Feeding Time

For the map-clutching, fanny-packed, nametagged, sunburnt, confused groups of tourists that flood the subway on the weekends before flocking to the National Mall, Washington stands as a pearly white testament to all that America has accomplished.

There's Washington's obelisk, Lincoln resting in the shade, Jefferson pondering near the Potomac, the sombre Vietnam Wall, the sometimes overwhelming Smithsonian buildings and, of course, the Capitol and the White House.

That's about it. I sometimes think tourists imagine Washington as a large field with important historical monuments on each end. It would certainly be easier for them to find their way.

It's not.

I'm not just talking about the seedier landmarks, like Rock Creek Park, the site of Chondra Levy's unfortunate end or those soulful spots like Adams Morgan.

No, I'm talking about the homeless people. The horde of them. And yes, they constitute a horde.

Before you start accusing me of being anti-homeless, let me just say that I'm anti-poverty (in the good way, not the shuttle poor people out of town way). I'm not afraid they'll stab/ rob/ pee/ or otherwise hurt or irritate me. They ask for money. I say no. Life goes on.

Homeless people are all over town, especially near Metro stops. The image of 30 homeless men gathered around McPherson Square waiting for a truck to bring them food does not exactly fit into the standard image of D.C.

Anyway, my point is this: tourists block escalators, stand in large groups near doorways, ask anyone and everyone with a briefcase how to get to the Washington monument (which you can see from almost anywhere downtown) and just generally stress the town out with their by-the-minute schedules and inability to maintain them.

Homeless people just ask for money.