I get off the train and exit the Dupont metro station. It’s post-work so people are scurrying out of the hot and humid metro station into the open air. People look stressed and rushed and relieved. A few people even appear to be carefree. Krispy Kreme. Greetings. Kisses. Departures. Newspaper stands. Foot traffic. Car traffic. Green stuff. Fountains. Tourists.
“Excuse me, can you help us find the Daily Grille?”
They show me a printed map. The woman points to a location and says it’s on 18th street. I know it’s around. I vaguely point towards The Front Page and Krispy Kreme and say it’s in that direction. I’ve never been to the Daily Grill, nor will I ever go. The husband points towards 18th street and mumbles something about let’s try this way. It feels good to be a foil to sensible, concrete directions.
I walk towards a lady loudly raving about masterbation. She’s in the middle of the sidewalk trying to engage two 20-something women investigating a parking meter. I’m not judging. I support masterbation, but I really don’t need to know when you started and why your methods are superior. And no you’re not being persecuted by the mastabatory police, who at this very moment, are playing with a parking meter instead of themselves.
I finally reach Dupont Circle’s north exit.
“Excuse me, can you tell me where to find this new, swanky bar or restaurant you’ve never heard of,” asks a man dressed in a dapper, incredibly uncomfortable suit. I throw my hands up, shrug my shoulders, say no, and keep walking.
Dolcezza gelato. My destination is reached. Yes, the $7 scoop of lemon ricotta cardamom and Stracciatella is worth it.
Now I’m ready to play board games.