The other side of the street

The most direct route from the metro station to my office is through a park -- McPherson Square, to be exact. It's small but standard as far as DC parks go -- a statue of someone on a horse (probably Mr. or Capt. or Gen. McPherson), a flower bed and low iron fence surrounding the statue, open grassy areas, a few trees, and lots of benches. And, sadly, lots of homeless people -- only a few sleeping on the benches in the morning, and more emerging as the day goes on.

In just two weeks, I've learned this routine -- it's fine to walk through the park in the morning. In the afternoon, though, that might not be such a good idea.

I've heard more than one story from the other women in my office about being harassed or outright threatened as they walk back to the metro in the afternoon. And now, I've experienced it a few times myself.

Up to now, I just ignored it, taking it as just part of life and working in the city. But I can't anymore.

The last straw was a couple of days ago. A man was standing in the middle of the sidewalk, making the office workers walk around him as they passed. He looked at me and said, "On your shoulder ..." meaning my purse. He made a reach for it. In broad daylight. With a pack of commuters around me. With a quick turn of my shoulder and a quickened pace, I got by him. But that was it. I decided not to walk through the park anymore.

I don't know if he actually would've taken it, or what he would've done with it if he did -- I'm willing to bet I could've run faster than him, and I probably could've run him down. I don't know what I would've done then -- beat him with my shoe? pummel him with my book? -- but at least I'd give him a run for his money. (Or, more accurately, mine.)

So now, I walk on the opposite side of the street, across from the park. It takes me by a restaurant known as Georgia Brown's. I've found this establishment to attract a different kind of crowd -- a cigar-smoking, BMW-driving, suit-wearing clientele. The kind of place where blowhards meet with other blowhards to glad-hand and fill the night with hot air.

And honestly, I don't know which is worse.

Now I hear gasbag greetings -- "How's it going, Bill?" "I'm just livin' the life, Rich," one says as he lights a cigar. I saw one slap another on the back so hard that he actually lurched forward a step. And they still lear. Just like the homeless men.

And somewhere is this coincidence: The park residents are mostly black. The Georgia Brown crowd is mostly white.

Georgia Brown's menu?

Soul food.