By Kristin Cho
I miss the Beltway.
I miss the way the trees lined the road, tall and watchful, as if they leaned forward to study the stream of cars speeding by. Oak trees, maple trees, American beech trees, any trees but palm trees, which I no longer find beautiful or welcoming. The palm trees in California seem to represent not American history, but rather an American obsession with self-indulgent materialism and excess. They line Rodeo Drive in Beverly Hills, leading to an endless expanse of nothingness. But on summer nights, the Beltway glowed with long necklaces of red taillights, looping endlessly, circling Washington, D.C., like the bloodstream of a body that never sleeps. For most, it was just another highway, but for me, it was something else—a pulse, a living vein that carried power, money, ambition, and dreams around the capital.
Back then, I was a student at the University of Maryland in College Park, in the thick of Maryland’s sprawl but close enough to breathe in the air of Washington, D.C. On weekends, I’d take the metro into the city, which was conveniently located only a few stops away from my school. Most passengers from the College Park stop were fellow students, some visiting for leisure, others attending UMD but residing in D.C., some commuting from Howard University. The train rattled underground, and when it surfaced, light flooding through the windows, I always felt that thrill—the sense that I was entering a stage where history was being written in real time. And I was part of the history making.
With a camera around my neck, I’d often head straight to Georgetown and wander around the neighborhood, Dupont Circle, Foggy Bottom, the National Gallery of Art. The neighborhood felt like its own country, a world apart from College Park. I’d walk those uneven brick sidewalks, tracing the outlines of row houses with black iron gates, slipping into little shops, running my fingers along the spines of books I couldn’t afford but dreamed of owning. Sometimes I bought coffee and lingered in small cafés, studying people the way I imagined a journalist would. At twenty years old, I had a fierce dream of becoming a journalist. Not just any journalist, but one with a byline at The Washington Post. I imagined my name under headlines, my words shaping public conversations. With a notebook in hand, I practiced in silence: observing, listening, and breaking down the world into sentences.
Washington, D.C., was the perfect place for that kind of dreaming. It was alive with the polished chaos of power. Men in suits strode quickly, briefcases in hand, talking into phones as if the weight of the nation depended on their being heard. Women glided by in trench coats, svelte and sharp, their stilettos tapping against the bricks like typewriter keys. You could tell by the way they carried themselves—tall, confident, and unbothered—that some of them worked inside the White House. That was their stage, their uniform. They exuded intelligent sexuality, or cerebral sexiness. Whatever it was, they combined intelligence and presence with an unmistakable air of substance and self-assurance. I wanted to be them.
The energy was contagious. I studied people like Marlon Brando studied faces on the streets in New York, quietly taking in gestures, posture, expressions. Some of the men had that look I would later recognize as Brando-esque: thick builds, dark blond hair, blue-grey eyes, faces that carried weight instead of lightness. They weren’t just attractive; they had a presence. Old money. Ivy League polish. I’d seen the type at UMD—sons of lawyers, diplomats, senators—but in Georgetown, their presence felt concentrated. The whole place was dripping with it. Brando had that kind of face, that presence—the rare ability to dissolve into a crowd and still command it at the same time. Georgetown style, with its clean lines, navy blazers, and the quiet assurance of generational wealth, was a far cry from his Midwestern boyhood in Omaha. Yet he could slip into that world as if he belonged, as if the code had been written with him in mind.
And it wasn’t just looks. It was the air itself. There was a smell in Georgetown that I still remember—coffee, perfume, leather briefcases, and beneath it all, something sharper. You could smell power in the air. Not imagined power, but the real kind. Decisions that affected the world were being made just blocks away, in offices with flags in the corner and oil paintings of men long dead. In Georgetown, you felt that proximity like static in your skin.
