Somewhere between the Rosslyn, Foggy Bottom and Dupont Circle Metro stops is the quite infamous part of D.C. called Georgetown.
I'm not sure if you've heard of it, but it is the home of a pretty prestigious university. A Jesuit school, I think. Whatever, either way they have the full faith and credit of big religion behind them and it shows; money doesn't seem to be an issue for the university (or anyone else there).
High up on the banks of the Potomac River, the university overlooks a little "downtown" shopping area that bears the same name. (Coincidence? I think not!) Cute little brick store fronts line Wisconsin, M and N Streets. Cobblestones. Brick sidewalks. Even wrought iron street lamps.
It was a town before the district was even created, serving as the last ocean-navigable port up the Potomac. Basically Georgetown's little homes date way back. At the turn of the 20th century, after it was annexed to the city of Washington and a major flood hit, it became a run-down, poor part of town.
Not that you could tell today that Georgetown wasn't always the "cultural" center it is now. When I visited this weekend to poke around, I noticed the original store fronts and homes are there with the same old brick facades, but filled with trendy stores, similar to what you might find in an upper-scale suburban mall. Or on Boston's Newbury Street.
There's no Metro stop actually in Georgetown, so getting there can be a hassle. Why no Metro? I'm glad you asked. No one really seems to know, but it is rumored around the city that the hoity-toity residents of Georgetown didn't want, uhhh, the other D.C. residents getting there easily and cheaply on public transportation. Wait, is that the same reason we still don't have a T stop at Tufts?
Of course this is just the urban folklore, and engineers did consider a station, but because of the proximity of the high river banks, it was deemed impractical at the time. That's the official party line. It has been discussed and debated for years, but nothing has been built.
But the urban legend reason sure does make sense; Georgetown seems like just that kind of place. We walked into Ralph Lauren and I almost started hemorrhaging. I had been to the Newbury location before, but for some reason this place gave me instant vertigo, nausea and nosebleeds.
There was a guy in his early 20s standing there who looked like he fell off his Nantucket yacht and somehow made his way to this particular store, unharmed and completely dry.
Aviators rested on his curly brown hair ($119). A pink classic-fit seersucker shirt ($125) with a Pima cotton crewneck sweater ($97) tied around his neck. Custom-fit patchwork madras pants ($125) and a washed cotton braided belt ($55). Finnegan Boat Shoes ($325). Looking absolutely ridiculous if he were to go anywhere else in D.C. besides Georgetown: priceless. There are some things money can't buy, for everything else there's elitism or daddy.
I guess he was just there to serve as eye candy or something; he didn't serve any other purpose but to greet us, smile and make us feel incredibly poor. And inferior. Mainly poor. Unpaid internships are killer!
As if a $475 cashmere sweater wasn't enough to make us catch the first bus home and weep in a cellar, we stopped in Rugby for some cheering up. Then the Gap. Then the United Colors of Benetton. Then Puma. It didn't help.
After shopping, I was in the mood for a nice cup of coffee at some fun local coffee shop like the one I frequent in Dupont. That shop features funky artwork on the wall, crazy music on the radio, free wireless internet and employees in T-shirts and jeans who remember your name. We couldn't find a place like that on M or Wisconsin, so we stopped at Starbucks.
I guess I expected more from Georgetown. I expected the individuality that Harvard Square used to be so famous for and that Davis Square is still famous for. I expected it to be more than just an outdoor mall where corporatism trumped history and where money trumped everything else.
For dinner we decided to dine at J.Paul's, this all-American, flag-waving pretzel-serving saloon right on M Street, in the heart of it all. Next to H&M and across the way from Uno's, you know, the usual - historically accurate.
I went up to the counter to ask to put my name "on the list" for a table. The four young, Gucci-ed hostesses (no lie) gazed blankly into the restaurant touch screen computer before them. The blonde at the keyboard started typing away furiously, like she was an airline employee looking to book me a last minute flight to Cancun for spring break. "Ah yes, Mr. Bologna, let me see, would you like an aisle seat next Tubby McTubberson or a window seat near the rear lavatory?"
Instead she (I can't even remember which clone) informed me that it would be about 35 minutes. Great. I sat at the bar with my over-21 friend and watched as she enjoyed her drink ... after drink ... after drink. While I enjoyed our delightful little conversation on how to fix the Middle East in four easy steps, it seemed like we had been waiting for ages. I returned to the desk and asked about my table. I was kindly reminded by drone No. 3 that it had "only been 12 minutes" since I last checked. Who's counting?
The decision was made that I shouldn't ever return to the desk if I ever wanted to see a table this century. I didn't have enough cash left to my name after the Diesel store, so I wasn't about to flash a nice crisp dollar bill for the four hostesses to share. Instead I sent my friend, a tall, blond, blue-eyed, well-endowed Midwestern young lady, to inquire and knock 'em dead. "Table for Jamie?" said drone No. 1 to the other, still looking down at the electronic seating thing.
"Not that one," said No. 4, typing into the computer with increased fervor. "The short guy with the fake Mohawk? Yeah, it will be just another few minutes."
Jamie Bologna is a junior majoring in political science. You can e-mail him at James.Bologna@tufts.edu.
