"You have a future as a shoe model," he said, pressing his sweaty business card into my hand as I dashed toward the Dupont metro.

Be prepared for anything when venturing by Dupont Circle. While rocketing into a million-dollar career showing ankles off for the camera is unlikely, fielding pick-up lines that your foot is perfect for modeling, salsa dancing, or tickling, is entirely possible. Once, sunning myself on the fountain's rim, a tall, well-built man ambled over from the crowd always hovering by the stone chessboards. I'm intimidated by that corridor of benches––I know rules of play, but not the culture of slapping clocks and trashtalk––and I tensed up as the guy introduced himself.

"My name's Hard Legs," he said. "You've got some really pink toenails there." He smiled. No asking for money, no looming. Disarmed, I gave him my name in return. For months afterwards, if he spied me when I walked by, he'd wave furiously before returning to his chess game.

Each day, strangers mingle at the Circle: reading, eating takeout, ladling food for the homeless from big crockpots, walking dogs, selling political buttons, painting, and chatting on their cell phones while watching others chat on their cell phones. At night, one walks a fine line between wanting to experience the neighborhood and not wanting to end up that girl who of course got mugged, what was she doing out there anyway? But in daytime, boundaries ease. On weekends, the park around Dupont Circle blooms into a bustling, friendly, unpredictable scene.

Every person has their favorite places to sit––their spot. A typical Saturday, at 2 PM: Couples flap their blankets down; students sit cross–legged in the grass; tanners rotate along the ring of benches, following the sun; friends cluster to the fountain steps, laying down bicycles and unwrapping sandwiches; readers like me perch on the stone rim around the fountain's pool. Those planners made a wise move in 1921, replacing the bronze statue of Rear Admiral Samuel Francis duPont with a two-tier fountain of white marble, graced by three maidens who represent the Sea, the Star, the Wind––the fountain is the hub of it all. The afternoon is serene.

No, that's a lie. This is Dupont Circle, not Eden. There's the man chalking the sidewalk over by the trashcan JESUS LOVES YOU, occasionally volunteering his criticisms of the neighborhood's gay residents. There's the woman who sings along loudly, badly, to her Walkman as she roller-skates in skimpy shorts around and around the Circle. There are moments when I curse the smoke from chatty girls on the steps, or a big black Labrador that just hopped into the fountain and slopped water all over me and my notepad. By water, let's be clear: in the fountain, your usual hydrogen–oxygen compound is merely support for an impressive, possibly sentient scum of leaves, fast–food wrappers, and pigeon feathers. Some days the water is blue. Some days, drained away. Some days, gray and today, slightly fuzzy. There's a child on the other side of the fountain who desperately wants to go wading; her mother is horrified, trying to distract her with pennies to toss, wishes to make. So goes city life. You take the gritty with the idyllic. 

One Saturday, I'd absorbed just such a mix for two or three hours. I was mildly sunburned, on the last ten pages, tired of listening to the men next to me discuss faux mohawks, when a group materialized out of nowhere––like a flash mob, but without vintage t-shirts or anti–World Bank chanting. Setting a boom box down on the concrete, someone pressed play and out boomed: swing music. The mysterious club partnered up and began to dance, inviting others to join in. Within 30 minutes, 18 random sets of people, all ages, all shapes, were happily doing something like the Jitterbug Stroll. 

Down by Dupont Circle, things like that just…happen. You think you're ready to go home and then, voila! A brass band gathers by the Connecticut Avenue overpass and strikes up some Dixieland jazz. That's why the idyllic wins out over the gritty, every time.

On Sundays the Farmer's Market holds domain two blocks away. Although a bank obscures the sightline between market and fountain, the two share a warm community and a quirky aesthetic. Locals take their parrots out for a stroll, dog lovers show their class divides––"You should never have a dog smaller than your cat," I once heard a Dalmatian owner sniff at a passing Chihuahua. Food is the main draw: fresh baked "chili cheddar" bread, Buster's Seafood, Heinz and his Next Step Produce, "committed to growing excellent vegetables in harmony with nature." The other weekend, the Black Rock Orchard Stand proprietor pushed a visitor to try an apple. "If you eat it here, it's sampling," she said. "If you eat it at home, it's stealing."

My prescription for a perfect Sunday afternoon: pick up that book you keep meaning to read, but never do. Mosey by the Farmer's Market and buy a scone, an Asian pear, cider. Head over to the Circle. Compliment an artist on his sketch. Find your spot by the fountain––you may not know where it is, yet, but it is waiting for you. And if a man should compliment your nail polish, well, you tell Hard Legs I say hello.