Stranger in a strange land, or How I Almost Died in the District of Columbia

So remember back in April when I trashed the shit out of Washington, D.C., despite not having had set foot in our nation's capital for 15 years? Well this past weekend I hopped the Greyhound down to old D.C. to visit Dave, and good lord was I ever spot fucking on. In my original D.C.-bashing post, I used words like immorality, clusterfuck and ghetto. I'd say the latter sums up the town quite nicely. D.C. is quite possibly one of the most disgusting, dilapidated cities I've ever seen - and I went to school in Bethlehem, Pennsylvania. Whilst carousing about the various thoroughfares of D.C., I couldn't help but think to myself, "Wow, this town literally looks as if it's falling apart." Sure there are a handful of decent neighborhoods, but on the whole Washington D.C. makes Bed-Stuy look like fucking Greenwich, CT.

Things started innocently enough, but quickly escalated to near-fatal proportions. Dave failed to inform me that the Greyhound bus station in D.C. is quite possibly the most bootleg structure in the shadiest neighborhood of any city in America. Upon departing the bus I asked where I could get a cab and was told to head to the front of the station. I was then immediately accosted by several homeless men claiming that if I gave them a couple bucks they would help me flag down a cab. The bus station had fucking hustlers, for Christ's sake! I didn't realize I had accidentally taken a detour down to fucking Mexico.

Being the arrogant Manhattan prick that I am, I didn't want any help getting a cab from some crackhead, so I was like "no dude, I'm good." At this point it was absolutely fucking pouring and I had a t-shirt and no jacket and no umbrella because I don't believe in umbrellas, and all I wanted was a fucking cab to take me to 14th Street and Kenyon. But for some outrageous reason, every single cab I tried to flag down refused to take me! Could you imagine this happening in New York? When I hail a cab in the city, multiple-car pileups are routinely caused due to the eight cabs converging on the same corner attempting to secure my fare.

At this point I started getting nervous. How the fuck was I supposed to get to Dave's if none of these piece of shit cabs would pick me up? Finally another hustler approached me and I was so fed up at that point I said "Fine, I'll give you a few bucks if you get me a cab." To be fair, this guy busted his ass trying to get me a ride, but to no avail. The hustler even went up to this security guard-looking guy who told me to follow the crackhead and to come back and get him if another cab refused to take me. After another five minutes or so, the crackhead gave up but still asked me for a few bucks. What the hell was I supposed to do? I gave him a couple bucks. And I still had no cab ride.

While the security guard-looking character continued to be unhelpful, another crackhead came over to me and said he would get me a cab. Given the fact that I was absolutely drenched and frigid at this point, plus I really didn't want to be walking around this shitty neighborhood with my $1,500 laptop any longer than I absolutely had to, I followed this complete stranger as he led me around the corner onto a completely deserted street. My native New Yorker survival meter was kicking into overdrive at this point, telling me to cut bait and run the hell away, but my water-logged body's desire for warmth forced me to continue following this derelict. As we walked further and further towards what I was sure was going to be an already-dug grave, the hustler tapped on the window of an unmarked civilian vehicle and asked if the driver would take me to 14th and Kenyon. There were absolutely zero indications of this car functioning as a cab - no "Welcome to D.C." sign, no map, no medallion - and yet I still hopped right in the moment the driver said yes. Once we started moving the pangs of horror returned, as I realized that I was now being ferried around in a completely random car with an expensive laptop and $250 in my wallet in a city I was totally unfamiliar with.

So this is how it ends, I thought to myself. I always thought that at the very least it would've involved copious amounts of booze, a significant casino debt, several eightballs of cocaine and/or a couple of dead hookers.

As I waited for my chauffeur to either drive me to an abandoned factory to kidnap, rob and kill me or pull over to the side of road, train a gun on me and demand all my money, I mustered up the courage to ask how much the ride was going to be, as there was no meter in the cab. When he responded $12, I started to feel a sense of relief. $12 didn't seem all that unreasonable. Then he said we needed to get gas, and when we got to the gas station, he asked me for $5. Instead of saying "that wasn't part of the deal," I quickly handed over a $10, fully expecting to not get any change back. But to my surprise he not only returned with my $5, but also said I only owed him $7 since I had already paid for part of the ride.

After driving down 14th Street for what felt like an eternity, we finally made it to Kenyon. I only had $20s left in my wallet, and to absolutely no one's surprise, the driver claimed to not have change. Once again, what the fuck was I gonna do? I handed him a $20 and told him to have a nice night. After all was said and done, it cost me approximately $30 to get from the Greyhound bus station to Dave's apartment.

Thankfully the rest of my weekend in D.C. never approached the sheer annoyance/horror/soggyness of my initial foray into the city. On Friday night Dave and I hung with his friend Christy and bought $80 worth of junk food at the supermarket and stayed in and gorged ourselves. On Saturday we met up with his pal Teresa for brunch at Logan Tavern and then hit up Buffalo Billiards on New Hampshire Ave. around 1pm to catch the Yankee game, which ended up being infuriatingly blacked out, forcing us to have to watch college football. Little did we know that this innocent afternoon drinking stop would kick off a 14-hour drinking tour of D.C. We returned to Dave's after several hours at Buffalo Billiards for a little beer and barbecue action, and wouldn't you know it, but the sun finally emerged after what felt like two straight weeks of rain, effectuating a pleasant coda to the afternoon.

After the barbecue we headed out to Adams Morgan, and came across a shitload of bars on a little stretch of 18th Street. We did an initial loop to check out the surroundings, and settled on a nice little spot called Columbia Station. It was perfect - there was not a soul inside or outside the bar, and we grabbed a prime table right outside, perfect for people-watching. And boy, did we ever people watch. Incredibly enough, in the hour or so that Dave and I were sitting outside Columbia Station, not a single person entered the bar. We were completely at a loss. What felt like the entire population of D.C. must have been wandering around 18th Street that night, and yet no one seemed interested in this little drinking establishment. Both places surrounding the bar were packed; in fact there was a giant line to get into some awful-looking place called Heaven & Hell. I simply couldn't fathom why these people were waiting on a line to get into an incredibly lame-named bar when there was a perfectly empty one right next door! Dave and I were so miffed about this lack of patronage that we asked the bartender what the hell the deal was and he came up with some bogus excuse about how Columbia Station usually plays Latin dance music, and since they didn't have that tonight that's why no one was showing up. I call bullshit. If any D.C. readers of mine can help explain why everyone in D.C. hates Columbia Station, I'd love some edification.

Finally we took a cab to meet one of Dave's buddies over in Georgetown. While Georgetown was a much-needed breath of nice neighborhood air, the bar scene is disgustingly fratty, and we were even forced to pay $5 for entrance to Rhino, which was packed with annoying college kids. We also checked out Garrett's, which wasn't quite as bad and only ended when some hideous beast started talking to Dave and I was forced to do an amusingly bad job of pretending to be sick so we could get the hell out of there.

And that was pretty much that. On the whole I had an excellent time hanging out with Davey, and if not for the bus station fiasco on Friday night, probably would've had a more favorable opinion of D.C. on the whole. It really is a strange city, and I think a lot of it has to do with the fact that it really lacks any sort of identity - given the transient nature of politics, it seems like almost no one who lives in the city is actually from D.C., and when your population is made up of more non-natives than natives, I can't imagine that fosters a whole hell of a lot of city pride. Say what you will about me and my constant trumpeting of New York as the greatest fucking place in the world, but after a weekend spent away from my beloved home, it made me appreciate how much NYC dominates the hell out of every other city on the planet that much more, and I was only too eager to return.