Wench in the city
August 22nd, 2006
For a while I thought that there was no way I could write about any sort of scandalous or juicy exploits in my life. Of course, there was the privacy issue, but mostly, my life is pretty uneventful.
Culinary exploits aside, (and, mostly, I am still too broke to have very many culinary exploits) there are some weird and/or unsavory things that seem to happen as an urban dweller in a rapidly gentrifying neighborhood. I thought it was time I started keeping a record of all those “What was I thinking living here?” moments.
Tuesday, July 18th. I move in to my new aparment. As Lee unlocks the front gate, he apologizes for the scent of urine permeating the entranceway. Homeless folks like to pee on the yard next door. The urine smell subsequently returns every time it is particularly hot and humid (e.g. the entire summer in Washington, DC).
Wednesday, July 26th. I begin to notice that my walk to and from the metro station usually involves passing through a gauntlet of Hispanic men, who invariably fall silent and then one of them mumbles something to me in Spanish. I can’t understand and suspect that it’s better that way.
Sunday, August 12th. I spot a strange shadow of a person’s legs through our living room window. Later that evening, Lee and I discover a paper bag stashed behind the bush in front of our apartment. “What do you think it is? A dead baby?” I ask. “Maybe it’s a drug drop,” Lee replies. We then gleefully contemplate the possibility of our house being the site of a police sting and possibly a major drug bust. However, our dreams are quickly shattered when Lee reaches into the bag and pulls out… a Jane Fonda workout tape.
Sunday, August 20th. There is a drunk man in our alley. He is passed out… in our parking space.
Sounds like a blast.
Baltimore has a lovely crime rate.
God bless you, sugarplum. I assume things have gotten significantly better since then. I moved to downtown Cincinnati right out of undergraduate, and it was more than a little terrifying. My mother was convinced I would be raped and murdered immediately. So of course, within five days of living in my little studio apartment, while -talking to her on the phone-, the pizza parlor downstairs in my building was robbed complete with “STOP - POLICE!” yelling and gunshots.
“What on earth is going on?” she asked.
“Television, Mama,” I replied and continued my pesky surveillance out my 7th story window.