WASHINGTON—“In the summer because of the heat and high humidity,” Senate Majority Leader Harry M. Reid once said, “you could literally smell the tourists.”

But I’m no tourist. I’m a bona fide native, and I want the world to know.

I’m not the type to drop the H-bomb. D.C.-bombs, on the other hand, rain down from my lips almost daily.

My proclivity for parading my pedigree probably stems from years of interactions Maryland and Virginia posers. Compared to them, I feel genuine.

It was only this month that I figured out I was the faker all along.

***

 “We could take the M-80, or we could—no, I always avoid the X-2.”

These letters and numbers mean nothing to me. I took a bus to the zoo once in seventh grade when my parents wouldn’t drive me, but that’s about it.

“We could take the Red Line,” I suggest confidently. I’m very good at the Red Line. I am also good at my dad’s car. “We could take the Red Line and—”

“That doesn’t make any sense.” Okay then.

***

When this summer began, I looked forward to sharing my knowledge about the dos and don’ts of District dwelling. As it turned out, I didn’t have much of it.

My co-interns, hailing from California to Arkansas, could navigate more than the small sliver of upper-Northwest D.C. in which I spent my youth. Perhaps, before they came here, my hometown in their minds was pristine, dotted with marble monuments and manicured men in suits. Perhaps, before, I knew more than they did.

But now their D.C. is grittier.

We work in NoMa. The name (North of Massachusetts Avenue, for curious non-natives) didn’t exist two years ago, and the area still remains uncharted territory to many D.C. denizens. It’s “up-and-coming,” which means a lot of other things no one wants to say. And a lot of other things I never had any interest in seeing.