Often, no, most of the time, when I’m down here it feels like I could be in just about any suburb in America, even though the political intrigue of DC is less than 13 miles away. My sisters don’t act like Washingtonians and I don’t think they feel like they are either. They are citizens of Costco and Starbucks and Wegmans supermarket and the increasingly complex — geometrically, anyway — “strip” malls which are the dots the lines of their daily lives connect. These dots and lines reveal a serrated picture that, to me, is sometimes soothing, often boring, periodically compelling and somehow wrong.
Last week, though, even before the Italian dinner at which I was the well-known Mister Funny, we drove in, early AM, to drop off my niece at Union Station. The younger niece wanted to go to Georgetown Cupcakes (it’s famous!), which I was certain would be open, since what kind of bakery ignores a breakfast crowd?
It was closed ’til 10.
But the wise management of Sprinkles, just down the street, flung open their doors at the crack of 9, so we went there instead.
I thought.
However, my niece still wanted to go to the other one.
And we did.
Then, while we were waiting in line (they only allowed a few people in at a time, like the Loft Bar in Edinburgh on a busy night), some bicyclists shouted that another place, Baked and Wired, was better.
So, we went!
We took all the cupcakes home — 9 between the 3 of us — and shared them that night. Sprinkles was best.
Apparently, the owner is a judge on “Cupcake Wars.” His or her jurisprudential chops — cupcake-wise — are sound.
City livin’, baby.
Oliver Douglas don’t know shit.