Stina's Trip » Maryland

They call it Charm City? You don’t say.

admin — Sat, 12 Dec 2009 02:48:50 +0000

(WILMINGTON, N.C.) — My friend, Erik, and I have a thing for quirky towns and cities that others might overlook. The places we like are the ones that, if they were kids in middle school, would get beat up by bigger, glitzier locales like New York, Toronto and London. I’m talking about El Paso, Texas and Leadville, Colo. and Astoria, Ore. I’m talking about my two favorite tiny towns in the West: Silver City, N.M. and Moab, Utah. Erik and I are different in so many ways, but when it comes to a sense of place, I feel we are on each other’s wavelengths. We like our towns to be remote and weird and our cities to be sweet and personal. Above all, these places must have a feeling of magic to them, one that not everyone agrees is there. When I find some spot that matters, Erik is someone I can call up and gush to — and he usually gets just what I’m talking about.

This is why I know he would have loved the Hampden section of Baltimore.

I was there a month ago, and I think it has taken me so long to post these pictures because I was afraid of screwing this up. My experience of Baltimore was so delicately strange and homey, so unlike any other city I have been to, that I didn’t want to short change it. As you might guess, that’s a good way to never get something written. But I suppose that’s normal. I mean, aren’t all the things that really matter the scariest do to?

OK, deep breath. Here it goes.

I liked Baltimore. I liked it a lot. It wasn’t my hometown, but I could feel its colorful funk tugging at my heart, asking me to take it in like an sweet, scraggly, stray puppy. I didn’t see much of downtown, and that was just fine by me, as the part that really spoke to me was Hampden, a neighborhood that was a pretty good mix of hipsters, artists, and rough, poor folks who have lived there forever. The homes were narrow, tall and interconnected — row houses, a term I had never used before I landed there. While I walked the traffic-free streets, there was no consistency around me, which I believe I mentioned in an earlier post. One house might have been decked out with cutesy lawn ornaments and a mailbox that looked like a duck, and the next house over might have been this side of abandoned, with a stroller in its front yard and a broken down car alongside that. Something about this lack of uniformity touched off a little spark in me, and I was continually elated whenever I explored this section of town. It reminded me of Moab and Silver City, actually, by how its creativity could border on junky. I couldn’t imagine any homeowner’s associations around there. It was as though people had their personalities on display without much editing. That made me smile.

For a week, my car and trailer were parked on a quiet stretch of street near an auto repair place in the same neighborhood. No one bothered them. No one seemed to care. Live and let live, just the way I like it.

It was in this personal kind of environment that I reconnected with Meredith and Avelino, old friends from New Mexico. I doubt I even would have stopped in Baltimore if it hadn’t been for them. I had this feeling as I was driving up to their home, another insanely tall and thin structure, that our hanging out for days on end would be just fine, even though we hadn’t seen each other in more than two years. And it was. They have this cute, coupley way of interacting that is so disarming and good-hearted that even when my mood took a lonely turn every once and a while, I didn’t begrudge them their adorableness. They are both artistic, smart and well-read, and they’re also the kind of people who love Christmas and get googly eyed over their cats. Being with them I felt taken care of in a very genuine, comforting way. What a nice respite before I moved on to the hectic world of D.C. and northern Virginia. God, I must think of a way to give back to them.

It seems weird that was just a month ago. Now, I’m by the North Carolina ocean, and I’m staying with a woman who owns a vintage clothing store downtown and who reminds me so much of Cary Bradshaw. I like it here, in all its damp, green glory, but I will admit to having little daydreams of Hampden. I like that about traveling, how you carry the places you really care about with you all the time. As much I love to discover all these new towns, it’s also such a comfort to be able to close my eyes and think back to the places I hold in my heart. To Baltimore and Silver City and Moab and so many other towns, I miss you. And think of you often. Same goes for you, Erik, Meredith and Avelino.

Here are a few shots from Baltimore and around.

Avelino and Meredith's kitties, Squishy and Nutmeg, in their domain.

My New Mexico friends, Meredith and Avelino, experiencing a very non-New Mexican annoyance/joy: leaves.

Photo by Avelino Maestas.

I don't know what these are, only that I probably shouldn't eat them.

Hampden. This is Baltimore to me.

