One of the enduring charms of Washington D.C., where I lived from 2011 to 2014, and where I found myself this week, is the way its drab streets, dimly-lit bars and earnest Brooks Brothers-attired political-media class immediately envelop you in their own cozy myopia. Here, in the shadow of monuments appealing to a broader view of history and the world, is a town where insularity and incrementalism reign; where moods and conversations are determined by the daily news cycle; where an errant quote from either end of Pennsylvania Avenue can set off city-wide alarm; where cable news is still on, and its cast of characters intimately known; where almost everyone is referred to by their first name, because who else could one possibly be referring to; and where little that happens outside of l’Enfant’s four-quadrant grid is worth gossiping about, unless it happens on the campaign trail. Washington may be the heart of international democracy, but it’s also the world’s biggest high school cafeteria—obsessed with itself, its players and its institutions, alike.