TWO WEEKS AGO, after 29 uninterrupted years in the Maryland and Virginia suburbs, I finally moved within the D.C. limits.

In an attempt to fully explore my new urban existence, I decided to chronicle a typical late spring Friday night along the 18th Street corridor in my new neighborhood, Adams Morgan.

I knew I was in for challenging sidewalk navigation, rampant bralessness and lots of discarded pizza. I thought I might witness a drunken scuffle, some particularly egregious sexual harassment and a sobbing girl or two.

But I underestimated Adams Morgan.

Suffice it to say, the bodily fluids I had feared I would encounter turned out to be a lot less menacing than the one that I did.

(And even though 12 a.m. is technically Saturday, not Friday — please, just roll with it, people.)

» 12:00 a.m.
Before I hit the first crossroad on my way to 18th Street, I encounter an abandoned jumbo slice planted cheese-down on the sidewalk. The pepperoni must have been particularly objectionable, since it has been scattered artistically around the overturned plate. In other news, I already feel foolish taking notes about garbage.

» 12:08 a.m.
As I'm walking by Grand Central, a male patron starts yelling, "F--- you, ugly!" Somewhat to my surprise, it turns out he's addressing a male friend a few feet behind me. Already the night is exceeding my expectations.

» 12:13 a.m.
The three patrons at M'Dawg aren't looking too festive. A couple seems mired in some kind of state-of-the-relationship discussion. Meanwhile a solo male diner, finished with his hot dog, gazes blankly ahead, chin cupped in his hands. Apparently not even the most extensive toppings bar can make existential angst palatable.

» 12:17 a.m.
I've been out for less than 20 minutes and already I've developed some strong opinions on sidewalk etiquette. I can understand the impulse to skip; it is enthralling to encounter a clear stretch of sidewalk, but unless you're under 12 you're going to look foolish. I have nothing but contempt, however, for groups with linked arms. If you've genuinely become so incapacitated that only constant physical contact can keep you with your party, perhaps it's time to invest in one of the rope-with-wristbands devices so popular with Adams Morgan daycares. If toddlers can make collective awkward lurching look endearing, the bar-hopping set should aspire to the same standards. Granted, there's less supervision, but the additional 20-plus years of walking experience ought to make up the difference.

» 12:30 a.m.
The front window at Pharmacy Bar wins my vote for the best spot in Adams Morgan for people-watching, but I resolve not to let this affect my reporting in any way.

» 12:31 a.m.
On the other hand, fashion commentary would be easier with an endless parade in front of me and a flat surface to write on. Unfortunately, no one has embarrassed him- or herself too badly, and I venture back on to the street. This turns out to be my greatest journalistic error of the evening.

» 12:45 a.m.
I follow a Britney-esque blonde in a black lace mini-dress. She's being supported by a male companion, and is so visibly intoxicated that doormen are exhorting him to get her home as they pass. (See the photo at the top of this piece.) Instead, they go to Tom Tom. I note with some skepticism that she actually answers to the name Britney, or perhaps some more traditionally spelled variant.

» 12:55 a.m.
The M'Dawg effect strikes again. Four guys emerge with distant looks in their eyes. One taps a random female passerby on the arm but says nothing. His friend coughs violently. These guys know how to have a good time.

» 1:05 a.m.
After only an hour of immersion, I can tell I'm already adapting to the native customs. I peer into Tryst and everyone seems self-importantly civilized, what with their eating while seated, in many cases with utensils. Steps later, a man bursts into applause in honor of a group of girls in skintight mini-dresses and all seems right in the world again.

» 1:15 a.m.
Uh, oh, there has been an incident. True to her celebrity counterpart, D.C. Britney is on the scene. A number of police officers have collected in the alley between what used to be DCCD and what used to be Caribou Coffee, and at this point all I can discern is that while one of D.C. Britney's friends has resigned herself to sitting on the sidewalk, D.C. Britney herself is miraculously upright. Her weight is now being supported by the police cruiser, and her human crutch is conspicuously absent. I start snapping pictures on my camera phone before realizing that another woman, apparently unaffiliated, has been handcuffed and led away.

