I wrote this while hanging out in Dupont the other day. For all its changes, it's still a remarkable neighborhood.
A best address, sitcom leads live here. Put-together people, magazine-spread streets.
The circle, uptown's fort, holding the line against the boxy sameness of downtown. Segregated, its black quarter on the east side, perhaps an homage to our fair city. A homeless grandmaster plays there, or used to.
Most parks are damaged by proximity to the auto, but the circle refuses to yield its grace. Cars ambulate its grassy border, doing as they are told, paying tribute to the fountain, and you, their temporary god-king.
Vehicles too proud or stupid to genuflect are driven deep into the earth, tails between their legs, too meek to glance back, till S street.
A heart with four chambers:
The downtown-lite of the south, hosting union flacks and non-profiteers, doing the whole 9-5 thing with a wink, amidst the party bars forming one vertex, of the so-called "Herpes Triangle."
The gay ghetto to the east, or what's left of it. Shops and bars, hanging on, businesses here more rainbow than the last census. The drag race, though, seems safe for now.
P street to the west, where already one catches Georgetown's scent. The Beach, still alive, and gayer than Rehoboth, condoms hanging like stalactites from the trees.
Identity crisis of the north, chain stores, concept shopping, vestigial book or sex shop. Beautiful metro entrance, Whitman, the Civil War. "I recall the experience, sweet and sad."
Like the poorer Georgetown kids, riding the 42 from the barrio to the GUTS bus on P, I am a student of the circle.
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