Baltimore Bacchanal: An Overly Verbose Trip Report
Aug 1st, 2007, 05:55 AM
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Baltimore Bacchanal: An Overly Verbose Trip Report
Saturday, 0715: Got my bagel, got my coffee, and my little dude is running around in his PJs babbling in his toddler Aramaic when my friend comes roaring up the driveway to get me for our girls weekend. She is ready for action; when I pour half a bottle of champagne in her OJ she doesn't even blink. This is my first overnight away from both my guys, but I am confident they will have a blast doing Boy Things (eating lots of meat, laughing at flatus), so after our goodbyes we race out. Within the hour our duo is a threesome (hey now!) on our way North to catch our Southwest flight South.
Meet my friends: Pam Pecan, a cross between Glenn Close and Amy Winehouse beautiful, fierce but funny, and whether it's a bar fight or a boardroom, you want her on your side; Polo, our NE blueblood - sweet, beautiful, tends to teetotal, thighs of a baby giraffe you may ask why in God's name she's with us but we may need her for bail money; and Piper, the prodigal one, another beaut, Amy Sedaris meets Julie Andrews, the reason for the trip she rambled South to the New New Jersey a year ago, and we are meeting her halfway in Baltimore in order to mock her for this in person.
0950 - 1200: Pam has snagged the Coveted Group A, so she saves us seats, and after the quickie 50-minute flight we land amidst the late-July smother of Maryland. With shouts and rude gestures we greet our waiting Piper, and grab a cab for the 20-minute ride to the swank Pier 5 hotel in the Inner Harbor (cab fare $40, http://harbormagic.com/Pier5/pier5_default.asp?SP= ). The desk clerk is a gregarious and funny lady by the stellar name of Empress who informs us that our room isn't ready yet, so the four of us head to the bathroom to get the necessary swag from our bags/reduce our clothing, emerging less than 10 minutes later to the amazement of a male guest who's been hanging at the desk. I manage to score a v significant discount on the room, which I will hold over the other 3 for the Rest Of Their Lives, and then, hooray, the room is ready. The hotel is a modern, purple-y rectangle with only 3 floors - our double-double is a nice big room overlooking the water and the Pier 6 concert pavilion, and Thank God it has a long counter in the bath as in toto we've more product and sundries than a freakin' CVS. I hand out clothespins with our initials on them for towel identification as I love my friends, but I'm not wiping my face where their arses have been. I am immediately slagged for this, but hunger yells louder and we're off to Little Italy to scare up some eats. We discover the Austin Powers Magical Suite on our way out of the 3rd floor (hey now!), and naturally it becomes mandatory to dance like Austin past this suite for the rest of the weekend.
1200 1430: A very short walk past typical Baltimore brick and faux-stone-front rowhouses takes us past the little fenced-in lot where the neighborhood gathers to watch films projected from a third floor bedroom across the street (mostly mob movies, natch). We wind up at Amiccis, (231 S High Street, www.amiccis.com), surrounded by posters of said movies, where we order like girls, splitting orders of their large house salad (vg vinaigrette), garlic cheese bread (to counter the salad, duh), Penne Amicci (excellent sausage, huge mushrooms), and eggplant parm. There is plenty of delicious food to go 'round, and it cost all of $39 before tip. As we head back towards the hotel we notice swarms of Yankees shirts apparently the O's have a 3-day home stand, and they are severely outgunned in the fan dept. Back in the room, Piper checks in on her family (her husband misses us so Pam moans suggestively, I yell at Polo to stop hogging the nipple clips), and then we're off to poke around the Inner Harbor and take a harbor cruise.
1430 1800: We hit the new steel-and-glass Baltimore Visitors Center just past Harborplace for coupons towards hourlong cruises on the Prince Charming (www.harborcruises.com) and soon we're off with loads of other sweatsoaked tourists. Polo tries to keep the "riding prince charming" jokes in check as we're surrounded by families, and the captain supplements the recorded info with some newer observations such as the 1.2 million asking price for the cheapest of the Ritz-Carlton condos (in Baltimore?!?) going up on the Federal Hill waterfront. The tour passes the iconic Dominos sugar sign atop the deathtrap Dominos building, container ships and ro-ro's in port, Fort McHenry, etc. and was a nice, if hot, way to pass the time. Afterwards we wander a bit - Polo and I discuss the pecuniary implications of retiring third world debt on the Senegalese middle class; Piper and Pam start singing showtunes from "Carousel." We're noticing an oddly high concentration of firefighters, which makes Pam even more hot and bothered, so we again head back to the sanctuary of our A/C'd room. Pam and I hunt and gather wine and beers from the adjacent McCormick & Schmick's (there's a small door near the front desk where you can sneak into the restaurant), and we drink and catch up before taking the hotel's free shuttle to Fell's Point, where we have reservations for the 7 PM Ghost Tour.
