Southern hospitality doesn’t exist in Washington DC

Just because it’s below the Mason-Dixon doesn’t mean the locals are friendly


It was a Friday afternoon with the bright, glaring Washington sun bombarding that city, reminding all that strode through its bustling streets that this was summer in a swamp. The stately buildings on all sides promised not only dignity but air conditioning.

Nevertheless, like so many other desk workers in the City of Magnificent Intentions, I left the comfort of my Pennsylvania Avenue office to eat lunch at one of the food trucks on 15th Street, on the east side of President’s Park. In that kind of pricing environment, the bright yellow livery of food trucks means food you can afford.

15th street from the Ellipse.

I went to one of the food trucks hungry, finally escaping, if only temporarily, the tedium of office work. I ordered a polish sausage on a hot dog bun, some sour cream and onion potato chips, and an A&W root beer – standard fare. I noticed these food trucks, with all their colorful pictures of food, captioned “HAMBURGER,” “ICE CREAM,” “HOT DOG,” etc., did not have any identifying names on them. These were generic food trucks, but the food they produced was top of the line.

I sat down on a bench when I had my food, and expected quiet. What I got was something other than the quiet that introverted, aloof Washington generally provides.

A bench on 15th street.

Two mothers and two children, both with thick Southern accents suggesting a home state far beyond the Beltway, had ordered food and approaching my bench. The first sign they were not locals was their drawl. The second sign was that they wanted to sit on my bench.

Washington is a claustrophobic, paranoid city, where those greeting strangers are assumed to be predators and shills. Those who seek a seat do so away from benches that are already occupied, partially out of respect for fellow citizens’ privacy, partially out of fear they will be mugged.

Looking north on 15th street.

“If you ask nicely, maybe he’ll let you sit next to him,” said one of the mothers. I obliged, not wanting to be rude, but still very much noticing what in Washington would be a transgression. The two children, one boy and one girl, took the spots next to me, sitting in front of bottled soda (and we call it “soda”).

“Don’t spill your pop,” the mothers said to their children. It dawned on me that to many in this city, these people were as foreign as people from another country entirely. The often celebrated “Southern hospitality” has no sway in the City of Magnificent Distances, where the exuberant are held to be disingenuous and the friendly as snake oil salesmen at best. We don’t wave to each other. We don’t greet each other. And we sure as hell do not sit next to each other on benches.

Pedestrians on 15th street.

I can’t say why I know why this is, but I have some clues. We in the beltway have front row seats to the filibustering and the hot air of the Federal Government, and we are uniquely attuned to when politicians want our vote. We can hear it in every speech, read it in every editorial, because we know what it takes to get elected. This leads to an assumption that anyone you don’t know who is kind really wants something from you, be it money, a vote, or something else.

Or perhaps it is because of what our area has seen. With the aura of stark security and and coldness towards our fellow human beings, we aren’t likely to reciprocate kindness when it is given.