ALEXANDRIA, Va.—This is a pretty cool town. The historic Episcopal Church on Washington Street catches the fading sunlight the way it once did in 1773. The neon signs in the commercial district are flickering on for the evening.
The downtown sidewalks are littered with young, hip people who wear trendy clothes and have multiple tattoos on each limb.
My friend, Izaak, lives in this town. He says tattoos are popular among urban professionals. Izaak himself has a few tats. So does his wife. And I’ll bet Izaak’s 2-year-old daughter will probably get a couple for Christmas.
I personally do not have any inkwork. I was raised by Southern Baptists who wouldn’t even keep NyQuil in the house.
Although, as a teenager I once came awfully close to allowing an older woman named Ursula to tattoo the Ford Motor Company insignia on my shoulder, one regretful spring break night in Panama City.
Thankfully, my cousin hid my wallet.
Tonight in Alexandria I see a lot of ink. I stand in line at a burger joint where I
meet a clean-cut guy with a tattoo on his neck. The artwork crawls down his shoulder blades.
I ask him about it. He is generous enough to show it to me.
“My own design,” he says, pointing to his neck. “This one’s for my sister, she died in a car accident. And this one’s for my dad, he’s my best friend.”
On his forearm he has another. It looks like a portrait of Don Knotts.
“My sister was a huge ‘Andy Griffith Show’ fan,” he says.
After supper, my wife and I buy ice cream at Jeni’s and stroll the sidewalks. The residential streets are lined with colonial row houses, painted with colors from the early American palette.
I see elderly people sitting on porches, reading non-electronic books. A woman is watering her ferns. I pass two kids who look like Wally and the…