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Arrive
Washington, D.C., was the murder capital of the US. The deaths peaked in 1991 when almost five hundred died that year out of a population of 606,901. Lafayette Park, next to the White House, was unsafe at night. Needle Park, a few blocks north, was also not recommended. East of 14th, forget it. And South East? Well, there, the Uzi was the weapon of choice.
When I had to hot-foot it to D.C. from North Carolina, I was terrified of making the wrong turn. I had been posted on contract to a firm in Virginia, and I needed to get to the nation’s capital for a Monday start.
A week prior, I had been at the bar of the Raleigh Marriott—it was the recommended hotspot—when my boss came up to me and declared, “You do not belong here.”
“You mean at the bar?” I asked her.
“No, here. North Carolina,” she responded, with a southern belle twang.
June 1992 - August 1993
じゅうよん. One Night in Shibuya สิบหก. A Blossom in the House