In DC I usually go out in the U Street area. It has a good mix of slutty girls, pseudo-hipsters, and Ethiopians, without too much of the late-night thuggish ruggish bone element a few blocks away in Adams Morgan (even if it didn’t I’d still pass because of the general sloppiness in the women that party there).
Recently I was at the apartment of a friend of a friend, located only one block away from my favorite spot in U Street. It was small but nice, with a little bar, a large bathroom that would make for airy dumps, and a view from the living room of street action below. I went home that night and fantasized about having my own apartment in that area, and how much better my life would be. I would get more one-night stands due to better logistics. I could cook for women and romance them in my bedroom. I could maintain normal relationships. Even with my current income I could rent that apartment without having to eat cans of beans more than twice a week.
Then I asked myself, “What girl have you met in DC that you would be eager to bring to your new pleasure palace?” Up to that point every DC girl I had banged recently with at their place, in a car, on a lady friend’s couch, or in a park next to American University. My question was tough. There was that young Italian girl I saw briefly but we were more fuck buddies than a couple. The Spaniard was just my type but she didn’t stay in the city for long. All the others were cheap thrills without long-term potential. The more I thought about it the more I realized that there is no girl living in DC who I would want bring over to my pad, spend time with them, and then clean up afterward. This is in addition to overpaying for DC rent (compared to other cities, anyway).
A couple days later I spent time with an old friend. He asked me what work I needed to do that required me to stay in the area. I had no answer. “It seems like you already got your dose of family and friends,” he said, “and now it’s time to hit the road again.” I had only been back for three months, but he was right. Besides a handful of people, there is nothing holding me here (all my hobbies and work can travel with me). During the summer I was using the excuse of sleeping with random girls to delay having to make a real decision of what to do next.
After talking to my friend I got home at 6am and stayed up for another hour making a list of things I have to do before leaving again. I accepted that nothing here captures my imagination, or even motivates me to work hard or be a better man. There is no comfort in the growth zone, and there is no growth sleeping with another American slut. It’s a waste of my prime.
I finally made a choice, selecting a starting country using a very similar process that Eddie Murphy used in Coming To America. I plan to be there early January. I need two months to prepare and then another month to get through the holidays. I’m already starting to experience the feelings of excitement and fear that came before my previous trips—two emotions that disappear within the first week in my new home as I learn how to adapt and carve out a routine that keeps me sane and healthy.
I’ve always thought I’d choose the lifestyle I’d want to live, yet for some reason I feel like it has chosen me instead.