I live in Washington, DC and I absolutely love it.
Working in politics, this city is my Mecca and I get goose bumps when I see people like George Stephanopoulos and David Gregory walking down the street.
These are my Brad Pitt and George Clonneys.
There is no place in the country like DC and I take advantage of the history and culture as much as possible. I have the privilege of jogging on the mall, running past Congress and the Washington Monument. My morning commute takes me past the Supreme Court on my way to the Metro. On the weekend there’s Eastern Market on for the flea market and Dupont Circle Park to listen to the various would-be-musicians strum by the fountain.
This place is wonderful. And I get to call it home.
But, there is a downside to living in the nation’s capital: Tourists.
Every person who lives in a major city probably can relate. Swarms of sightseers descend on our neighborhood invading our space and mocking what we hold dear. Now, not all tourists are awful. It is possible to travel and not act like an ass. These travelers don’t beep the radar. Just the way I like it.
But then there are the others.
It starts slow; in April the Cherry Blossom Festival brings a few thousand. I can handle this. Then in May the school groups start parking their buses in the right lane, backing up the already clogged arteries of our little city. In June it really starts, the dreaded family vacation.
A couple days ago I was having a particularly bad morning (overslept, discovered I was out of coffee) when I encountered the first of the summer family trips.
Transferring onto the Red line at Chinatown, I came up to the platform filled to the brim with morning commuters. This is normal. Annoying, but normal. I had to wait for two trains to pull up and fill to the max before I got close enough to the platform to hope I could squeeze onto the next train.
Then I heard them (despite my headphones) making a racket about the overcrowding and heat of the station.
Great.
The family of five pushed their way through the crowd to stand as close to the front of the gangway as possible. Screw the rest of us who have been waiting, they had sites to see. Who cares if we have livelihoods to earn.
When I finally got on the train, I watched annoyed as the family stood directly in front of the doors instead of heading to the center of the car to make room for more passengers even though the conductor repeated this piece of advice over and over as passengers filed on.
Their nine-year-old wrapped both arms around one of the upright poles and leaned his whole frame against it, making it impossible for anyone else to use it. His eleven-year-old brother decided he would best the Metro and refused to hold anything, attempting to “surf” the car as we pulled away from the station. He crashed into the woman in front of me, sending her crashing to me, I crashed into the guy behind me, etc., etc., etc.
The mother, a frumpy, haggard looking woman in her late thirties with a bright red fanny pack on her hip sat in the seats clearly marked reserved for the disabled and elderly. Her two-year-old daughter fidgeted in the seat next to her thus preventing the elderly gentleman that climbed on after them a seat. Behind me a mother holding a one-year-old on her lap (which is the proper thing to do) gave up her seat for the older man. The kind young woman with the baby stood, holding the child to her hip as she clung onto the bar on the back of the seat. The old man thanked her for the seat and offered to hold her child, she accepted.
This is my community.
Tweedle-Dee didn’t notice the sacrifice as she handed her toddler a bag of Cheerios. Fantastic. That ought to be fun clean up. I couldn’t help a small laugh as I noticed the sign across from them stating: “No Eating or Drinking.”
The father, Tweedle-Dip-Shit busied himself complaining about not getting a signal in the tunnel. Hello, we’re underground surrounded by concrete, what did you expect? He too leaned against one of the poles, hogging it for himself while other passengers tried in vain to reach to a spot above his head to prevent themselves from falling.
I watched them for three stops. They didn’t move out of the way as people scrambled on and off. They didn’t move to seats in the middle of the car. The toddler continued to smash her gummed Cheerios into the seat. Most of the ten minutes I spent trapped with them the Dad complained about the crowd. He couldn’t understand why anyone would want to live like this.
Bite me. I LIKE living like this.
At last I reached my stop and was mortified as I watched them gather their things to exit the train. Ignoring common courtesy, the family walked flanking each other toward the escalator, at a snails pace, trapping the commuters behind them. A few of us broke free and pushed past them at irritated paces. Unfortunately, I was not one of them. On the escalator they stood still, ignoring the long-standing rule of stand on the right walk on the left. For the third time I was stuck in close quarters with these invaders.
The whole time the dad bitched about how rude Washingtonians were. As if saying “excuse me,” was rude as they tried to pass on the left. Ha! At least they said “excuse me” and not “fuck off.”
I don’t want to be a total Debbie-Downer. Plenty of tourists move about my city with respect and ease. They enjoy their stay and I’m happy they get to experience my town. I particularly like that I hardly notice them.
But these were not those kinds of people. This family comes to Washington to see the Jefferson Memorial and to make fun of city dwellers. They buy day passes for the Metro and then make snide comments about the daily users. The hike to the Reflecting Pool and then bitch about how far it is.
Shesh.
I don’t love every city I’ve ever been to either. I think Paris is a terribly filthy city with rude people and smelly cheese. But I go to Paris to visit the Louvre and Notre Dame… I don’t have to like the cheese. I’m comfortable with that.
But even though I don’t love the Parisian lifestyle, I certainly wouldn’t be caught dead bitching about it as I strolled the street. It’s not very polite behavior of a guest. My mother taught me better than that.
Instead I save the bitching for the flight home, safely away from any of the inhabitants.
So please, would-be-cosmopolitans and globetrotters, show a little respect. You don’t have to like the way I live or how my city runs. Just keep your mouth shut ‘till the trip home or I’m gonna come visit you and complain about your Precocious Moments collection and the dastardly color of you shutters. I’ll put down the Jeffersonian inspired knock-off that is your city hall and refer to your favorite lunch spot as a greasy-spoon joint unsuitable for public consumption.
Doesn’t sound too pleasant does it? Yeah, didn’t think so.
So keep your trap shut.
