WASHINGTON — There is more to Washington than meets the eye! You may think that all of D.C. is just a dark wood-paneled room with two steakhouses in it, but you would be wrong. Let me tell you what you have missed about this quaint backwater that someone called “Hollywood for Ugly People.”

People in D.C. are always walking and talking. Most of the city is the same three exterior shots over again: of the Capitol, the Capitol but in different lighting where it looks ominous, and a park that turns out upon closer inspection to be Baltimore. People in D.C. are known for their political engagement and cutthroat ambition — as anyone you meet at the Cathedral Heights Metro station can attest.

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Most of D.C.’s residents wander around in color-coordinated shirts with the name of a middle school in Indiana on it, oohing and aahing at the cherry blossoms, before a visit to the city’s most cherished cultural institution, Madame Tussauds, on their transit mode of choice, an orange trolley with a green top. I ask these locals what to go see, and they tell me “Shear Madness.” I, frankly, did not think much of it. So much for D.C.’s claims to be a center of culture!

On these locals’ food recommendations, I went to Georgetown Cupcake, but it compared unfavorably to the rich range of cuisines available in real cities. I wandered the Mall for miles, and there was no food there at all. Well, there was a man selling hot dogs, but he pulled away just as I got within range. The locals said nothing to me about injera or half-smokes, and I did not think to inquire.

I did not enjoy my 73-minute wait on the Red Line. A fun-loving city would not allow this, so I concluded D.C. hates fun. Instead, they are always on Twitter. Yes, I’m sure that’s everyone in D.C. Everyone in D.C. is a briefcase, a rumpled button-down or an F-35. Although it may appear that the city’s arenas are filled with D.C. sports fans — this is a contradiction in terms — D.C. has no true fans, and the ballpark is packed merely with politics columnists in seersucker suits attempting to use baseball as a metaphor.

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At night, the whole city is abandoned, because how could you possibly make a home on all that marble? No one is born here, dies here or does anything that does not revolve around politics, which doesn’t seem like it could be true, yet is. This city’s entire history is political, and I am confused why some buildings have Duke Ellington’s name on them.

Okay, I didn’t leave a three-block radius in Northwest. Okay, I didn’t actually get off the Metro, I just rode the escalator up and then back down again. Okay, I didn’t actually get off the Acela. Okay, I haven’t actually left New York City, I just watched an old episode of “The West Wing.”

Nobody lives here. Well, they might, but can you call living in a place that isn’t New York, living?