I
Breaking my usual habit of setting out for walks mid-morning, I first had an 11:30 hair appointment, during which I had my hair cut and colored for the first time! Very exciting. So I struck forth from my neighborhood at 2 pm, already hungry for lunch. On the way to the Metro station, I stopped at our new Starbucks (subject of much local controversy) for coffee and a lunch special (sandwich, chips, banana and water bottle for $8.95). I didn't really want the banana and water bottle, but the staff strongly encouraged me. Why do businesses offer you lower prices to get more stuff than you need? Why did I comply?
The Starbucks, far from seeming corporate and sterile, was like everyplace else in my neighborhood: chaotic. The employees were having far too much fun together. Nobody seemed to know how to work the register. Customers were treated as potential friends. This is the egalitarian, crazy, joyful, infuriating vibe of Takoma Park.
After lunch, I took the red and orange line trains to the Eastern Market station, near Capitol Hill. There was a pleasant grassy plaza where I emerged from underground. Directly across D St., there was another Starbucks, and I stopped there as well, for a cup of green tea and the chance to write some notes for an article. Once again, I realized, I had forgotten my camera.
Afterwards, I walked down 8th St.-- with a brief detour over to 9th-- towards the Washington Navy Yard. 8th St. seemed to be a diverse, active business district, but the residential areas barely off this thoroughfare were sleepy, quiet, with an occasional dad-and-stroller or neighbors chatting on the stoop. The townhouses here were smaller than in Adams-Morgan, and the gardens less manicured, but the buildings were painted in bright, cheery colors and might have been described as "cute." I bet these streets are still expensive. What really set this neighborhood apart from other places in DC, though, was the presence of random military personnel everywhere. Outside the Marine Barracks, there was a uniformed guy standing as if on guard, but not really on guard, just for show, like the ones at Buckingham Palace. In fact, standing on the corner with his hips thrust forward, he looked more like a stripper wearing a military uniform than an actual member of our armed forces. Other similar guys were on other corners, standing around formally. Meanwhile pairs of uniformed men strolled about chatting, and a neighborhood beer garden was full of naval officers (I think) wearing service khakis. I felt as though I'd been transported momentarily back to 1942.
So I walked all the way down to the Naval Yard (beautiful buildings here), then reversed course and returned to I St., at which point I zig-zagged northwest through another residential neighborhood, ending up at attractive Marion Park and then heading back east towards the Eastern Market Metro station. Interestingly, this residential area west of 8th was markedly different than the one on the east side, though they were only blocks apart. The townhouses were not as brightly colored here-- the buildings favored a kind of 1970s bland taupe, the gardens featured minimalist evergreen shrubberies, and the people on the street appeared somewhat less prosperous. I'm no real estate expert, but I'm thinking those blocks are more affordable.
The trail took me through an alley (F St. Terrace) which is apparently one of the few DC alleys which still has a significant number of unique residences facing onto it. The sign there explained that such alley residences used to be much more numerous in the city. Apart from perhaps safety and lighting concerns, it seemed like an ideal place to live: quiet and private, plenty of vegetation, and facing the grounds of a pretty church.
Today's short walk actually took me through most of the Barracks Row trail, but I will return and visit Eastern Market, at trail's end, another day.
Breaking my usual habit of setting out for walks mid-morning, I first had an 11:30 hair appointment, during which I had my hair cut and colored for the first time! Very exciting. So I struck forth from my neighborhood at 2 pm, already hungry for lunch. On the way to the Metro station, I stopped at our new Starbucks (subject of much local controversy) for coffee and a lunch special (sandwich, chips, banana and water bottle for $8.95). I didn't really want the banana and water bottle, but the staff strongly encouraged me. Why do businesses offer you lower prices to get more stuff than you need? Why did I comply?
The Starbucks, far from seeming corporate and sterile, was like everyplace else in my neighborhood: chaotic. The employees were having far too much fun together. Nobody seemed to know how to work the register. Customers were treated as potential friends. This is the egalitarian, crazy, joyful, infuriating vibe of Takoma Park.
After lunch, I took the red and orange line trains to the Eastern Market station, near Capitol Hill. There was a pleasant grassy plaza where I emerged from underground. Directly across D St., there was another Starbucks, and I stopped there as well, for a cup of green tea and the chance to write some notes for an article. Once again, I realized, I had forgotten my camera.
Afterwards, I walked down 8th St.-- with a brief detour over to 9th-- towards the Washington Navy Yard. 8th St. seemed to be a diverse, active business district, but the residential areas barely off this thoroughfare were sleepy, quiet, with an occasional dad-and-stroller or neighbors chatting on the stoop. The townhouses here were smaller than in Adams-Morgan, and the gardens less manicured, but the buildings were painted in bright, cheery colors and might have been described as "cute." I bet these streets are still expensive. What really set this neighborhood apart from other places in DC, though, was the presence of random military personnel everywhere. Outside the Marine Barracks, there was a uniformed guy standing as if on guard, but not really on guard, just for show, like the ones at Buckingham Palace. In fact, standing on the corner with his hips thrust forward, he looked more like a stripper wearing a military uniform than an actual member of our armed forces. Other similar guys were on other corners, standing around formally. Meanwhile pairs of uniformed men strolled about chatting, and a neighborhood beer garden was full of naval officers (I think) wearing service khakis. I felt as though I'd been transported momentarily back to 1942.
