Three days before I fly to Mexico, my friends and I meet at a bar in D.C. for a farewell bash. Half the crowd is from grad school, so there's a lot of academic talk mixed in with the typical D.C. wonkery, which is fine by me. I grew up here, but even I get tired of the standard D.C. conversations after a while. Fortunately, the other half of the crowd is non-academic, so I get some practice explaining my research without using jargon and then the conversation drifts naturally to other topics.
We're there maybe six hours, talking about international communication and diplomacy and online dating and Strasburg's debut, and the evening is complete when Michaele Salahi herself teeters through the crowd in a pair of strappy sandals, her hair a color and texture rarely observed in nature. Sure, she looks as if she's heading toward the bathroom, but I know why she's really here: to crash my party, of course.
I am definitely going to miss D.C.