Dear Washington, D.C.,
We need to talk.
Not in a “we should see other people” way, but in a “I have some feelings and they are wearing sensible walking shoes” way.
First of all, you are a lot. You are monuments, memorials, marble and power suits and school field trips and men in khakis explaining the Constitution like they personally drafted it over brunch. You are the physical embodiment of “group project where one kid does everything and the rest show up with a sense of unearned pride.”
And yet… I kind of love you.
I love how you make me feel like I should suddenly know things. Like I should have strong opinions about amendments, foreign policy, and which Founding Father had the most chaotic energy (it’s Alexander Hamilton. Obviously. The original theater kid with a death wish).
But Washington, D.C., you also exhaust me.
You make me walk everywhere like I’m training for the Olympics of Civic Responsibility. Every museum is “just a few blocks away,” which is apparently code for “put on your orthopedic inserts and emotionally prepare.” I came for culture and left with calves that could crack walnuts.
And don’t even get me started on the humidity.
You, my dear capital city, are moist in ways that should require consent. I stepped outside and immediately felt like a microwaved dumpling. My hair expanded like it was trying to filibuster gravity.
Still… your museums? Absolute show-offs.
You have museums about everything. Airplanes. Spies. Postal systems. Entire wars. Tiny artifacts that make you stand there whispering, “Wow,” like you’re at church but with better lighting. I walked through your halls pretending to be dignified, while internally thinking, This is the coolest nerd playground on Earth.
And then there were the hotels.
Listen. I don’t know what it is about me and certain hotel chains, but somehow when I visit you, Washington, D.C., I become the human equivalent of a dropped stack of papers. Keys don’t work. Elevators judge me. Bathrooms become philosophical challenges. I don’t know if it’s you, me, or Mercury in retrograde, but every trip turns into a sitcom episode where I am both the punchline and the laugh track.
And yet… Here I am smiling.
Because you are beautiful in that intimidating, “I own multiple blazers” kind of way. Your monuments glow at night like they know they’re famous. Your wide streets make me feel small in the best possible way, like history is standing there with its arms crossed, saying, “Pay attention. This stuff matters.”
You remind me that democracy is messy. Loud. Occasionally ridiculous. Frequently frustrating. And still worth showing up for.
So here’s my deal with you, Washington, D.C.:
I will keep visiting.
I will keep sweating through my outfit like a patriotic sponge.
I will keep walking your endless “short distances.”
And I will absolutely keep side-eyeing every hotel bathroom like it owes me money.
Because underneath the chaos, the humidity, and the miles of marble, you are fascinating. You are complicated. You are dramatic in a way that makes reality TV look under-researched.
And honestly? That’s kind of your charm.
With sore feet, mild dehydration, and a deep respect for comfortable footwear,
Kristen
*This is a rewrite of a 2019 post*
