Eric Milford :: Web Developer & Food Advocate

I sat under a street light along 8th Avenue at 14th Street reading A Confederacy of Dunces. It was nearly 3AM on a near-perfect night. These are my favorite hours of the day; peaceful, reflective. The small, normally unnoticed details suddenly standout. The building across the street, with its broad front and many columns of windows, reminds me of Bonn. In the upper corner read Steak House. The horns of impatient cab drivers are more frustrating at this hour and a man near me plays thumb drums on the table. His rhythm is horribly off.

An older man pulled from his cigarette and asked how I read here at this hour. I could have done without the small talk, but still politely entertained his question. His finger pointed out to a bar on the street corner as he let me in on a little secret. He stared at me as if to suggest I head there now. I had on gym shorts and sneakers, not to mention no desire for the sort. A group of women walked out. The man obnoxiously let out a cat call from across the street. I wondered if such tactics had ever worked. For any man, anywhere. I think I know the answer. He said in parting that he preferred reading to jazz. At that moment I, quite frankly, could care less. I continued reading.

I passed a homeless man on my walk home. He was hunched over asleep. His cart of belongings was covered in American flags. I could feel his pride. I wanted to ask his story, but continued walking. I enjoy talking to people; our lives, I find, are often so interesting. Perhaps another time.

I finally get it.

There is a genuine love and appreciation for this town. I'm quite certain it is unparalleled. There is a level of pride found within its inhabitants. I admittedly never really understood. But I am beginning to see; as I explore neighborhoods, interact with the locals, and begin to find my place. The energy -- the life beat and sensory overload. It makes everywhere else seem to stand still. The overwhelming abundance of choice, opportunity, and possibility. The millions of people who inhabit it. It's making sense.

I'll manage anywhere thanks to my life experiences, but I never truly fit in DC. That has become significantly more apparent and prevalent as I teeter on the border of my 30s. DC has a mold and it's a mold that I quite simply do not fit. It's not that I can relate to each and every person on the New York City streets. Lord knows the majority here are the yin to my yang in every way conceivable. But here that's okay. There is a comfort in being different and I appreciate that.

This place is a people watcher's dream - history, struggle, culture, diversity. Stimuli -- some good, some bad. There is variety, oddness, acceptance, and style. DC inhabitants seem to have stemmed from the same stencil. We work the same jobs, dress in the same dull, unimaginative fashion, and share similar interests. I work for "the State Department" (or as some prefer, Treasury). I work on "The Hill" for Congressman/woman so-and-so. I work for [insert non-profit] to end/help/fight [insert cause]. It is flat.

It is beyond freezing. The wind is piercing, funneled down the chute-like city streets by a cross pattern of building after building. Yet still the city is saturated with life. Runners -- they're still crazy in my eyes, but they persist nonetheless. There are children in the parks, playing basketball and skateboarding. The dog park is a fury frenzy of wrestling, fetch, and tail chasing, as owners converse with other owners. The cold, and probably anything for that matter, simply can not slow the pulse of this town.

Anyway, much yet to say and experiences to share. But for now, I have people to meet and places to be.