The weird thing about Georgetown houses is that while they’re the most expensive, they’re often surprisingly small. Especially the historic ones, I guess because they were built in an era when everyone drank beer instead of water (look it up – before water filtration, fermentation was the only way people could kill microorganisms) and thought eating vegetables was something only smelly French people did. We were basically a bunch of growth-stunted, malnourished hobbit people until the late 20th century. This house, though, at 4400 square feet, has thoroughly modern proportions; it’s like one of those massive Mount Pleasant rowhomes that was somehow magically transported to Georgetown. (Actually, more than Mt. P, it has sort of a “Brooklyn brownstone” feel to it; but I digress.)
You enter into a foyer that’s as large as many Japanese apartments, and through there into the double parlor living room. What’s a double parlor living room, you ask? Basically, however jealous your friends would be about a parlor living room, they’ll be twice as jealous about this one. They might literally be murderously jealous. The front half of it is basically your standard upscale living room – bay window, antique fireplace, hardwood floor – and then the second half basically points and laughs at you for thinking the front half was anything special. It’s brighter, wider, and everything-er, with more windows instead of a fireplace (give me natural light over a big stone fire-box any day), and a chandelier that probably cost more than my college degree. (To be fair, I did go to a state school.) The formal dining room is roomy and bright and features, yes, a second fireplace, in case the cops come and you can’t burn your tax documents fast enough in just the living room fireplace. (It is Georgetown after all, there are a lot of senators around.) The kitchen is exquisitely furnished; I would feel obligated to wear a tie just to stand at the sink and eat a bowl of cereal. All the appliances are stainless steel, so no more losing sleep, night after night, fretting about your regular steel appliances getting stained. (Grammatically speaking, shouldn’t they call regular steel, “stainy steel”?) Also, a pair of French doors open directly – and I do mean directly – onto the backyard. More on that later.
Upstairs, the master suite is like a presidential suite in a five star hotel; there’s a huge sitting area, plus the sleeping area, and a luxurious bathroom featuring twin basins and a soaking tub. This bathroom is so nice that you when you go into the bathroom, the shower and the toilet each have their own little rooms, off the main room of the bathroom. It’s like when they were renovating, they bought a family pack of rooms down at Home Depot and ended up having a bunch leftover, so they were like, “uh, just give the toilet its own room, why not.” Downstairs, the fullly-finished basement is so nice that quite frankly, I don’t believe it’s actually a basement. I think maybe the house was built on sandy swamp or something, and this was originally the main level, and then after they finished the house, it sunk down ten or twelve feet down into the sandy swamp, and so this level is now underground. That’s what I choose to believe. It’s no crazier than most world religions.
Finally, out back is the best yard in DC. I will testify to this fact in a court of law after swearing on a bible. Most yards are either too landscaped (landscaped = paying strangers to come manicure your lawn once a week) or, worst of all, paved over for parking. Paving over your yard for parking is like wearing the same clothes every day. Sure, it’s efficient and convenient, but you’re an idiot. The best part about this yard is that the French doors on the back of the house are perfectly flush with the ground. This gives it a weirdly idyllic vibe, like when you walk out of the house you might be entering an Enya music video. Most houses have wooden decks back there, which are okay for reading or dining al fresco, I guess, but you never know if there’s, like, a dead animal or a serial killer lurking under there. Or an eavesdropping friend. True story: at a party once, when we were all out on the wooden deck, one of my friends was like, “okay guys, I’m outta here, see you all later!” Then he left. And then, as friend groups do, we immediately began discussing our departed friend and his various life choices in very frank tones. Unbeknownst to us, he’d sneaked around the house and was under the wooden deck, listening to us. Needless to say, he never spoke to any of us again. And that’s why I’m leery of wooden decks to this very day. (Sure, I could just not talk trash about my friends when they’re not around, but come on, that’s one of the greatest pleasures in life.)
3117 N Street NW
5 Bedrooms, 3.5 Baths