An Open Letter to JHU Undergrads

Welcome back to school!  It's been a few weeks now, which means you're really into the swing of things.  You've gotten a handle on your coursework for the semester, figured out a good shower schedule with the roommate(s), and learned how to not have your cellphone stolen out of your hand while you absentmindedly peruse Facebook at the shuttle stop.

As someone a few years ahead of you in the Game of Life, let me share some knowledge with you.

Thursday is recycling day for the Homewood area, per the Department of Public Work's website.  This means that you put your recyclables outside on Wednesday night or Thursday morning, and they either need to be in a recyclable container (paper bag, box, etc) or a useable container with you address.  A plastic trashbag is not recyclable.  A plastic trashbag full of sneakers without pairs are not recyclable, at least not in the way that a beer can is.  Don't put all your beer cans in a plastic bag to be recycled.  That does nothing for anyone.  Also, why are you buying so much Miller High Life?  This is Baltimore.  Stick to 'Boh.

For the love of all that is good and holy, please eat your pizza crusts so that my dog doesn't.  I've already complained about chicken wings on the sidewalk, along with other things I've taken out of my dog's throat on walks.  Since you've come back to town, though, there are more pizza crusts than pigeons.

Not everything is worthy of a "WOOOOOOO."  Starting around 8:00pm on Thursdays until at least midnight on Sundays, I live in fear of the "WOOOO."  I hear the "WOO" when I shut my windows, run the Roomba, or do countless other things to drown you out.  The other day, I heard a "WOO" over the flushing of my toilet, and wondered if you were cheering me on for my bathroom accomplishments.  I understand that you're excited because you are free of parental supervision, but bring it down a "WOO" or two.

Music can be equally as wonderful without having the bass as high as possible.  I don't need my windows rattling.

There is an unwritten rule here in Adultland (beyond regular vacuuming and being in bed by 11:00pm): if the line that separates your leg from your butt cheek is visible, your skirt/shorts/dress/romper/trashbag/gym sock you oiled yourself into is too short.  This goes for both men and women.  This is not a matter of saying, "You look like a hussy," this is a matter of not everyone wanting to see your butt cheek.  Wear whatever you want, I don't really care.  Just cover up your butt, especially when you're "WOO"ing about how cold it is outside.

You don't need to wear fake eyelashes on a Wednesday.  No one needs to wear fake eyelashes on a Wednesday.  Not even people in fashion shoots.  Their stylists are all, "What? Are you crazy?  It's WEDNESDAY."  You're in your late teens/early 20s!  This is your prime!  Own it, without faking it.  You have no need to!

It's taken me some time to get accustomed to your presence.  It was a rough realization for me for the first two weeks, but I've warmed to you.  You bring dollars for local businesses.  You bring some diversity to the neighborhood.  You raise Bubba's self esteem by regularly telling me that, "WOOO HE'S SO CUTE."  You make me nostalgic for the years when my biggest concern was whether I'd get a burger at the dining hall, or a wrap from the pseudo-health-conscious stand in the gym.  People looking to nab an iPhone from someone's hands will also more likely head towards you, the drunk guy walking into a pole, rather than me, the girl in her pajamas picking up dog poop.

So thank you.  But remember, please bring the "WOO"ing down a notch.  Read the (incredibly simple) recycling rules; you're Hopkins students, you can handle it.  Turn down your bass, cover your butt, and accept that you are beautiful at 20 and don't need any fake eyelashes yet.  Be young and carefree, but not stupid.

Welcome (back) to Baltimore.
Sincerely yours,
Your Neighbor Who Really May Call the Cops if You Don't Turn Down Your Bass

Bikes: The Ugly, the Bad, and the Good

Things have been busy.  I moved, I wrote this piece for the Baltimore Fishbowl because I moved, and then it just got hot and I couldn't be bothered to do much beyond eat ice cream in front of my AC unit.

Way back in 2002, in between training for the upcoming high school cross country season and doing important teenage things like buying $4 flip flops from Old Navy, I somehow wound up signed up to do a bike tour across Maine, starting a little outside of Augusta.  My travel companions and I were, somehow, going to bike 50-75 miles a day across the state of Maine for a week.   It also bears noting that I was 14, and that my travel companions were my lifelong friend, Georgia, and my sister, who was all of 19 at the time.

2002: Georgia and I, Summer of the Car Smush

I was down with biking, but I hadn't ever been down with biking.  I was all about the gear shifters that twisted on your handlebars, and never went more than two miles around the perimeter of my parents' house.  When Georgia and I knew we were going to do this bike trip, we began training.  We'd bike five miles.  To the nearest Starbucks, and get Frappucinos, because that's how 14 year old girls train.  That being said, it's still more training than my sister did for this ride.

We drove up from Georgia's parents' house outside of Providence, and began to realize how woefully illprepared we were the first night, amongst hordes of fellow bikers, all middle aged, and all far more in shape than we were, (rightfully) laughing at my mountain bike.

The next day ended quickly.  Within .7 miles of the trip, while we were still biking on the sidewalk of Rome, Maine, I got hit by a car while crossing a crosswalk when he had a red light.  I could not have been going more than 2 miles an hour.  He hit me, I went down, and I'm still not sure how, but the bike landed on top of me, and the pedal gauged my leg.  My sister claims that's the day I began cursing like a sailor.  15 stitches later, and that was the end of the trip.  We stupidly went camping that night, which could not have been good for my thrown-on-the-ground spine, and my sister washed my hair in the sink everyone washed their dishes in at the campground.  It was a very glamorous time in my life.  Somewhere on some 3X5 ultra glossy print from CVS, there's a great picture of the three of us at the beach, post accident.  My sister has her eyes semi shut, Georgia is posing like a teen supermodel, and I'm sticking my leg out to the side at a weird angle while its wrapped in layer of gauze that we probably reapplied in the back of the 1994 Dodge Caravan we drove up to Maine in.  Memories.

