I didn�t hate DC, and I wasn�t expecting to. It�s a good city, a safe city, too politically charged for me, but a nice place to revisit.
The only thing striking about the city is how walkable it is. I didn�t realize until I walked for hours and hours, jogged for miles and miles, until I could hardly stand anymore, until my feet were so sore I winced with each step. It was amazing, but not entirely compelling.
I was in such a place that it won�t make any sense to anyone but me. I was almost completely solitary for three days straight, speaking only to extreme strangers (servers, an aesthetician, a bartender, a hotel employee) and wandering and walking, just me and my iPod, and sometimes not even that. Deliberate, complete, anonymous solitude in a big, busy city: it�s an ideal for me, but I don�t expect anyone else to understand.
Somebody stopped me while I was jogging back from the zoo, where I saw a bear struggling to move himself from one branch to another, the tall, thin tree swaying back and forth with his effort, and I swear I could read his thoughts: �This is not going to end well for anyone.� Other things I learned at the zoo: red pandas win at cute, and I had no idea I might enjoy a 15 minute staring contest with a jellyfish.
I had passed him on the bridge and smiled at him for getting out of my way before I was compelled to walk into a camera shop to inquire about a tripod. He had caught up to me by the time I came out, and told me he liked my hair, asked if I was from around here, and took his leave when I said I lived in California and did not see myself moving anytime soon.
Nothing to bolster self-esteem like an attempted pick-up after three hours of running.
�It�s your cute butt,� Joanna says when I tell her.
My grandpa told me I had been running in the same neighborhood Chandra Levy was kidnapped in, which: terrible things happen everywhere, every day, and there�s nothing anyone can do about them. I was fine. I still am.