1800-2130: The cobblestoned streets of Fell's Point have seen many a drunken sailor, and since some of us have, too, it feels welcoming. We head towards the bar of Eat Bertha's Mussels (www.berthas.com), a funky, narrow joint claustrophobically decorated with bizarre chandeliers and bastardizations of their eponymous bumper stickers, reigned over this eve by Diane, a testy but amusing Bawlmer barwench with piled black hair and red hornrimmed glasses. Piper and I order a bowl of their rightly famed mussels with garlic and basil sauce ($10) and I down a nice Hoegaarden (hey now!). A middle-aged gent comes in with an adorable puppy and I joke to him that he's trolling for babes (it's totally working); not 10 seconds later Pam is laughing her arse off as her gaydar is redlining, and hers is Never Wrong. Oops. We soak up some puppy love and chat with the guy and before know it we're back out in the heat for the ghost tour.
Which sucks. Well, it's probably not bad for family entertainment, but our guides' limp storytelling abilities do nothing to retire any of our trenchant cynicism, making the bars we pass look more and more inviting.
We ditch halfway through and Pam spots a rooftop bar overlooking the water above Maggie Moos ice cream, so we make our way up to Woody's to eat lots of meat and laugh at flatus (OK, so maybe just me). We split massive nachos ($8), Piper and I snag beers, and the four of us again order like chicks and split fish tacos ($12) and a burger. Honestly, I can hear DH mocking me all the way down here. After resting a bit more (read: shredding each others' reputations), we walk back to the hotel down Aliceanna street, and I'm happy to report that there's so much revitalization going on that I never even think about the up-till-recent stupidity of this during the 15-or-so-minute walk.
2130 - 2200: We dress to go dancing; despite four women in one room, it's not the movie farce you'd expect (there's an Arctic Monkeys song waiting here). Piper and I look meaningfully at the clock, then each other. The moms of the group, it is damn near our bedtime. Seeing this glance, Pam introduces us to Mr. Red Bull. Amen, Pam. Amen.
2200: Our merry band heads North up to the Power Plant area towards Mosaic, a newish club at the end of a row of bars/clubs with pounding house music and a trendy couch/tent oasis outside. The alley that it's in has been attractively strung with white box lamps, but we're more concerned with the fact that the bartenders are moving like tectonic plates and the place is still too empty, so after a while we head a few doors back to a confluence of outdoor bars/clubs. We stop at Mex.
2245: where I cannot help but notice that we are in the middle of more firefighters than a Pam fantasy. I also start counting up the bachelorette parties, and find at least four stapled-on veils within a 40-body radius. Yeah, it's THAT kind of night. Pam, Piper, and I accelerate our drinking. We occasionally yell at the brides-to-be not to do it.
2300: We have attracted attention, not all of it wanted. One blond, middle-aged fireman corners me, he's nice enough, but earnestly drunken and sweaty, and soon I would rather be talking to a tape dispenser. Or arborvitae.
2315: Pam has made a new friend; not a firefighter, kinda short, but a v g dancer. Polo bails to go order por-, er, take a shower and collapse back in the room.
2330: The dancefloor at Mex is suddenly parted by black-clad bouncers escorting about 6 nubile young women who climb up onto the bar. They are wearing bikini bottoms, but all else God-given has been body-painted to advertise the various bars in the area. Firefighters stampede like Bud-drenched buffalo, and soon a forest of RAZRs and Motorolas is in the air clicking away like mad. I take a great picture of this.
All Balls: Back 2 Mosaic. Not surprisingly, the firefighters are not here. Piper, meanwhile, finds a new friend! I take a great picture of this as well, in retaliation for her gleeful provocation that she has already cruelly abused my towel.
0030: God save me from drunken, braying 23-year-old buttboy Tweedledums, BECAUSE MY FRIENDS SURE AREN'T.
OhDarkThirty: Collapse back in the room after raiding the vending machine. No pictures taken, but sleep aids might be. Damn you, Mr. Red Bull.
Meet my friends: Pam Pecan, a cross between Glenn Close and Amy Winehouse beautiful, fierce but funny, and whether it's a bar fight or a boardroom, you want her on your side; Polo, our NE blueblood - sweet, beautiful, tends to teetotal, thighs of a baby giraffe you may ask why in God's name she's with us but we may need her for bail money; and Piper, the prodigal one, another beaut, Amy Sedaris meets Julie Andrews, the reason for the trip she rambled South to the New New Jersey a year ago, and we are meeting her halfway in Baltimore in order to mock her for this in person.