So I walked all the way down to the Naval Yard (beautiful buildings here), then reversed course and returned to I St., at which point I zig-zagged northwest through another residential neighborhood, ending up at attractive Marion Park and then heading back east towards the Eastern Market Metro station. Interestingly, this residential area west of 8th was markedly different than the one on the east side, though they were only blocks apart. The townhouses were not as brightly colored here-- the buildings favored a kind of 1970s bland taupe, the gardens featured minimalist evergreen shrubberies, and the people on the street appeared somewhat less prosperous. I'm no real estate expert, but I'm thinking those blocks are more affordable.
The trail took me through an alley (F St. Terrace) which is apparently one of the few DC alleys which still has a significant number of unique residences facing onto it. The sign there explained that such alley residences used to be much more numerous in the city. Apart from perhaps safety and lighting concerns, it seemed like an ideal place to live: quiet and private, plenty of vegetation, and facing the grounds of a pretty church.
Today's short walk actually took me through most of the Barracks Row trail, but I will return and visit Eastern Market, at trail's end, another day.
II
Two weeks later, my hair was already noticeably longer; my Metro line was under repair and it took me three trains this time to arrive at the Eastern Market station. I was determined. Fueled by an early hour of reading in the cafe down the street, drinking an almond milk cappuccino, I felt enough at peace to calmly navigate the system.
Two weeks later, my hair was already noticeably longer; my Metro line was under repair and it took me three trains this time to arrive at the Eastern Market station. I was determined. Fueled by an early hour of reading in the cafe down the street, drinking an almond milk cappuccino, I felt enough at peace to calmly navigate the system.
7th Street.
Once out of the station, this time turning north up 7th Street, I admired the fall foliage that combined with colorful buildings for a festive, though decidedly upscale, effect in the bright sunshine. Somehow I managed to be surprised, yet again, by how quickly the character of a DC neighborhood changes from block to block. Nobody could have questioned for a moment that the neighborhood I was walking through was very wealthy, even though the architecture was not so imposing as in Adams Morgan. Lovely cafes and bookshops. Subtle, trendy colors. Double-wide strollers and people seemingly at leisure. Even though we're quite near the heart of DC here, it wasn't the fast-paced, suits-and-high-heels world of my husband's office-- all neutrals, wide busy sidewalks and cell phones-- but the world of soft-focus Instagram photos, moms with placid babies and perfect sneakers, autumn picturesque and foodie heaven. Which brings me to Eastern Market, not the Metro stop, but the actual market.
I attempted to take a picture of the stroller room, but was in such continual danger of being run over by passing strollers that I could not get a good shot nor hold the camera still. I had imagined Eastern Market for years, had heard it was legendary for its seafood and-- I thought-- its international offerings, but had never been there. Without any real evidence to back up my vision, I had imagined it as a busy, chaotic, smelly, cheap, enormous marketplace with many vendors, selling fish of all kinds, questionable meats, produce, street foods of all ethnicities: basically, unthinkingly, supposing it to have been transplanted from some noisier, more vibrant nation and plunked down in the middle of Capitol Hill. How likely was that? Entirely inaccurate, as it turns out. Perhaps it was once that way. But now, at any rate, the long brick building houses a small array of butchers, fishmongers, produce-sellers, and bakers whose wares are arranged so neatly and photogenically that they might as well be part of a magazine feature. Beautiful, appealing, but-- at least at 11:00 on a Thursday-- not very crowded, and certainly neither smelly nor cheap. I headed first for a restroom, and in a sort of nearby conference hall encountered the largest convention of fancy strollers I have ever seen in my life. They had toddlers associated with them, and women who appeared to be mostly nannies, but it was the strollers that dominated the room, with people merely filling in the narrow gaps between them. It was some kind of morning early-childhood enrichment activity, that was plain, but I would have fled from the room in claustrophobic terror, had I been one of those women.
After the restroom, I browsed Eastern Market's wares. Certainly the meat selection was excellent, and ranged from pig's ears and feet to the finest steaks. Even the pig's feet were arranged with a view to attractiveness, though. I bought two large slices of country ham (the super-salty southern kind, which my husband loves and which is not available everywhere); then, at an artisan pasta counter, I bought some fresh pumpkin fettuccine and a container of mushroom marinara sauce, because my kid was planning to make pasta for dinner. Finally, from the tempting bakery at the far southern end, I purchased two turnovers for my husband who'd been specifically craving turnovers, a slice of poundcake, and a pineapple-peach muffin. This poundcake, incidentally, was the best poundcake I have ever tasted. It was like the frozen Sara Lee poundcakes I loved so much in my youth (which may not sound like a compliment, but it is), except homemade and so, so much better. And I do not even want to know how much butter there was in it, because it was dense beyond belief. I think I am now beginning to confound my walking vs. eating posts. None of my purchases were inexpensive-- although I probably paid less than I might have for products of the same high quality in a different setting.
So, this was the end of the Barracks Row trail: a trip to a very nice supermarket. And then back to the series of trains, and home through the unseasonable muggy heat to enjoy my baked goods. If my portrait of this neighborhood remains indistinct, that is because my impressions were indistinct. What do the Marines in uniform have to do with the nannies and gourmet foods, or the drab apartment buildings with the picturesque alleyways? I don't know either.
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