Revelations That Came to Me When Visiting DC
I wanted more. We had stayed in hotels before, choosing them according to their price range and proximity to a metro stop. But I wanted a peek into the Washington insider life. I lingered over an Airbnb listing.
“Location. Location. Location. Spacious Capitol Hill Flat. Historic row house in tree-lined neighborhood. Revel in the charm and convenience of the Hill.”
It read like my dream.
“Amenities. Enjoy private entry and self-check-in. Outdoor bistro table tucked behind a lush green garden. Free on-street parking pass on request. Walk to the U.S. Capitol, the National Mall, Eastern Market, Union Station, and much more.”
I was convinced. I typed in dates. Availability was quickly confirmed, and I paid for our week. I did not know that once I’d experienced it, I would want to return—again and again. I did not understand at the time how a place can inform a way of living.
“I want to move there,” I told a friend recently.
She responded with the most natural follow-up to such a statement, “Why?”
I’m still contemplating that; trying to put into words what I loved. Two places seem to capture part of it:
A certain sidewalk is the first. One morning we woke before dawn and made our way to the Supreme Court of the United States, hoping to get in to hear an oral argument. The city was silent. We walked the final stretch with our anticipation rising.
And then we turned the corner and saw the line already wrapped halfway down the block. Deflated, we took our place in line anyway, joining the crowd.
Facing the Capitol, between the Supreme Court and the Library of Congress, we watched daylight come and endured several morning hours together. As people sat along the curb, stood to stretch, and shifted forward and back in small increments, strangers began to feel familiar.
Two parents sharing snacks; an older child chatting about the International Spy Museum; and a cluster of young attorneys offering advice to our son about law school. Introductions traveled up and down the line. Conversations started easily.
We didn’t get in. We were the cutoff point.
I remember the disappointment—the officer counting off until he got to the father and daughter just in front of us. The quiet finality of it. Their looks of delight, tinged with guilt as they left us and those behind us who were already dispersing.
But I also recall knowing, even in the moment, that none of those hours of waiting had been wasted.
We’d lived in the unknown of the day, and impatience had not won out. No one had pushed forward or guarded their place too tightly. We had held space for one another, and I had loved this kind of coexistence.
Two blocks from our rental, I found a coffee shop. Jacob’s Coffee House , like that sidewalk, was also a place that appeared to push the bounds of capacity. It was a tight space; the kind where if you weren’t careful, chairs bumped against each other and conversations overlapped whether you wanted them to or not. Three boys, maybe sixth-graders, sat just behind us one morning, their backpacks piled at their feet.
They were waiting for a young woman who joined them a few minutes later for a short Bible study before school. I imagined that sort of childhood. Walking to a coffee shop before finishing the walk to school.
More often than not I order ahead, and we took our bagels to-go. By the last day, we had gone often enough to earn a free drink. I laughed when the notification popped up on my mobile order. I must’ve made quick steps that morning, because when I stepped inside, one of the women behind the counter called out to me.
“It’s not ready yet. Soon.”
They knew me.
That is when it hit me. I like to be known.
“Airbnb Super Host: Jennifer, born in the 60s; my work: friend to refugees.”
We’ve stayed with Jennifer twice now. Each time, cookies—nut-free chocolate chip—waited for us when we arrived.
Price.
I began researching the D.C. real estate market after we returned home. Listings tell price per square foot, monthly fees and market trends. But there are other calculations; the cost is not only a financial one.
We already live in someone’s dream home: a suburban 4BD/3.5BA on three-quarters of an acre. What would it take to build a life where we move through our days on foot, gladly stand in line with strangers, and return to the same small coffee shop often enough to be known. That is what I want. I think.
Fine Print.
Buyer must be willing to change. Subject to: shared sidewalks, small spaces, and the presence of others.
