Time is of the essence: I've got 24 hours in DC and the sun is setting,
I am thinking about 2009 and 2010 when I lived in Washington DC and how it's so funny coming back to places. The poetry night I'm trying to get to is at Busboys and Poets. Will it be busy on a Tuesday night? Will I get a chance to do a poem?
The old Windsor Inn guesthouse where I'm staying is weathered but beautiful. Black and white photos of famous Americans line the reception desk and dated flowery decorations line the stairwell up to the fourth floor where I'm sleeping. I drop off my bags and now I am power-walking to U Street. From memory this is a safe area, but a lot can change in a decade. I was mugged on my doorstep in Tacoma Park once and that experience forever makes me extra jumpy on these streets after dark.
It's a beautiful July evening and the sun is still out. I see single women everywhere walking in yoga gear, on their phones, so I relax and enjoy the wide footpaths and historic houses and bright pink crepe myrtles.
I arrive and the poetry room is packed. I awkwardly join a couple's table, but they don't seem to mind. Busboys and Poets started in 2005 and now has venues all over the city (when I lived here there were two). The V Street location is the original and many would argue the best. Not only is there poetry, food, coffee and booze, but also an incredible book store. The name is dedicated to poet Langston Hughes, who worked as a busboy in DC before becoming famous.
There is no room for latecomers like me, but I don't mind. I feel like more of a bystander than I used to when I attended in my early 20s. Tonight I am observing American culture, not just participating. Living abroad does that to you. Nights like this made me want to regularly do poetry, made me feel like it was OK to have something to say.
The host Charity Blackwell is incredibly fun and supportive, creating a vibe for every single performer, be they poet or singer.
The feature poet - Jahman Hill from Birmingham, Alabama - gets up and I give a big applause - he's young, attractive and from the South. His poems are largely about race; he covers the brawl that happened in Montgomery, Alabama, last year. He recites a poem about all people's skin becoming white when they go to heaven. I'd love to stay and meet him but it's getting late and I think about safety and walking on the streets at night. I am antsy to get back to my room.
The next morning I help myself to some coffee and sit in the sun-dappled courtyard, slapping at the occasional mosquito and watching pedestrians and cars pass. I head back to U Street before I check out to just appreciate the bustling city. I have some Cuban coffee at "Colada Shop". It's not bad, not too sweet. "Come curious, leave Cuban" the paper cup reads.
I check out at 11am and head to the metro, the Green line to Gallery Place-Chinatown. I wish every city in the world was built like DC, with streets that are numerical, alphabetical, and named after states. It is hard to get completely lost here.
The afternoon is dedicated to immersing myself in the American Art Museum and the Portrait Gallery, two enormous (free) Smithsonian galleries. I particularly appreciate the Brilliant Exiles exhibition about American women in Paris in the Portrait Gallery and the Fighters for Freedom exhibition dedicated to justice and artist William H Johnson in the American Art Museum.
I wander around aimlessly, gloriously, until it's time to catch my train to the airport. I'm so stimulated, so moved by everything. When you only have a small amount of time, every poem, every person, every painting feels so special and important.
