It’s been really cold here lately (Colorado people, shut up), and I’ve been working from home so I don’t have to walk a mile to my Metro stop through some Jack London nightmarescape with tundra temperatures (I said shut up, Colorado people).

Just as an aside, my job is awesome.

The temperature Saturday got as high as 42, which is the answer to life, the universe, and getting the hell out of the house. It’s a three-day weekend, and I thought it would be nice to go to the Smithsonian American Art Museum in Chinatown.

I forgot what was happening Monday.

My train pulled into the Chinatown station, and quite a few people exited, which was unusual for this time of day on a Sunday. I listened to my podcast and kept moving. One of the exits takes you right to the steps of the gallery, but it was gated off. The other exit was two blocks away, which meant I had to walk two blocks to get to it and two blocks back to the museum. However, those exits were gated off too, and transit workers were yelling at us to go away.

A worker stood near the stairs and told us we needed to get on a train and take it to the next stop to get out. Emboldened by the injustice of it all, I asked her why they didn’t just shut the station down. She said, “I don’t make the rules, I just tell you what to do.”

I took a train to the closest stop and realized I didn’t know which way to get to Chinatown. The National Mall was straight ahead, so I went in the other direction. I wasn’t 100 percent, though, so I stopped at a corner to get my bearings.

A smug, condescending douchebag walked by me, smirked, and said, “I’m from here, and we don’t pay attention to those things.”

I looked up from my phone and said, “I’m from here, and I don’t either. I’m just a little disoriented.”

“Sure.” He strode off.

With surer footing, I headed for Chinatown, weaving between National Guardsmen and their rifles, emergency fencing, and a thick crowd of white people. I saw a long line of red hats, and I couldn’t imagine where they might be going. As I walked past, I searched for the destination, but I couldn’t see one, nor could I see the end. It wrapped around a whole block, then crossed the street, then turned a corner, and disappeared.

Two blocks later, the museum was surrounded by guardsmen who weren’t going to let me in. I normally don’t eat lunch, but there was a Nando’s here, so I stopped in. The host asked me how many. I said one. He looked me up and down and narrowed his eyes, “I see.”

It was about noon that the MAGAs started coming in. I knew they were MAGAs for two reasons. One, there was nobody else in this part of town today; the locals know to stay clear. Two, they were wearing red hats, even the toddler, which I consider to be child abuse. Next, several tables of really hot people showed up. I was hit with the dilemma of admiring them while finding their entire worldview to be nauseating.

The worst part about the entire situation was that people thought I was one of them, especially because I was wearing my lumberjack shirt. On the other hand, blending in allowed me to enjoy my chicken in peace, live blogging the entire experience to my friend Emilie, who I picture reading it in a luxurious bath, sipping cava and shaking her head at my antics.

The only time I felt nervous were when the wannabes moseyed in and took a seat. If you’ve ever been in a Nandos before, you’d know to let the host seat you. If you could read, there is a large sign that says, “Please wait for the host to seat you.”

They wore black T-shirts, black sweats, black boots, black gloves, and black trench coats. Their glasses matched, and they both wore their thinning hair tightly clipped. I checked them for weapons when they pulled off their jackets because I didn’t want to be in the middle of a shooting when I was right across from them.

Most of the patrons got up and left when they realized Nandos was foreign food. I’m just relieved they didn’t stick around long enough to find this: