The Morning After

Writing from the 5th floor of an old hotel in Georgetown.

Just past noon.

I must have made it to bed sometime after 3 and slept well past 10. I woke up in a bathrobe stained by party makeup in confused state trying to piece together the horror from last night.

Today, the city is quiet.

The rain’s stopped and the sun is out. Last night, post gun shots, the city became a war zone. The only photo I took shows a crew stranded in damp ballgowns and rumbled tuxedos trying to navigate the streets after a frantic exit, met with makeshift barricades, sirens, and armed guards with guns drawn pointing at misguided vehicles at every street corner.

A maze of obstructions keeping us from any decided locations.

The morning after, it all feels eerily distant. Like something out of a movie— recapped on reels and stretched across social media by online spectators — not a reality I was part of, seated among a banquet hall celebrating American journalism, first snapping photos, pouring wine, greeting acquaintances, and then in one startling instant— flat on the ground with eyes closed and face pressed against the carpet, cowering as muffled gunshots banged in the distance and armed guards we could hear but not see rushed in knocking over tables, yelling for everyone to stay down. Those minutes felt like hours. A mess of confusion swirling around me. The threat from my vantage was entirely unknowable. I laid as still as possible, locked in fear with my body wedged as much as I could get under a table clinging to the hands of strangers I’d just met. Women around me were crying and praying. Two waitresses on the floor were shielding their faces with plastic trays sobbing.

It’s strange the things that go through your head when you don’t know what your fate holds. When violence arrives without warning.

Paralyzed by grim circumstance, your mind narrows to what matters most.

Without reception I couldn’t call anyone to tell them what was happening, or say that I might not be okay. Or text anyone to tell them that I loved them.

Nothing in DC is normal and I’ve come to expect with each trip that something strange or extraordinary will occur.

Initially, I planned to extend my trip to cover specific events at the Supreme Court tomorrow but I’m headed home now on my original flight.

I’ll be back to share a full account of what I experienced this weekend, leading up to the horror that unfolded at the Hilton just as we had settled into our seats waiting on dinner, with the President and First Lady on stage indulging the first tricks of a mentalist hired to replace a comedian’s role.