Everything changes, there’s no stopping that. And I’ll admit that nostalgia often edits my memory of the past. That said, I still I hate to think that my old neighborhood, a once-unique and diverse community, has become just another yuppie enclave where every household is the same and all the people look and think alike.

If you were running from the law and didn’t want to be found, you could easily hide in the new Eastern Market community. You’d just have to don some black leather shoes, artificially roughed-up designer jeans, a gray, wool sweater overlapped by an intentionally unkempt shirt collar, and black-rimmed glasses. No one would be able to pick you out of a lineup of your peers. You’d be hidden in plain sight, free to enjoy your mochachocofrappaccino, lightly roasted in a carbon-neutral oven, frothed with organic soy milk and served in a recycled paper cup, all while conspicuously perusing the latest piece by David Sedaris in this month’s issue of The New Yorker.

If you wanted to double-down, you could also listen to a podcast of This American Life with your white ear buds. That way the cord would stand out in stark contrast from your dark sweater and people’s eyes would be drawn down the bright, slender wire to your table, where your new iPod Touch rests next to your congressional ID badge and Che Guevara key chain. You’d blend in so well that no one walking by would recognize your face. They wouldn’t recognize the contradiction on the table either.

We moved away from DC just before the stadium was built and were amazed by the development in the surrounding area. Although still in the early stages of gentrification, the neighborhood is much nicer and more developed than it was when I lived there.

I used to go to a Taco Bell on South Capitol, about four blocks from where the stadium now sits. You had shout your order through three inches of Plexiglas to workers who were exemplars of incompetent disrespect. Once you placed your order, you waited 20 minutes to hear your number called. If you were lucky, you only had to entertain one or two con stories from panhandlers who lurked among the customers.

In order to get your food order, which was almost always wrong, the employees put the bag in a bulletproof compartment that had two doors. They couldn’t open their door unless yours was closed, and you couldn’t get your food until they secured the door on their side of the clear wall. Sometimes they left their door cracked and walked away to do who knows what in the back. If you tapped on the glass, the person working the register would shoot you a dark and piercing glare. The message was clear; “You just bought yourself another minute of waiting. Tap the glass again and see what happens.” You felt like a caged rat, wondering what trick you had to perform to get your cheese.

When the Gods of Taco Bell finally graced you with your grab bag of fast food, which may or may not include random side items from the KFC section of the menu, you had to run through a gauntlet of red-eyed bums to get back to your car. The whole endeavor was so bad that I eventually started driving out to Arlington to get my fix. That Taco Bell is now gone, and the whole area looks cleaner than ever before. I still wouldn’t want to be alone on the street after midnight, but the progress is impressive.