Old age should burn and rave at close of day: 5.24.11
Dear Baltimore:
Lately, I have been remiss in telling you how great you make me feel. In fact, every day last week you made me smile. I mean just crack a grin at least once, not walk around with permahappiness plastered to my face. Because that would be feeling a little TOO great, Baltimore. Even for you. These were all just the smallest little moments.
Monday: Hitting the road for work, iced coffee in hand, I was stopped at the corner when all of a sudden the guy in the car behind me leaned on his horn. This is etiquette that driving in dc on a daily basis should inure me to, but here in my own town? I don't think so. Expletives already starting to balloon out of my mouth, I looked around and realized the driver behind me was honking to get the attention of his friend, the priest who was unlocking the side door of the Martini Lutheran Church across the street. Of course!
Tuesday: On my evening walk up on Federal Hill. I paused to watch a guy tossing a ball to his dog. The lab jumped up and caught it every time in one of those turning twists in the air that are just graceful enough to make you stand and watch for the next one. After each catch, the dog ran to position himself for the next one by dropping the ball back at his owner's feet in a wagging dance of expectation. All of a sudden the guy turned to me and asked, "Want to throw it to him?" Yes, I sure did.
Wednesday: Walking along the pier under the dusk glow of the Domino Sugar sign, idly chatting on the phone with my pops, I passed an old woman serenely strolling with her Siamese cat stepping daintily at the end of its leash.
Thursday: Another dusk walk, this one along wonderfully sinister side streets under darkening gray skies and a strong, damp wind. It already was feeling deliciously 'Something Wicked This Way Comes,' when I see a completely, solidly tattooed man walk down his front steps, kneel down and begin weeding his flower patch. He was not just tattooed, he was literally covered. All of the spaces between his black inked designs were filled in with a deep, dark blue. As I got closer, I ogled and he looked up at me. His eyes were shockingly white with two bright blue pupils like ink pooling to decorate the only untouched space he had left. His hair was a blinding Warhol white. I turned back several times to look again after I passed him. Captain Ahab's bone tossing Que Quay had nothing on this strange indigo man.
And then, Friday: Running up the steps on the side of Federal Hill, I summit to find a sweet little wedding party primping and posing for twilight pictures. The week's final magic hour didn't disappoint. After an overcast week, the bride had a backdrop of gilded clouds and a rose tint to the sky that perfectly complemented her entourage's dresses and boutonnieres.
So, Baltimore, thank you as always for reveling in the simple familiarities, the truly odd, and the pleasantly unexpected. You do not disappoint.
