La Vida Yaya

Funny how we are raised to imagine certain cities as part of our collective thread and historic consciousness. New York City, where immigrants from ravaged European countries arrived on steamy ships in black & white film; Chicago, where pin-stripped suited gangsters carried violin cases and raged war on banks and cops, filmed in black & white; San Francisco, where the fog doesn't allow you to imagine it in color so you settle for sepia-toned ships sailing across Alcatraz to the smell of clam chowder in a bread bowl on a chilly morning; Miami, where tanned and slick-haired Cubans men in wife-beaters smoke cigars and shapely blondes walk the beach in tiny bikinis, in full tropical color; and Los Angeles, where the colors are in vibrant shades and spotlights blind you from the diamond-encrusted celebrities and bold murals that race across the sky hovering over dirty sidewalks. Then que Hail to the Chief   . . . enter Washington, DC. Not a city, not a state. A district