I first came to Washington in the fall of 1969 to spend a year working on Capitol Hill. My introduction to the city and its politics was a jolting one. A few days in, while sharing a house near Dupont Circle with friends, I took the dog of one of my roommates for a walk. As we neared the Circle, the dog tugged at his leash, yelping. I tugged back—until I saw what had made him panic. His olfactory senses were far more acute than mine, and a tear gas canister was heading in our direction—followed by others, then a large crowd of people moving toward us, followed shortly after by police in full riot gear.
A demonstration in front of the South Vietnamese embassy, on the other side of the circle, had gone awry. The dog and I quickly repaired, coughing and stumbling, to our townhouse, where we put wet towels in the doorframes and watched the mayhem ensue. “Welcome to Washington,” said one of my housemates.
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