The Silos of DC

Every time I move to a new place, finding a gym is at the top of my to-do list. Often, it ends up being the case, as it was in Algiers and Rabat, that the U.S. Embassy gym is the best option. In Princeton, it was the Princeton University gym until I found a delightful boutique circuit training studio called Locomotion in an old auto garage with a clientele that was more age-appropriate for me than undergrads. Locomotion was workout ideal: A challenging, high-energy class of about 15 people, led by coaches who had planned great routines, good music, and a congenial and social vibe. So when I moved to DC at the start of the summer, I set out to find that sort of gym. I started at Orangetheory, a chain that seems to have taken over the boutique gym scene, well, everywhere.

Orangetheory gives you a free class and I take it most everyone signs up for a (pricy) membership after that free class. I liked the workout a lot – fast-paced, motivating music, a great coach – but I told the membership gal about my workout ideal from Princeton: a smaller place where everybody knows your name, and said I’d only just moved back to DC so I wanted to shop around a bit and see if I could find such a place in the much bigger city that is DC. She looked genuinely shocked and called me later to tell me that Orangetheory actually has a great community and would I please come back on a weekday and try it again? As I walked through the door for a Monday afternoon class, the front desk staff nudged each other and four or five people said “Emily!” “It’s Emily!” “Oh hello Emily!” Oh no. A young employee sat me down at a table and told me her story of how Orangetheory improved her health, tacking on the word “community” to the end of the story. Then, they paired me up with a “workout buddy” who seemed to be under the impression that I was terrified of exercise. She assured me I had nothing to fear and then the other folks waiting for the class got in on it, and suddenly a group was telling me not to be scared and I snapped and said “I am not scared to work out! It’s just I thought I could find a smaller gym, but maybe I can’t. I don’t know.” I put my head down and went into the class. The coach, who’s leading a workout via a headset mic in perfect precision, a workout I assume has been passed down and scripted from the corporate offices, said my name A LOT during this class. “Come on Emily!” “Let’s all give it up for Emily!” Just because I’d mentioned a prior gym where everyone knew my name didn’t mean I wanted a gym where everyone said my name. Repeatedly.

Did I join Orangetheory despite this sort of embarrassing experience? Yes I did. I figured there was no way out of it. And, I do have to say, I love it. The dark space, the loud, energizing music, someone telling me what to do, the energy radiating from the other, silent, members. There were so many days when I felt desperately sad this summer in the early months of my separation, and going to an Orangetheory class gave me something to do and a mood boost. It did not give me community, though.

Because a gym in DC is just that: It’s a place to work out. It is not a place to socialize, to make friends. It is not a pickup spot. The few times I’ve tried to chat up people in class afterwards are generally met with a look of confusion, as in “You’re talking me here? Why?”

I’ve come to realize that everything in DC is like this. Everything is it’s own thing and nothing else. The gym is the gym. Work is work. Sunday mornings are for the hyper-productive forms of activity that pass for leisure in this town, while Sunday afternoons to early evenings are for preparing for the work week. Your friend group from college is closed to newcomers, and your neighborhood friend group frowns upon bringing outsiders to social events. The grocery store is for efficient collection of the ingredients, not for talking. The bar is really probably just for hanging out with your own friends. You want to make new friends? There’s a Meetup for that. (It’s right there in the name). You’re trying to meet someone to date? There’s a time and place for that and it’s nighttime on the dating apps. (I think. I haven’t gotten on the apps yet).

It is not like this everywhere, this “time and a place for everything” stuff. It’s actually the total opposite when living abroad and working at embassies. The embassy is work, it is friends, it is your doctor’s office (embassies have a health unit for American employees to use). It is your gym. Embassy romances are not at all frowned upon, so it is that too. This sort of all encompassing vibe that comes with working at U.S. Embassy abroad definitely has it’s drawbacks (everyone knows all your biz) but it has it’s perks too! There’s something that feels authentic about it. I would meet a colleague, like them, initiate a friendship, maintain both a professional and social relationship, get to know their families and other friends, travel with them, maintain that friendship for years and locations to follow. There is a naturalness to that sort of human connection that felt like real life.

The siloed nature of DC can make it hard to find connection here. Here’s one antidote I’ve discovered: DC has a wonderful live music scene. There are a handful of not-small-but-still-intimate venues (9:30 Club, The Anthem, Atlantis, Black Cat) that, between them, have concerts pretty much every night of the week. Since July, I’ve been going to shows frequently, and that communal happy crowd vibe, just a group of people letting loose and enjoying art together, really has hit the spot. One evening, back in October, I was in an Orangetheory class and there was a moment on the treadmill where I was vibing with the music and I was flooded with adrenaline and the desire to go out on the town and hear live music. I looked at who was playing and a band called Frenship was taking the stage at the Black Cat a few hours later. I listened to them on Spotify, and thought their poppy dance music with great lyrics was just want I wanted. I couldn’t get any friends to come with. Could I go to a show by myself? I though how if I was in a foreign city, say Amsterdam, I would absolutely go to a show alone. So I put on a hot outfit, made a getting-ready dirty martini, and called a Lyft. Let me tell you, going to a concert alone is really fun. Freeing. And I’ve been listening to Frenship like crazy ever since.

When I moved to Washington DC from Kalamazoo, Michigan in the year 2006, I felt I had found my people. In college at Western Michigan University, I was called “grandma” by my college friends, and in retrospect, while I did have a few jobs and kept a nice home, those things shouldn’t have aged me by 50 years! In DC, I wasn’t called grandma because everyone had a plethora of hobbies and interests and was productive, chatty, and smart. I always said I could have a great conversation with anyone in DC – a child, a cab driver, a barista, a man on a park bench, a fancy person at a hobnobbing cocktail party. I don’t think that’s changed in my time away — the people in DC are as smart and interesting as ever — it would just be a matter of having those conversations in the appropriate time and place.

My years living abroad have changed me. I’m more curious, more confident, less afraid of looking dumb, more eager to search for commonalities among people, and I have an even greater desire for community and connection. The hyper-productive, individualistic, self-important parts of DC culture are no longer attractive to me, if they ever were. The siloed nature of this town is something I just might fight to break.

More soon,

Emily