It's all downhill from here (goodbye DC)
It's all downhill from here (goodbye DC)
Two weeks from tomorrow, Seth and I are getting on a plane. It’s a one-way flight to Madison, Wisconsin, to our new house. That gives me two weeks to say goodbye to DC, my home of the past twelve years.
People have been asking me about my bucket list. And yes—there is a list of DC must-do’s that we’d never done before, and we’ve checked off most of them (the one missing hole being a tour at the Pentagon, which I’ve made my peace with). But what about revisiting the places I know and love? A favorite restaurant or a popular museum, things I will no longer have access to. Things I will miss. I’m not all that interested in that. The thing I will miss the most about DC is not attached to any fixed place or object.
When I first moved here, one thing I loved most was the anonymity. Being able to walk around without worrying who I’d see or who’d see me. Once, I spent the day biking around in a dress with no biking shorts. It was a windy day. My dress blew up more than a little too high more than once. This was not ideal but on the other hand, who cares? I was off and anyone who might have seen my undies was long gone. I used to bike everywhere, all the time. I once biked to a job interview in a raging thunderstorm, and when I arrived I peeled off my rain pants, raincoat, and helmet, and got the job. I’ve biked the 50 miles to Great Falls and back four Christmases in a row. I once biked down to Mount Vernon and inadvertently caused a slow and hilarious massive bicycle pile-up crash. (Everyone was fine except the one asshole who was riding my tail, and he was also fine after he stopped complaining). I biked to the airport more times than I can count. Once, I biked tipsily home from a date on quiet back streets and veered as far to the left and right as I could, enjoying the feeling of swooping close to the ground. Eventually, I fell. But no one was there, so I got back up. Once, I was biking with my friend through Georgetown when I pulled out my phone to take a photo. I braked the bike with my left hand and promptly flipped myself off the bike onto the street in the middle of traffic. I was going slowly; I was fine. It reminds me of the time I saw a child in Rock Creek Park playing on a scooter behind his family. He hit a rock and fell off the scooter, then stayed on the ground for a good twenty seconds, looking around to see if his family would notice. They didn’t. Eventually he got back on the scooter and caught up. Once, I biked to Maryland up the Capital Crescent trail in a snowstorm with my college boyfriend four weeks before he was killed in a hit-and-run. I also biked home the day he died, stopping at various points to cry. I had been out to lunch when I got the phone call. It was a sunny day. It was a downhill bike ride. All I had to do was let go. I once nearly biked into moving traffic, when I didn’t realize that the crosswalk light hadn’t turned, but a stranger stopped me. I considered her my angel. His angel. Years later, I remember biking from work to dinner, where I was going to eat French-Thai fusion with my now-husband, mom, and pseudo-grandmother, who had traveled from Illinois to visit me, meet Seth, and see DC, and while I was biking I was thinking that life couldn’t get any better, that I was going from a job I loved to see people that I loved, and that if I ended up dying in a crash right then, on the way to dinner, it would be almost fine, because my final thoughts would be: love. This thought was so strong it almost felt inevitable, so I biked extra carefully and stopped at every stop sign. It was a downhill bike ride, too.
“It’s all downhill from here.” There is a legend in my family that my dad said this to my mom in a toast on their wedding day. He was a cross-country runner, so he thought that phrase had positive connotations. And apparently everyone laughed because he got it wrong. But I get it. There is nothing like that downhill feeling that comes after you’ve worked so hard for so long.
One of the biggest differences between Seth and me is that when we were growing up, I wanted to fit in while he wanted to stand out. And as we’ve grown together, we’ve helped each other with our antipodal traits: I helped him become more okay with being a normal human who does normal things, while he inspired me to want to do more and be more uniquely myself. But at the end of the day, the core of me still likes to blend in. To stitch myself into my surroundings. I don’t think of it as an absence of self. I think of it more as an expansion. When I am part of the fabric that surrounds me, I feel whole. Or if not entirely whole, I feel more.
It’s hard to explain but I’ll try. A few days ago I had to get my blood drawn and the nurse was rude to me, but also very good at slipping in the needle and drawing it out quickly. I didn’t exist. I was a face in a sea of faces. Afterwards, a little lightheaded, I walked through the streets of downtown DC. Not the prettiest part of the District. Tall office buildings surrounding busy intersections. It was five o’clock on a Friday. But I felt wonderful. I had a sandwich in my backpack and I found a cafe that had closed down for the day but had tables and chairs set up outside. I sat at a table to eat my sandwich and watched the cars and people go by. Even in an ugly part of town I loved it. The day was done, the week was done, and I could stitch myself into a weekend of lovely weather and watch the world like I was watching a movie.
The moment was tarnished when an elderly couple stopped walking and stared at me. Or through me. They were too far to hear but I gathered they were trying to find coffee or food. I was in their way to the cafe. I was eating at a table, reminding them that they also wanted to eat at a table. I kept trying to ignore them—sorry, just wasn’t in the mood—but they kept standing there and staring in my direction. It took them ages to make the decision to walk up to the cafe door, only to find it closed and locked. They grumpily walked off.
Then I was free again. I was me again. I got on a bikeshare. No one notices you when you’re biking. The sun was setting, turning building windows pink. I could feel the wind breathe when I breathed. The city’s heart beat in time with my own. Its blood was overflowing, collected by nurses too tired to say hello.
Maybe that’s why when I think about DC and the moments that made me happiest, I think about biking. I think about moving through space so I can experience as much of it as possible. And how, biking, I am in command. No waiting for the metro, no waiting in traffic jams. I can weave through cars and bike on the sidewalk. I can fall down and get back up. I’ve learned a lot in twelve years. I’ve lived in seven different places with two dozen different people and woven myself into and out of the constantly evolving social fabric. I know which sidewalks still have paint marks from summertime construction. Plop me down anywhere in Rock Creek Park and I can find my way home. I know where all the poison ivy is.
I know this place and yet am still unknown. That’s what I love. That’s what I want to remember before we leave. My bike has since been stolen and my bikeshare membership expired, but I live on top of a hill, so I can still hop on a rental and say, It’s all downhill from here.
Nice piece! I miss DC everyday. I’m glad you have the mindfulness to enjoy it day by day!