I didn't touch bikes for a while.  I was 21 before I got back on a bike again.  I was 22 before I took one on the street, and even then, it was to get groceries in college and go maybe a half a mile, mainly on campus.  The pedal going into my leg left me with a large scar that I was vainly self-conscious about throughout high school.

2005: The Leg Scar Remains
(as does my inherent awkwardness)

I still have this scar, although it's finally begun to fade.  Frequent reactions include, "Ohmygosh you're bleeding!" or "What happened?!"  The first allows me to pretend like I feel no pain, the second allows me a space in which I can create whatever convoluted story I feel is appropriate at the time.  Bear mauling?  Sure! Couldn't afford med school so I tested things on myself? Times are tough, makes sense.

When I moved here, I was still very much skeptical of bikes.  And bikes in the city?  Absolutely not.  A friend of mine was pretty involved in Bike Party, though,  and I got roped into volunteering.  Bike Party is wonderful.  After a few months of haphazardly volunteering, I finally got myself on a bike and partook back in April.  Bike Party is ideal for the faint-of-heart biker.  You travel in a pack at an absurdly slow rate, and everyone around you is supportive.  You have a space to become accustomed with biking in the street, but at 5 miles an hour with a huge crowd of happy bikers surrounding you.  It was perfect for me.

After April's Bike Party (Prom-themed, so I wore my high school prom dress with leggings and tucked it into a fanny pack), I began to warm up to the idea of getting back on a bike.  I bought myself a 1988 Schwinn Premis off good 'ol Craigslist, and through the patience of various people, have begun biking again.  Initially, just some short trips to the lakes or up through Roland Park, but as of last week, I am officially a bike commuter.

Biking to work is not nearly as atrocious as I'd imagined it would be, even with my old school downtube shifters.  Gone are the days of walking a few blocks to the bus, to wait for the bus, to get off and wait for another bus, to walk a couple more blocks to the office.  Biking time is the same as a (rare) good day bus commuting.  I no longer have to wait for 30 minute increments for the next shuttle or Circulator to come find me.  I no longer get drenched in sweat waiting to get home, I get drenched in sweat while actively getting home.  It's wonderful.  The 3 mile ride uphill going home isn't so wonderful, but the freedom from the stupid buses and shuttles most definitely is sweet enough to compensate.

So if you're new to Bmore, get out there on your bike!  Just remember that you're also a vehicle of sorts, so you, too, should be following the rules of the road.  Stop at stop signs, signal when you're turning, don't text - all those things that should be stupidly obvious, but aren't to so many.  Wear your helmet, be aware of people opening their doors into you, and forever avoid paying for parking.

Happy biking!

The Cone Collection

I've professed my love for art in the past. This afternoon, after picking up my weekly produce and happiness from the market and taking the dog to a park, I figured I'd go see the new exhibit at the Baltimore Museum of Art.  I love the BMA and was excited to see the Baker Artist Awards.  As expected, there were wonderful exhibits from local artists which once again verified my belief that Baltimore artists are equally as talented, if not more so, than artists in larger cities.  Today I am not here to regale you with tales of the wonders of the BMA, though.  The BMA is undergoing some serious renovations and will be reopening their Contemporary Wing in November, at which point I'll scope it out and bore you with details then.

Source: http://www.destination360.com/

Today, I am here to tell you about the Cone Collection at the BMA.  Sometimes a girl just needs to revel in Matisse, Picasso, Cezanne, Van Gogh and Rodin, and the Cone Collection allows me to do just that.  So, many thanks to the wealthy Cone sisters who decided that Baltimore should hold onto their collection so that "the spirit of appreciation for modern art in Baltimore became improved."  Because the BMA is free, it allows people like myself to go in multiple times a month for the sole purpose of staring at late 19th Century sculpture on a whim, and for that I am incredibly grateful.  

Please be sure to support the BMA, or any art institute, and not just for my own selfish motives.  The arts are one of the main reasons Baltimore is such a great place to live, and keeping the arts affordable/free means keeping it accessible to everyone.

The Book Thing

Let me introduce you to the best thing in this city, bar none.  This is saying quite a bit, because I really do have serious love for the farmer's market.  The Book Thing , located on Vineyard Lane on the outskirts of Charles Village, is a magical place where you bring old books you no longer want and can pick up new ones for free.  Or, perhaps you just want to pick up books.  That's completely fine as well. It's all provided at no cost whatsoever.

I recently heard a Stoop Story podcast where Russell Wattenberg, creator of The Book Thing, explained the story behind what is now what other, larger cities lust after.  It's not only a wonderful concept, it's completely commendable.  Why not give up your old books to people who may want to read them?

The whole set-up is just like walking into the Christmas Happiness Warehouse for Nerds.  Just this past weekend, I found an almost-mint condition of Bill Bryson's "A Walk in the Woods."  I always explore the humor section, the classics, the cookbooks, travel books that are 20+years out of date...  Scouring the shelves is an adventure in and of itself.  So, if you're new to Charm City, hit it up.  Get some free books!