Sundays With Strangers

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This Kalorama townhouse (for some reason, I feel like that phrase should always be uttered with a thick Southern accent) is a “next level” home.  Walking into this place after seeing the usual run of row homes and one bedrooms was like going from cans of Natural Ice to that bottle of authentic tequila that my girlfriend brought back from a wedding in Mexico, except that this house didn’t make me wake up naked in the shower, hours later, clutching an entire uneaten pizza.  (Wasn’t hungover though, that’s the thing about high quality tequila.)

I mean, this entrance hall alone would be a high-end studio apartment, but here it’s just the room where you stomp snow off your shoes.  I’d pay two grand a month to live there even with random people coming in and stomping snow onto my floor every couple hours.   Through the entrance hall is the sitting room, where you can sit around relaxing until you think, “man, life is too short to just sit around.  I’ve gotta live!”  Then you can step into the adjacent living room.  The massive living room features huge windows and one of four beautiful fireplaces that, if you play your cards right, you could someday be shoving stacks of your bank statements into as the cops kick down your door.  Ah, America!  Next is the formal dining room, which is big enough to ensure that you’ll be pressured into hosting Thanksgiving every year.  (Consider maybe paying someone to spray bedbugs or radon gas or something into your house every late October to avoid this horrible fate.)  The kitchen is lavish, with stainless steel appliances and only the finest finishes;  the cabinets alone probably cost more than my college education, though in fairness I did go to a state school.  There’s also a dining area that’s surrounded by huge windows, so it’s going to be flooded with natural light.  I feel like this would be something that would encourage you towards reasonable dining habits;  eating an entire box of pasta out of the pot you cooked it in is something you can only do in the dark.

Upstairs, the master bedroom is the type of room I imagine Prince William and Princess Dimples or whatever her name is conceive their babies in.  Not that I regularly imagine them doing this.  (I’ve said too much, haven’t I?)  Light filled and sprawling, there’s also another fireplace (three so far), and if you like lemon meringue pie, you’ll love the color scheme.  The master bath features twin basins, a glass-walled shower, and marble everything;  I’m pretty sure that when you flush the toilet, liquid marble rushes into the bowl.  No seriously, liquid marble.  There’s a library too, which on the obsolescence scale is just below “quilting room” and just above “VHS tape storage.”  On the other hand, they were able to repurpose carriage houses, so you never know;  surely a room full of built-in shelves would come in handy for something.  (Shoes?  Beanie Babies?)  There’s also a study, which again – not a huge amount of demand for a study, unless we’re talking about a late night frame-by-frame review of that Nicki Minaj video.  The study does lead out to the deck, though, which overlooks the awesome paved back patio garden.  As someone who has a sizable back yard, I realize that yard = mosquitoes, and now I covet this kind of garden.  There’s even a burbling little fountain back there, so you can meditate on whatever it is that people meditate on – world peace?  What’s “English” about an “English basement”?  I usually just fall directly into sleep.

1917 23rd Street NW
3 Bedrooms, 4 Baths


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