Last night, I heard a live saxophone wailing out of Barca on 11th on Capitol Hill.
I’ve lived on Capitol Hill for 11 years and during that time its energy came from a mystique about the past, its tethers to the hep 90s (and even the Haagen-Dazs 80s)—Bailey/Coy on Broadway, the Cha Cha on Pine.
No longer.
That’s Grey. But you get the idea.
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