The final hand gesticulation I made was to pull my wallet out with a flourish to pay for my pie. That’s when she leaned toward me, winked and said with a side-to-side sweep of her hand: “All these crusts are kosher, by the way.” For once I didn’t know what to say. I just nodded. Now I knew what being profiled feels like.

One end of my street, California Street NW, lets out onto the main drag in Adams Morgan, 18th Street. The most blighted-looking shop in the neighborhood (which “transitioned”/got gentrified/yuppified 20 years ago after a rough patch) is right on the corner: California Liquors. The sign above the door is a lightbox with the almost-still-legible word [...]

Real Washington insiders, or people who just grew up in the area, know this rule: When you encounter someone and introductions are made, hands are shaken, the thing you say is not “Nice to meet you.” The thing you say is “Nice to see you.” It obviates those awful moments when one person remembers meeting [...]