It’s evident to the locals that you’re a D.C. transplant, at least in my experiences over the last three months. Perhaps it’s the dumbfounding expressions made while staring at a Metro map or the subtle Southern dialect, but somehow y’all just know I ain’t from here.
Regardless of who it is — a barber, bartender, airport employee, taxi driver or salesman to name a few recently – the conversations have all started off in similar fashion.
“So where you from?”
“Dallas.”
“Oh, so you must be a Cowboys fan.”
Say no more.