Virginia was different. I drove there sometimes—Arlington, Alexandria, Fairfax. The vibe was safe, suburban, bureaucratic. Wealth, yes, but old and restrained, more defense contractor than high society. It didn’t have the cool edge of Georgetown or the gritty art of Baltimore. It felt like the Beltway slowed down when it crossed into Virginia, trading the sparkle for something muted.
Baltimore, a close but separate world from inside the polished Beltway culture, presents a distinct appeal—characterized by its eccentricity, historical significance, artistic scene, and elements of unpredictability. The city’s dynamic atmosphere is compelling and complex. Everything I love about life lives in Baltimore. Notable figures such as Edgar Allan Poe and Babe Ruth are associated with Baltimore, as well as “The Star-Spangled Banner,” contributing to its rich cultural heritage. Despite facing challenges—including crime and socioeconomic hardship—the city exemplifies resilience and authenticity among its working-class communities. Unlike Georgetown, which conveys established power and social standing, Baltimore’s identity resists conventional categorization. This uniqueness provides opportunities for individuals who may be considered outsiders; even someone with polished qualities, like Brando in his Sayonara era, would attract attention and perhaps admiration for their difference. Baltimore embraces diversity and individuality within its vibrant landscape.
But Georgetown was Brando’s stage. Or at least of the version of him I carried in my head. The uniformed, polished man with the Ivy aura, Kennedy-esque in posture, aristocratic in gaze. Walking down M Street, he could have blended perfectly with the interns, the law students, the senators’ sons. He would have looked like he belonged at a cocktail party in a Georgetown townhouse, scotch in hand, laughing quietly at a joke only half the room understood.
I miss the Beltway. Not just the drives, though I loved those—windows down, the trees rushing past, the road looping me through a geography of ambition. It’s not the Sunset Strip or the lost dreams of Hollywood Blvd. It’s not just the people, though they fascinated me endlessly, each one a character in a novel I wanted to write. It’s not the coked-out lost souls who come to Los Angeles for a taste of fame before disappearing into the abyss. Not just the energy, though it still hums in my bones when I think about it. It’s nothing like the California summer energy at Muscle Beach in Venice.
I miss the totality. The sense that you were in a place where things mattered, where history was being made in real time, where ambition was oxygen and everyone was breathing it. But the Beltway also reflects a closed loop of power, hierarchy, and suspicion, where everyone is trapped together, performing roles to survive the power game. You are either steering the system or maneuvering inside it.
I miss the Beltway because when I was inside it, I wasn’t just a student at College Park. I was a dreamer, a would-be journalist, a quiet observer who could stand on a street corner in Georgetown with a coffee in hand and feel, for a moment, like I belonged to the city’s pulse. The Beltway was never just a road. It was a circle that carried possibility. And once you’ve breathed that air, once you’ve smelled power itself hanging over brick sidewalks and marble monuments, nothing else ever feels quite the same.
I miss the Beltway, though I know it was never really mine. Washington was always a stage—polished, self-assured, the kind of place that believed it was writing history with every handshake and every press conference. To me, it shimmered like Hollywood must have for others, a dream machine that promised importance, legacy, and recognition. To walk its avenues was to feel the hum of power in the air. That was my definition of success—proximity to the place where history was being made.
And yet, when I think of where I belong, it isn’t Georgetown or Capitol Hill. It’s Baltimore. The grit, the mess, the working-class pulse of the city—people who don’t polish their words before they speak, who live closer to the bone. Baltimore never pretends to be anything other than what it is. The cracked streets and row houses, the smell of the harbor, the blunt humor of its people—all of it feels like home. Where Washington wore its confidence like tailored suits, Baltimore wore its scars openly, and that made me love it more.
Two different worlds, and I stand between them. One taught me to dream, to imagine myself in the orbit of history. The other kept me grounded, reminded me of who I was. I’ll always miss the Beltway, but Baltimore is where I recognize myself. The contradiction doesn’t bother me anymore. To love both is to admit that I am both: the dreamer chasing the glow of power and the grounded soul who finds strength in grit.
