It’s a very Dickensian night here in Baltimore. Chilly, but not bone-freezing cold. Not raining, really, but misting, and not quite fog. I can’t see the skyscrapers downtown from my windows, as I usually can. And the streetlights cast a beautiful glow in the mist.
“Silver Bells” is easily my favorite non-religious Christmas song. Sadly, it’s a song of things Christmas-y that are gone with the wind. “Silver Bells” is a celebration of a downtown Christmas, and there’s not much left of that. If I were to go down to Howard and Lexington &mdash that once-bustling place known as The Busy Corner — I’d find no more glittering window displays, no electric garlands hanging overhead. No more enticing display of Christmas wonderland from stylish Hutzler’s or stodgy Hochschild’s. There’s a lot left downtown &mdash just go to the Market any Saturday and you’ll see it &mdash I had to fight my way through three hundred adamant Baltimore dowagers to the counter at Rheb’s candy shop last week to fill out my Christmas list — but the glory days are gone.
On a night like this I cannot understand why people do not want to live in the city. (I speak now not only of Baltimore, but of Richmond, and Cleveland, and St. Louis, and... all cities.) I leaned out the window of my upstairs living room (first floor, mind you, is the Front Parlor and reserved for Proper Entertaining) for a quick smoke. There’s the lovely block of houses just south of my own block, the big white house on the corner fairly glowing in the mist. The mammoth Methodist church across the street looked gorgeous, and I don’t even like the old thing (it was designed by Stanford White, but a good pedigree doesn’t mean I have to like it). Its neighbour, the former main building of Goucher College, hovered heavy but elegant. While I hung out the window one of the neighborhood cops &mdash Virg Caunter, who knows me pretty well, called up to say hello and to bum a cigarette. After we’d finished chatting he even said, “Frohe Weihnachten” — he knows I like everything a little better auf Deutsch.
This neighborhood is not, perhaps, what it was in 1913, but it retains a certain amount of gemutlichkeit that is sadly missing from most suburban milieus. My best friends in Baltimore do live in my neighborhood, but my immediate neighbors aren’t my close friends. Yet, I know them; I know that the guy next door is a movie projectionist and likes whiskey sours. I know that the chick two doors up is a pastry chef and is into bonsai. Lately, when I visited a friend out in Owings Mills (one of Baltimore’s far-flung suburban environs), I was shocked to realize that she didn’t know even the names of her next-door neighbors. And this, in a “townhome” development. Pity they didn’t call them “rowhouses” instead of “townhomes.” How can you live in a place where you share a wall with neighbors, and not even know their names? Is this the “safety” that suburbia craves? Thanks, I’d rather know who lives next door.
Perhaps the most constant argument against city life is the issue of schooling. To this, I say, “Feh.” My neighborhood’s grade school serves an area that includes a lot of yuppie haveitalls, a lot of disenfranchised industrial workers, ancient bluebloods, and an awful lot of gay men. The kids are mostly poor. Yet, this school manages to produce scores among Maryland’s highest in standardized testing. Apparently, something is working. A good friend has put three kids through the City’s school system, and they’re all quite competent. The education is there if you want it.
And so I come back to the Christmas ideal. You know, cities are wonderful places to be at Christmastime. Even the frowziest old neighborhoods turn into happy enclaves. Look at Hampden &mdash I remember my mother telling me that “nice people don’t go to Hampden!” but there it is, with the famous 34th street lights outshining everything else in town.
Let the malls do their best. I’m spending Christmas right here on Saint Paul street. I might go downtown to score some hot roasted peanuts from Konstant. This is Santa’s big scene, soon it will be Christmas Day!
“Silver Bells” is easily my favorite non-religious Christmas song. Sadly, it’s a song of things Christmas-y that are gone with the wind. “Silver Bells” is a celebration of a downtown Christmas, and there’s not much left of that. If I were to go down to Howard and Lexington &mdash that once-bustling place known as The Busy Corner — I’d find no more glittering window displays, no electric garlands hanging overhead. No more enticing display of Christmas wonderland from stylish Hutzler’s or stodgy Hochschild’s. There’s a lot left downtown &mdash just go to the Market any Saturday and you’ll see it &mdash I had to fight my way through three hundred adamant Baltimore dowagers to the counter at Rheb’s candy shop last week to fill out my Christmas list — but the glory days are gone.
On a night like this I cannot understand why people do not want to live in the city. (I speak now not only of Baltimore, but of Richmond, and Cleveland, and St. Louis, and... all cities.) I leaned out the window of my upstairs living room (first floor, mind you, is the Front Parlor and reserved for Proper Entertaining) for a quick smoke. There’s the lovely block of houses just south of my own block, the big white house on the corner fairly glowing in the mist. The mammoth Methodist church across the street looked gorgeous, and I don’t even like the old thing (it was designed by Stanford White, but a good pedigree doesn’t mean I have to like it). Its neighbour, the former main building of Goucher College, hovered heavy but elegant. While I hung out the window one of the neighborhood cops &mdash Virg Caunter, who knows me pretty well, called up to say hello and to bum a cigarette. After we’d finished chatting he even said, “Frohe Weihnachten” — he knows I like everything a little better auf Deutsch.
This neighborhood is not, perhaps, what it was in 1913, but it retains a certain amount of gemutlichkeit that is sadly missing from most suburban milieus. My best friends in Baltimore do live in my neighborhood, but my immediate neighbors aren’t my close friends. Yet, I know them; I know that the guy next door is a movie projectionist and likes whiskey sours. I know that the chick two doors up is a pastry chef and is into bonsai. Lately, when I visited a friend out in Owings Mills (one of Baltimore’s far-flung suburban environs), I was shocked to realize that she didn’t know even the names of her next-door neighbors. And this, in a “townhome” development. Pity they didn’t call them “rowhouses” instead of “townhomes.” How can you live in a place where you share a wall with neighbors, and not even know their names? Is this the “safety” that suburbia craves? Thanks, I’d rather know who lives next door.
Perhaps the most constant argument against city life is the issue of schooling. To this, I say, “Feh.” My neighborhood’s grade school serves an area that includes a lot of yuppie haveitalls, a lot of disenfranchised industrial workers, ancient bluebloods, and an awful lot of gay men. The kids are mostly poor. Yet, this school manages to produce scores among Maryland’s highest in standardized testing. Apparently, something is working. A good friend has put three kids through the City’s school system, and they’re all quite competent. The education is there if you want it.
And so I come back to the Christmas ideal. You know, cities are wonderful places to be at Christmastime. Even the frowziest old neighborhoods turn into happy enclaves. Look at Hampden &mdash I remember my mother telling me that “nice people don’t go to Hampden!” but there it is, with the famous 34th street lights outshining everything else in town.
Let the malls do their best. I’m spending Christmas right here on Saint Paul street. I might go downtown to score some hot roasted peanuts from Konstant. This is Santa’s big scene, soon it will be Christmas Day!
posted by Daniel | 2:27 AM
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