HOME IS THE PLACE WHERE, WHEN YOU HAVE TO GO THERE…: A reader writes, “After reading the Old Oligarch’s post about the jackasses in Washington’s 911 office, I have to wonder why anyone would live in the city itself unless they had no other options–and the only folks I can think of in that category are people assigned to the Marine Barracks, Bolling AFB, and places like that. After thinking long and hard about the subject of life in the old stomping grounds (pardon the expression) I’ve come to the conclusion that the only sensible place to live is Virginia, where guns are legal and taxes are low [and UVA will take your kids–ed]. Anything I really want in the District, I can visit and support with my voluntary donations or my custom. …”

Well, I see the force of this, in a kind of raw-logic way, but man, this is home! Even now, when I schlep daily from a moderately-ugly block (beige apartment barracks, but also lovely cherry blossoms and statues) to a truly hideola block (hello, Lobbyist Row!), I like living in the District. I like knowing my anchor is stuck somewhere, first of all. I love many of the neighborhoods–there are several areas of DC where I’d love to raise a family (and they’re priced within the realm of reason–I’m not talking Gold Coast here). I love walking around town (despite my high heels). I feel responsible for this place, and I don’t feel anything like the same kind of responsibility for or understanding of Northern Virginia or Maryland. So I have no beef with people who ship out (like DC’s noir chronicler George Pelecanos), but I also can’t imagine it. I can picture just up and moving somewhere totally different–but living on the sidelines of my hometown? No way.

However, as a sequel to my post singing the praises of this little city, here’re four more of my DC experiences.

Reasons the police have been called to my parents’ house (since 1981; in a beautiful neighborhood that, for DC, is very safe): House broken into, house broken into, car stolen, mugging on front steps, disturbance in alley.

What I wore to bed two nights ago because my apartment building will not turn off the $#@!!! air conditioning: The usual nighttime gear, plus my warmest pair of pants; two sweaters; socks… and gloves. Yes, gloves. That’s just wrong. (“It is on until October,” the front desk tells me.)

When I slid down the tail of the triceratops: Before it moved from the Mall to the Zoo.

Thing I still remember from elementary school: Most of the Seven Kwanzaa Principles. My (excellent) school was named after a segregationist; yet it was also about 90% black, and Afrocentric before it was cool. Let’s see how many of the principles I can still remember: Nia, purpose; Kuumba, creativity; Umoja, unity; Imani, faith; Ujamaa, something vaguely socialist–maybe “collective economics”??; something that sounded like Kechugichagulia, but I forget what it means; and one missing one–maybe Kazi, work?? Let’s check–not too shabby. I’ve forgotten how to sing “Frere Jacques” in Swahili though…

Be it ever so humble, there’s no place like home. (“Thank God,” the rest of America mutters…)