An American in D.C.

WASHINGTON – I’m trying to feel homesick, but it’s hard to miss boredom. “D.C. is Disneyland for political junkies,” a friend once told me, and he’s right. Though the Kingdom of Pelosi isn’t the happiest place on earth – for Republicans, anyway – the city charms like a penny arcade.

Each day, my ride starts at the Winston Group, a Republican polling firm whose motto is “making ideas matter.” As an intern, I’ve learned that ideas are stubborn little things, which require hours of staring at spreadsheets to matter. But we’re making them for an important client, the GOP. With polls and focus groups, we help our candidates hear people’s concerns: gas prices, health care, jobs. What’s more, we’re honing a new message for Republicans to send voters in the fall. One that says we’re visionary, not reactionary. We can govern, not just win. And we won’t brag about G.D.P. We know you hate that.

When my shift ends, I leave the reconstruction of the party for another day, and join the wisdom of wonks whizzing through the streets. Amid the chaos, I continually bump into friends from past campaigns, proving that D.C. really is a small town. We pencil each other in – everyone has a schedule – and catch up at dinner, probably rescheduled several times. Fellow interns tell me where they are now; former staffers lament what could have been. Some call this “networking,” but I object: I actually like these people.

At night, the carnival on the Mall lures me from my room. Marble monuments and majestic museums are enticing enough. But the main attraction is the people, a carousel of tourists, history buffs, and schoolchildren. From my observations, I’ve made a few discoveries. First, I dress like a WWII veteran: polo shirt tucked into khaki shorts with a belt. Second, I don’t know as much history as I thought I did, at least compared to those pesky Virginians who can recite George Washington’s family tree from memory.

Lastly, I’ve realized that I’m a man adrift. Living in D.C. has cast doubts on my assumption that I would work in Boston or Hartford after college. Unfortunately, pondering a life here raises more questions: What will I do next summer? Should I try someplace else? Wasn’t summer when I was supposed to ignore these things? I keep waiting for a spasm of homesickness, when the violins trill, the clarinets wail, and I suddenly remember how much I miss home. But it never comes. And the most frustrating fact is that I can’t pinpoint what I like about the city. Maybe that’s part of the appeal.

Still, I can be persuaded. One day at the Smithsonian, I saw a young couple standing in front of an exhibit. With glasses tripping off his nose and tube socks nipping at his knees, the guy was a geek, explaining the intricacies of an esoteric display. The girl on his arm, however, was a beaut, listening attentively to everything he said. For this geek, it was enough to make me want a yearly pass.

–Brian J. Bolduc ‘10, a Crimson editorial editor, is an economics concentrator in Winthrop House.