Image A savory soup made with tripe and hominy at La Mexicana Bakery. Credit... Darren S. Higgins for The New York Times

A short walk from the theater was Farmers Fishers Bakers, a restaurant on the Washington Harbor riverfront development, which offered a most unusual $12 burger. On a beautiful Friday evening, a river breeze floating in from the Potomac, the boardwalk and outdoor seating at the harbor were packed. After a brief wait I wrangled a seat at the bar and ordered the cheapest available beer from a tempting list of rotating microbrews, a $4, 4-ounce Belgian-style ale. The medium-rare burger, topped with two crispy slices of bacon and served between two slender grilled cheese sandwiches, soon collapsed into a glorious, silverware-requiring mess. I had turned down the fries in favor of the peanut-cider slaw, and ended up spending $21, including tax and tip, before taking the Metro ($3.15) to my brother’s house in Silver Spring, Md.

Friday total: $34.65; remaining: $65.35

Saturday

On Saturday morning I emerged from the Columbia Heights Metro stop to follow the neighborhood’s Heritage Trail, one of 15 quite manageable neighborhood walks available for download from the nonprofit Cultural Tourism DC’s website (culturaltourismdc.org). The tour started on 14th Street, across from the mammoth DC USA shopping mall, anchored by Target. That did not convey “heritage” to me, but my iPad filled me in: These blocks — where the soon-to-be-hoteliers Marriotts begin their Hot Shoppes chain and sell their first tamales in 1927 — had been devastated by fire in the riots that took place in 1968 after the assassination of the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.

Only a few old buildings, like the 1924 Tivoli Theater, were still in place — but the trail led me through a lovely residential neighborhood, which had been split into black and white sections by housing covenants and is today in the process of gentrification. I figured that out myself when, after passing many African-American residents, a bearded young white man strolled by with a reusable shopping bag bursting with kale. A few blocks later I was on 11th Street, lined with brunch spots, including one (the tour narrative pointed out) where a celebrated African-American gay bar, Nob Hill, stood until 2004.

I had already taken care of brunch, having stopped for the ultimate cheap D.C. meal at Gloria’s Pupuseria, a hole-in-the-wall made more inviting by whitewash with homey pink trim. (Remember when I said I didn’t spend a dime on entertainment? I lied: I paid a dollar to replace blaring reggaeton on the jukebox with calmer, old-school bachata music.) My two pupusas revueltas — tortillas stuffed with cheese, beans and pork — were served burning hot from the griddle. I ripped off a piece with my fingers, stuck in a pinch of cold coleslaw called curtido and stuffed it all in my mouth, letting the contrasting temperatures battle it out on my tongue.