No Room at The Inn

A front-row seat to history? Sure. Just not on my couch!


The calls started coming in as soon at the election results did.

"So, Veronica," the caller would begin, "what's up for inauguration?"

The query seems innocent enough—if you don't live in Washington, D.C. But if you do live in the District—as I do—you soon realize that people don't really care about your plans for inauguration. They just want to know if they can book a flight to come crash on your couch.


I'm not being mean or stingy, I swear. I understand the yearning to be a witness to history. In fact, three of my close friends have secured spots on my air mattress, on the loveseat and in the pullout bed; I'm quite excited about our little reunion. But the irritation comes when either:

A.) You get requests from people you haven't heard from since the Attack of the Hanging Chads.

B.) Folks decide to just invite themselves to your house.

"Oh, it'll just be me, my husband, our dog and three janitors named Ted. We won't be in the way."

I live in a tiny two-bedroom basement apartment with a counter for a kitchen. Not cool.

Luckily, I'm not the only person who's become a target for self-inviting inauguration guests. My roommate's aunt told her that she and some colleagues would be "stopping by" our apartment until "things got started" on Inauguration Day.

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