If it looks like there's a story here, that's because there is. This fellow, the owner of a Hampden music store, was my conversation buddy for about an hour-and-a-half. He talked mostly, and I listened, and it was strange, but it was also kind of perfect. By the time I walked out of there, I had no idea what had just happened. I still don't. But at least I have photographic evidence. I wish him the best.

A Baltimore-centric joke. This city is the home of the Hons — fabled stereotypical women with beehive hairdos and cat eye glasses. This is the kind of woman who might be your waitress at a pie diner and call you "Hon." Or she might appear in a Gary Larson cartoon.

Cultivated Boston, in pictures

admin — Sat, 07 Nov 2009 14:05:25 +0000

(BALTIMORE, Md.) — Follow-through. It’s something I’m working on. You see, about a month ago, I spent one day — one short and rainy, yet sweet day in Boston. And only now am I posting the pictures. This follow-through thing is a process, I guess.

Everything went by so quickly while I was there, but I remember it vividly.

Many of the city streets were wide, wet and gray, but not drab. They were teaming with activity and life. Having lived in the desert for about two years, I’m not used to horse-drawn carriages, open air markets and cobblestones, but that’s what was in front me. I had never thought about Boston at all before my visit, never cared about it. In my head, it had always been too far east and too full of college students for me to comprehend. But I felt like I got it a little bit on this trip. It was big and upscale and bursting with people. I liked the whiff of formality and history in the air, which was mixed with a surprising bit of friendliness.

Eric, a friend from Silver City, rode the train with me into Boston and the lovely Jerrie, a friend from Colorado, showed me around. There were a few hours in there when I was completely alone, and even that was surprisingly personable. At one point, I wandered into a Vera Wang wedding dress boutique, just to see what it would feel like to be close to so much opulence (just as a lark really, because I don’t care at all about lavish weddings). When the friendly, Israeli storekeeper kindly asked me when my wedding day was, I realized it would be much easier and less embarrassing for us both to simply pretend. I don’t like lying like that, but it made sense in the moment, and on some level it was fun to imagine that a Vera Wang wedding really was my reality. I didn’t try anything on (I didn’t want to get too Muriel’s Wedding about this thing), but there was something special about being next to so much shiny satin and lace. It was as though I was in another country, one I don’t particularly want to live in, but one with a beauty I can certainly appreciate.

In case you’re curious, I told her my faux wedding is taking place about a year-and-half from now in San Francisco. He’s a great guy, not to mention the fact that his parents are paying for the dress.

Public library. Boston.

Looking out from the library.

My friend, Jerrie.

It was a little strange to see hoards of tourists in a graveyard, but I could understand. I had hardly seen anything in the US as old as this cemetery, either. Many of the graves were from the 1600s.

Many people have taken a ride on this donkey, I know. But how many have done it in the rain, sober? Finally, I feel original.

Boston at night.

For my mother

admin — Tue, 03 Nov 2009 20:28:27 +0000

(BALTIMORE, Md.) — This city is like nothing I have ever seen, at least this part of it. In Hampden, where my friends Avelino and Meredith live, not a thing is uniform, except for overwhelming use of brick. It seem hodge podge here, with junky front yards butting up against well-groomed ones and bumper stickers of every political persuasion plastered to cars. Even the duplexes are split into two different colors. The streets come in all sizes and lengths, and many are downright European in their tininess. There are a bunch of hipsters that live here, a well as many older folks, and the rents are cheap enough that the pool of residents can get more varied in time. I feel like I’m in a scruffy version of an Edward Hopper painting — a strange, urban one with a sense of lonesomeness at its core. I like it here.

It’s getting to be that time of year just past the bright fall colors when the leaves are starting to really drop from the trees. This reminds me of my mom. Once, when I was little, she was driving through somewhere when she saw a gust of wind pick up a big group of leaves and swirl it around with abandon. I can’t remember her words describing this, but I know she was entranced and contemplated nudging me awake so I could see. She has told me, more than once, that she has always wished that she would have woken me up to watch “the dancing leaves.” The thing is, whenever I see leaves blowing like that, I do take notice now. Because of that story, I am always awake for the dancing leaves.

For some reason, this is the closest I have ever come to telling her.