No, not this past weekend.
I mean, let's be real. I think we all know Baltimore was not the place to be this weekend. And we're not going to get into that here, because this is not the place for it.
I will not say Baltimore isn't without its problems. Obviously, it is. And while I will readily come to my city's defense, I'm also guilty of plotting my escape from it for years now (lately with more fervor than ever). I also don't take advantage of Baltimore nearly enough the way Jen takes advantage of New York. When I went to the Jersey Shore last year and drove a friend of a friend who isn't originally from here, she was asking me if I had gone to this or if I was going to that. Of course I hadn't. I'm too busy staying in my house, tripping on Zquil and reading self-help books by the light of my seasonal depression lamp while my two cats knead my legs.
But to throw some positive light on my hometown and honor Baltimore's Charm City nickname, I'd like to highlight the very Bmore weekend I had two weekends ago when the weather was stupid nice and everyone was out loving life. Even me. (Well, maybe not the loving life part...but I was out.)
It started with this:
OK, so technically that hails from outside Baltimore proper, but I mean look at that thing. It's my first Cow of the season. The Cow is an ice cream stand in Reisterstown, where I went to high school. It was originally called something bland and benign like "Dairy Fresh," but the giant cow out front earned it the nickname of the Cow and then it officially became the Cow.
Out to visit my parents for some Chinese food two Friday nights ago, I treated myself to a little dessert... and it's a beautiful thing. That photo alone probably could make every weak-stomached Jew in Baltimore weep tears of lactase.
Of course the next morning I repented with a run. Blech, I hate running. But I can't even fully hate it when the view looks like this.
Are you sold on Baltimore yet? (Truth be told, if the custard and MY PRESENCE aren't enough to bring you here, I don't know what the fuck it would take.)
Of course, my running penance didn't last long. A couple hours afterward, a few friends and I visited something called Emporiyum. I don't know how I missed the first one last year, but this year was the second one. Food vendors from all over the city as well as some from out of state set up booths with samples and artisan gifts for foodies in a bakery warehouse.
It was basically amazing, and truth be told, I did not do it justice. Two rows down, and I was stumbling along in a food coma, eyes glazed over at the sight of a mini BLT courtesy of Woodberry Kitchen (another one of my very favorites).
Finally, once we had exhausted our capacities for free food (not an easy task), we (more or less literally) rolled over to nearby Fells Point to people-watch at the Privateer Festival, where for no apparent reason, lots of people dress up like pirates.
Because you know what? This is the type of shit you can do on a random spring Saturday in Baltimore, and that's what makes it great.
Unable to stay upright much longer, we parked ourselves at a sidewalk table at Tapas Adela, split a pitcher of sangria, and watched the pirates go by.
Cheers, Baltimore, you weird, fucked up little city that I love.