin’ Ain’t Easy). And it’s one
I wish I was famous enough to abuse. Because then I’d be constantly walking
around town in footie pajamas, walking my pet llama on a dental floss leash and
eating only pineapple rinds, making sure that all the tourists got a good
steaming gawk at me. And then, when I was sure I have everybody’s attention,
I’d scream at the top of my lungs “Welcome to the Nation’s Capital! I’ll be
your guide!”
I can see it in my mind’s eye. My “Living Like
a Local” tour would be a smash hit. Buy your tickets now.
