Foul.

A monumental homerun.

Washington, D.C. – I’m greeted by the fetid smells of a humid city on trash day.

It seems I’ve been here enough the past couple years to fall into the city’s rhythms and to navigate the bustle of the off-to-work crowd and the heat alike. To know the roads well enough to know the ‘do not cross’ signal is a mere suggestion.

But, to watch out at roundabouts.

To find coffee, food and good beer (best of the lot: Churchkey).

It still doesn’t prepare me for how large my peppered salmon bagel from Bethesda Bagels is going to be – the thing must be four inches thick. Naturally, this is the one time I’ve forgotten to grab some napkins.

At least the pigeons, pecking around me with a suspicious and eager eye, will love me as I clumsily eat it in installments, first at a tiny pocket park at Dupont Circle, then at the Washington Monument. It does, however, fuel my six-mile walk to the ballpark, where I find myself surrounded by the snap of ball-to-glove and square-shaped fans clutching tall cans.

I must be getting old: I’ve opted for shade over proximity to the field of play. As the day drags on, the usher pushes the crowd farther back and under the overhang. Then, a storm brews in the distance.

For the moment, however, the only brews at the game wear jerseys like Budweiser and Shock Top. So much for the craft beer invasion.

I may have found my rhythm, but it turns out it doesn’t matter what city you’re in: baseball is still boring.

Heated.

No lower cases tried here.

Washington, DC – Sweat beads on my arm in shapes that seem to spell out how hot it is, even early in the morning.

It’s not long before I drip with a clatter against the pavement – noises lost to the sounds of the city.

Crossing the road, a man carries a half-eaten banana, a box of cookies and another freshly pressed shirt. He knows the one he’s wearing won’t make it.

A line of men with the same idea follows – this must be a drycleaner’s dream.

The city’s past, meanwhile, is reflected in countless glass structures being erected in the southern sector of the city. An old red-brick church stands forlornly, temporarily displaced into the middle of the street.

It’s hard to imagine it’s the only thing being displaced during this period of rapid gentrification.

I venture down to the East Capitol Street area, one of the district’s oldest and priciest neighbourhoods. Flowering trees form awnings over the sidewalks, but I preferred gawking at the homes in Georgetown.

As I make my way back behind the Capitol Building, though, I’m struck by how much – even with my distaste for the politics – this building, and this area, are awe-inspiring.

Quite a Row.

I flagged in the heat, too.

Washington, D.C. – Even in the full force of heat, gas lamps dance in daylight – exclamation marks framing monied porch stoops.

You can almost imagine the buxom trees surrounding them to shed $100 bills onto the walkway.

Wandering through Embassy Row and on to Georgetown is a wonder for architecture lovers, even amateur ones. There’s a history told in these pillars, alcoves and archways.

Some of these buildings are so old and tied to intrigue their stories only come out in whispers.

Many are dressed in fresh coats of paint and with modern numbers or open concept interiors that allow the timepiece to shift somewhat, but they retain the beauty of their neo-classical and beaux-arts styles.

Turning toward Georgetown, under the university’s towering structures atop the hill, a group of jovial homeless people tucked into a theatre entranceway spin conspiracy yarns about declassified CIA files. Some things never change.

I’m grateful for the canopies of foliage that shield me from some of the brooding heat. My path is drawn by closely cropped waxy greens and buckled red bricks, crooked like misplaced teeth.

Centuries of roots laid down are now trying to surface.

There’s a parallel to be found in today’s political climate in the U.S., of course.