» 1:25 a.m.
In a rather uncomfortable parallel with real entertainment news, my brief stint as a celebrity namesake paparazzo has caused me to miss the major event of the evening. No, Bourbon patrons have not mobilized to "liberate" the Marie Reed Learning Center, but violence and property damage are involved. Minutes after I left my Pharmacy window post, an argument broke out at the Maggie Moo's Ice Cream & Treatery across the street. Maybe only D.C. Britney knows the real story — in retrospect she was probably allowed to lean on the cruiser because she was serving as a witness — but a few things are immediately clear: one of the plate glass panels by the entrance is entirely gone, and the sidewalk outside is now littered with large cotton bandages. Upon closer examination, there is also a substantial pool of blood on the ground. This is my first violent crime scene, and it is genuinely unsettling. Bystanders report that a man pushed a woman through the window, at which point another woman attacked the man. I am so affected that it doesn't even occur to me to make a tasteless joke about a "sprinkle dispute" until hours later.

» 1:45 a.m.
A very glum group of six is seated inside M'Dawg. I wonder if they are friends of the Maggie Moo's assault victim, the handcuffed woman or D.C. Britney. I do not go in to inquire, fearing that my remaining life force will be sapped the moment I cross the threshold.

» 2:10 a.m.
The stretch of sidewalk between Ventnor and Jumbo Slice has turned into a gantlet, with men lined up on both sides. I am extremely glad that I abandoned my plan to bring a yardstick in order to accurately gauge pizza slice dimensions — I have a feeling these guys might have solicited some other measurements.

» 2:15 a.m.
As I am writing, "I feel really bad for the cops on duty," one approaches and asks, "Can I help you?" and my empathy evaporates.

» 2:32 a.m.
The fashion tonight has been disappointingly uniform, so much so that I suspect tonight I'll dream of girls in teal-tinged green tops. The girl in Pizza Boli's with sequined cut-outs down her pant legs offers some consolation. (See grainy photo at left.)

» 2:40 a.m.
In addition to the aforementioned front window, the Pharmacy Bar has earned another superlative this evening: Most Ironic Choice of Reading Material by the Guy Checking IDs. He's clutching "In Praise of Folly" by Erasmus, and I don't even think he saw that girl's pants.

» 2:55 a.m.
I think I just saw the Abercrombie dudes from the Obama speech. Really.

» 3:08 a.m.
The cops are not about to risk more violence tonight. A cruiser parks outside Pizza Mart, turns on the siren and lets it blare. A few stragglers, myself included, endure it long enough to purchase a slice, but the late night loiterers disperse with an urgency I've never witnessed before.

» 3:20 a.m.
I've only managed to consume a quarter of my slice, but I am just about done — in every way.

One Day Later:

Since Friday ends on such a sour note, I make another, briefer foray down 18th Street the next night, and I'm pleased to report that Maggie Moo's is back in the treatery business and Adams Morgan's party spirit seems undiminished, but my own may have suffered more lasting consequences. As I trudge home, having experienced considerably more fear and somewhat less loathing than I had anticipated (mostly thanks to the decreased popularity of tube tops), I enter the following final entry:

» 2:05 a.m.
The pedi-cab driver looks as forlorn as I feel while group after group bypasses him for his automobile-equipped counterparts. I consider offering to buy him a meal at M'Dawg, but that's not going to make either one of us feel any better.

Written by Express contributor Meg Zamula
Camera phone photos by Meg Zamula. Archive shots: M'Dawg hot dogs photo by Kevin Clark/The Washington Post; Tryst photo by Nikki Kahn/The Washington Post

Posted by Express at 11:23 AM on May 5, 2008
Tagged in Adams Morgan , Free Ride , The District , Top Stories , Woodley Park