Anne's House

So, I moved recently.
Most of you know I was living in an apartment that I loved in Alexandria, Virginia, and everything was working out great. Over Thanksgiving, my boss emailed me with a generous offer - she wanted me to live with her friend, Anne, and help her out occasionally in exchange for free rent. I emailed her back and basically said thanks, but no thanks. I was grateful that she had thought of me but I was happy where I was.

Then everything else in my life proceeded to fall apart until it became clear that living with Anne was my only real option.

So one Thursday I woke up and decided to move. I proceeded to pack all my things, enlist my friend Andrea, and move all my stuff to my new home at DuPont Circle. So if you were startled by the news that I moved, well, so was everyone. Including me.

I live in my own room tucked away in the back, on the third floor of a huge townhouse. I have my own little porch which I think is going to become my favorite place once this stupid cold weather goes away. From the porch I can look over the rooftops of DC and feel like Mary Poppins. The townhouse is, as previously mentioned, huge. The ceilings on the first floor are high and the walls and furniture on every floor are covered with art and sculpture and pottery that Anne and her husband have collected from various countries over the years.

The street I live on is a row of equally beautiful townhouses, each with a gold stamp on the brick by the front door announcing that the facade is protected by the historical society. The surrounding neighborhoods are dotted with embassy compounds from just about every country around the world.

DuPont Circle is as close as you can get to the heart of the city while still living in a house, without living right on the Hill. It's a fun part of town full of restaurants and shops, within walking distance of downtown DC and Georgetown.

There are two other girls, about my age, who live on the same floor as I do, and we all share a bathroom with an ancient green tub that sits on golden clawed feet. I didn't realize, I think, my good luck in getting this amazing spot, for free, until I was talking to one of the other girls who said she was on a waiting list for 3 YEARS to get the room she's in, at the front of the house.

Anne lives in the room below mine. She's 83 years old, a former psychotherapist who retired only 2 years ago, and wife to a former diplomat who died some time ago.

I've learned that time moves more slowly in Anne's house. It's a funny thing sometimes to get home from my office, where we're always rushing to meet some deadline, to the kitchen at Anne's house, where Anne spends hours sometimes cooking meals. I'll sit on the stool in the corner while she, with shaking hands, deliberately chops vegetables or slices bread. Occasionally she'll let me help, but usually I'm supposed to sit and listen to stories.

I've also learned that we don't skip breakfast at Anne's house. Breakfast is sacred. The looks I got the first few mornings when I declined Anne's invitation to join her at the table as I rushed off to work taught me quickly.

Now I get up earlier, and Anne and I sit at the breakfast table. I eat my oatmeal and she sips her tea. The sun starts to peek in the window and reflect on the tiny dishes covering the Lazy Susan in the middle - small jars of jam, a bowl of sugar, some butter, honey, and cinnamon - everything you might want to go with your tea and oatmeal. Anne rifles quietly through the Washington Post and the New York Times, and sometimes comments to me on the state of the world. After the quiet of breakfast with Anne, I feel more ready to walk out into DC. As I open the big red front door, I pull my hat down over my ears, and am met with the sounds of traffic and motion and busyness. And I think, if people only knew about the sanctuary that exists in the center of town, in the old townhouse right off DuPont Circle.