urban trappist scriptorium

We Aren't One

We're cold, standing outside a U Street bar (we would like to note that until recently we had been standing inside this bar, but chivalry urged us to walk some visiting friends to the Metro station; thus we must wait to re-enter the saturated establishment) with a handful of others who are also cold, standing outside a U Street bar. And because we are just so kind, we quietly but earnestly begin conversations. So, excited for tomorrow? Oh really, where did you come from? Ah, I bet L.A. is quite a bit warmer than this. And what do you do there?

The bouncer opens the door, nods curtly in. We the waiting people have formed a more perfect union and a less perfect line, so no one is quite sure who's up next. Our new Californian friend looks at us, and we nobly step back so he can enter. We know he is suffering from this novelty we know as winter, but more importantly we think he is our guest. A few others follow him in, then the door is shut again. We enjoy the lingering warm draft from the inside, then fold our arms and huddle together with the remaining exiles, again confusing the order of admission.

One thinly bearded man stands off to the side. He had made no real effort to squeeze into the bar, more intent on rolling a cigarette with bare fingers. He has been doing so for eight years, but he doesn't tell us he has been doing so for eight years. He says he has been doing so since Clinton. Of course we understand this without effort. We live in DC. Administrations are a standard unit of time.

A couple shivering together does not calculate it so quickly. After some brief discussion they settle upon eight, but their initial figures overestimated the duration of the second Bush era. We can, of course, understand their distortion; that they traveled here shows that the past two terms felt like an eternity to them.

Maybe because of text messages from friends at other establishments, maybe because the bar wasn't really that great the first time, or maybe because strolling through the cold is more tolerable than standing in it -- we want to get out of here. Our adieu isn't sad. We don't know these people, and our paths will inevitably diverge in the morning. They will bundle up and tumble downtown, millions of feet shuffling slowly into Pennsylvania Avenue or the Mall. We will bundle up in bed with a cup of tea and a private media blackout for the bonus day off. We'll read about the thing afterward, but attending the mayhem, no thanks. It's not change; it's another pomped-up ceremony; it's more of the same. Get it over, then get moving.

And so we walk away from U Street. On the fringes of Dupont the crowds are thinner but still relatively dense. This, to a certain Washingtonian that we are unable to single out, is unacceptable: "Go home, tourists." We wonder who heard him. We wonder who listened.

We want to hug the girl that stopped, then turned toward the shouter's voice, then dropped down her head and walked off. We want to treat her and her friends and their friends to half-smokes from Ben's Chili Bowl. We want to replace that voice: "Welcome, friends! We're so glad you came! We swear we aren't always this cold. We swear we like you."

But we remember that our only swearing tonight was at the Metro neophytes standing on the left side of the escalator, inserting their farecards the wrong way, entering cars before riders had exited. We remember that we had originally marked this weekend as if we were Homeland Security: severe risk of terror.

Our defense strategy is to warm up with fellow residents in a couple off-the-path joints, stumble around for a bit, snag a cab to which we feel entitled, then burrow into bed alone, blanketed snugly. Uncertain and uncaring whether our clock's first digit is showing a 2 or a 3, we rejoice that its alarm will not ring at 5:45 to hustle us into the pre-dawn frigidity for a distant, brief glimpse at some people who will live here for four years.