Dead Christmas

One of the many funny bits in Whit Stillman’s Metropolitan is his label for the period between Christmas and New Year’s Day: “orgy week.” During this time, the bright young things of the Upper East Side argue philosophy in their parents’ drawing rooms, raid their parents’ liquor cabinets, and carry on their parents’ dying social traditions. It is a languid, relaxed time, where the only obligations are debutante balls, Episcopal church services, and the odd dinner date at JG Melon.

Washington, DC has no such week. In fact, this city may have the opposite. I like to call it Dead Christmas. Everything slows down, yes, but the end of the year is not an especially jolly time in the nation’s capital. DC is a commuter town, and most people go home for the holidays. In the last few weeks of December, civic life dies and the city all but shuts off. And yet, for those of us who are left behind, it is the most wonderful time of the year.

Why? The answer is very simple. Dead Christmas is the only time of year that locals have the city all to themselves. (Independence Day might be the other, provided you stay off the National Mall.) Traffic disappears entirely, the shopping districts empty out, even the churches don’t seem so full. All the tourist traps close, leaving only the neighborhood joints open. On Christmas Eve this year, I took my family out to a place on Wisconsin Avenue, just a few blocks off National Cathedral. It is normally full of out-of-towner families, college kids, and eighth grade groups visiting from the Midwest. On this night, there were only neighborhood Episcopalians, just let out from Lessons and Carols. Everyone seemed so relieved to have some peace for a change.

It is not that we native Washingtonians dislike our come-here friends; we know well that it is the emigres who keep our city alive. But like any civilized people, we need at least a week out of the year to shun social obligation and retire to our houses. I find it telling that annually during Dead Christmas the Washington Business Journal, the only thing that passes for a local paper around here, sends out its doorstop “book of lists.” What better way to kill time after Christmas Mass than read up on the busiest metro stations (Union Station, Metro Center, L’Enfant Plaza), the top tourist sites (the Lincoln, Vietnam, World War II Memorials), and biggest local fast casual chains (Thompson Restaurants, Silver Diner, Great American Restaurants)? In D.C., list making passes for local culture. 

It helps that Christmas weather in Washington is typically very mild. Contrary to popular belief, we do get frequent snowfall in this town—sometimes as early as November—but the worst of winter doesn’t usually arrive until late January. December is often unseasonably warm, and temperatures sometimes reach the 60s. Dead Christmas is also the perfect time for quiet walks along the deserted waterfront, and, if you live in Georgetown, a visit to Dumbarton Oaks, whose winter gardens present a stark, striking beauty.

For my own part, Dead Christmas will always have a personal significance. This week, six years ago, I was married. My wife and I chose the date because we knew the city would be deserted, and, frankly, because rental rates for reception venues take a dip between Christmas and New Year’s. We couldn’t have picked a better time. It was nearly seventy degrees outside, and the city was ours alone. I remember driving through the silent streets by the Franciscan Monastery in my Volkswagen Golf, windows down, and feeling an irrepressible joy. 

As with all things, the feeling passed. But every year, once the city dies down around Christmas, somewhere deep within me, it stirs again. 

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