There’s a little triangle at the intersection of Connecticut Avenue, Columbia Road, and California Street – a little world of mine.
Towering over the skyline is the curved façade of the Washington Hilton, my gateway through DC. As an overanxious high schooler in an oversized suit, I was mesmerized by Georgetown students and their fervent desire to make their mark – attending NAIMUN is why I chose DC to be my home. The Hilton remained a constant through my Februarys, and on the organizing team I met Alex, the exceedingly competent and secretly hilarious Chief of Staff who would become my future roommate.
Walk down Connecticut Avenue and you might notice a gym in its last days. I first joined the Washington Sports Club (WSC) when our college gym was closed for COVID. After graduating, my morning ritual of an uphill bike turned into a short stroll down to WSC, timed perfectly to Kendrick Lamar’s “Collard Greens.” Immersed in the day’s news or music, I would only take my earbuds out to ask someone to spot me – and they’d always say yes. A few months ago, WSC changed it’s name to the New York Sports Club, and decided to close down this branch.
A little farther down Connecticut, past Dupont Circle’s board game bars and political bookstores, was my office. A haven for free Friday lunches, inspiring conversations, and extra chargers – where happy hours debriefing projects with colleagues turned into weekends spent with friends.
Walk up Columbia Avenue to Adams Morgan, and you might experience every feeling I’ve ever felt. On Sunday mornings, this Avenue has seen focused and upbeat walks up with soccer cleats in my hand, and regularly disappointed walks back (more on my soccer team here). On weekday afternoons, it’s seen casual catch-ups on the way to tennis with Alex – a far better player and a graciously patient teacher. And of course, it’s seen the energetic Friday night rallies, herding groups of friends to Johnny Pistolas, because a reliably good night was only 15 minutes and a jumbo slice away.
If you turn back and go up California Street, the brief row of apartment buildings gives way to the beautiful homes of Kalorama – where embassies become neighbors when they let you use their parking. Somewhere in this transition, you’ll find a narrow alley that led to our apartment.
Filled with sunlight and an unused fireplace, it forgave two ungifted interior decorators whose inconsistent design choices couldn’t stop it from becoming the perfect home. It let us work, cook and enjoy how we wanted while giving us the literal space to grow, a perfect foundation for our entry into “adult life.” For Alex - the best party planner in the District – its white walls were a canvas for game nights, murder mysteries, and our classic “mixer mixers.” And the longer the morning clean-up took, the better we knew the night went.
This little triangle between Dupont, Adams Morgan, and Kalorama, looking out at where I lived – in every sense of the word.
In my six years living in DC, there were times where I wanted to leave more than anything. And, there were times where the only thing I wanted was to be back. As a result, my family has driven a slightly evolving set of belongings up and down I-95 countless times. Last weekend – for the first time – I packed without needing to leave, and without knowing when I’ll be back.
Two years ago, I signed the lease for our California Street while in San Francisco. And this week, when our lease concluded, I’m headed back to the Bay Area to work for UPSIDE Foods, the world’s first cultivated meat startup (more on this later).
Maybe this was a time I felt I needed to leave DC. But already – whether it’s in a few months or years – I know I’ll be back.