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Welcome to installment #2 in an occasional series of interesting restroom facilities. Suggestions welcome: ldepillis@washingtoncitypaper.com.

Despite the cozy, dark-wood-and-polished-bronze grandeur of the bar upstairs, most of the National Press Club is workmanlike, slightly frayed and grimy around the edges, largely unchanged from the era when journalists still knocked off after work for a whiskey and soda instead of continuing to blog around the clock (the haze of smoke is gone, but one can imagine it still permeates the walls).

The bathrooms reflect a similarly dignified but plebean aesthetic, with real marble countertops that have yellowed around their spit-shined brass faucets and beveled mirrors that are showing water damage on the bottom edge. Simple putty tile covers the floors and walls, and the whole shadowy interior is lit with flickering fluorescent panels that don’t cast a particularly flattering light on anyone trying to fix their makeup.

But then, journalists don’t need makeup, do they?