Georgetown is like the ultimate clash of civilizations. People come from all over to visit the capital of the “greatest country on earth” and those people proceed to flock to the Georgetown shopping district, a place where a meal will set you back $15+ and women in Louboutins chat on their blackberries next to barefoot homeless men. Walking down M St, you’re likely to overhear dozens of languages and chances are someone will ask you for directions in broken English. Rich women from the Middle East, students from Western Europe, and groups of enthusiastic Asian kids who revel in American fashion crowd the small blocked sidewalks, and I somehow feel out of place with my unassuming purse, red headphones, and denim button-down.

It was Saturday night after all, the weekly peak hour for the neighborhood. Drunk rich kids are attracted like magnets at this time, and I was going against the waves of people, snaking around the crowds to get out of there as efficiently as possible. Georgetown gets claustrophobic.

I worked all day and closed up the shop, finally being able to leave around 9:30. I stopped along the way, however, to get some Vietnamese take-out at a restaurant that had some decent albeit unauthentic food. I sat at the bar while waiting for my order, grilled meats over vermicelli, and the bartender gave me a Mudslide on the house. It was nice, considering I was someone who didn’t belong. “You look tired” he said. I responded with “probably because I am”. He laughed and said “me too”.

It really is a shame; I almost forgot that the thousands of people who work in Georgetown are just like me.