0950 - 1200: Pam has snagged the Coveted Group A, so she saves us seats, and after the quickie 50-minute flight we land amidst the late-July smother of Maryland. With shouts and rude gestures we greet our waiting Piper, and grab a cab for the 20-minute ride to the swank Pier 5 hotel in the Inner Harbor (cab fare $40, http://harbormagic.com/Pier5/pier5_default.asp?SP= ). The desk clerk is a gregarious and funny lady by the stellar name of Empress who informs us that our room isn't ready yet, so the four of us head to the bathroom to get the necessary swag from our bags/reduce our clothing, emerging less than 10 minutes later to the amazement of a male guest who's been hanging at the desk. I manage to score a v significant discount on the room, which I will hold over the other 3 for the Rest Of Their Lives, and then, hooray, the room is ready. The hotel is a modern, purple-y rectangle with only 3 floors - our double-double is a nice big room overlooking the water and the Pier 6 concert pavilion, and Thank God it has a long counter in the bath as in toto we've more product and sundries than a freakin' CVS. I hand out clothespins with our initials on them for towel identification as I love my friends, but I'm not wiping my face where their arses have been. I am immediately slagged for this, but hunger yells louder and we're off to Little Italy to scare up some eats. We discover the Austin Powers Magical Suite on our way out of the 3rd floor (hey now!), and naturally it becomes mandatory to dance like Austin past this suite for the rest of the weekend.
1200 1430: A very short walk past typical Baltimore brick and faux-stone-front rowhouses takes us past the little fenced-in lot where the neighborhood gathers to watch films projected from a third floor bedroom across the street (mostly mob movies, natch). We wind up at Amiccis, (231 S High Street, www.amiccis.com), surrounded by posters of said movies, where we order like girls, splitting orders of their large house salad (vg vinaigrette), garlic cheese bread (to counter the salad, duh), Penne Amicci (excellent sausage, huge mushrooms), and eggplant parm. There is plenty of delicious food to go 'round, and it cost all of $39 before tip. As we head back towards the hotel we notice swarms of Yankees shirts apparently the O's have a 3-day home stand, and they are severely outgunned in the fan dept. Back in the room, Piper checks in on her family (her husband misses us so Pam moans suggestively, I yell at Polo to stop hogging the nipple clips), and then we're off to poke around the Inner Harbor and take a harbor cruise.
1430 1800: We hit the new steel-and-glass Baltimore Visitors Center just past Harborplace for coupons towards hourlong cruises on the Prince Charming (www.harborcruises.com) and soon we're off with loads of other sweatsoaked tourists. Polo tries to keep the "riding prince charming" jokes in check as we're surrounded by families, and the captain supplements the recorded info with some newer observations such as the 1.2 million asking price for the cheapest of the Ritz-Carlton condos (in Baltimore?!?) going up on the Federal Hill waterfront. The tour passes the iconic Dominos sugar sign atop the deathtrap Dominos building, container ships and ro-ro's in port, Fort McHenry, etc. and was a nice, if hot, way to pass the time. Afterwards we wander a bit - Polo and I discuss the pecuniary implications of retiring third world debt on the Senegalese middle class; Piper and Pam start singing showtunes from "Carousel." We're noticing an oddly high concentration of firefighters, which makes Pam even more hot and bothered, so we again head back to the sanctuary of our A/C'd room. Pam and I hunt and gather wine and beers from the adjacent McCormick & Schmick's (there's a small door near the front desk where you can sneak into the restaurant), and we drink and catch up before taking the hotel's free shuttle to Fell's Point, where we have reservations for the 7 PM Ghost Tour.
1800-2130: The cobblestoned streets of Fell's Point have seen many a drunken sailor, and since some of us have, too, it feels welcoming. We head towards the bar of Eat Bertha's Mussels (www.berthas.com), a funky, narrow joint claustrophobically decorated with bizarre chandeliers and bastardizations of their eponymous bumper stickers, reigned over this eve by Diane, a testy but amusing Bawlmer barwench with piled black hair and red hornrimmed glasses. Piper and I order a bowl of their rightly famed mussels with garlic and basil sauce ($10) and I down a nice Hoegaarden (hey now!). A middle-aged gent comes in with an adorable puppy and I joke to him that he's trolling for babes (it's totally working); not 10 seconds later Pam is laughing her arse off as her gaydar is redlining, and hers is Never Wrong. Oops. We soak up some puppy love and chat with the guy and before know it we're back out in the heat for the ghost tour.
Which sucks. Well, it's probably not bad for family entertainment, but our guides' limp storytelling abilities do nothing to retire any of our trenchant cynicism, making the bars we pass look more and more inviting.
We ditch halfway through and Pam spots a rooftop bar overlooking the water above Maggie Moos ice cream, so we make our way up to Woody's to eat lots of meat and laugh at flatus (OK, so maybe just me). We split massive nachos ($8), Piper and I snag beers, and the four of us again order like chicks and split fish tacos ($12) and a burger. Honestly, I can hear DH mocking me all the way down here. After resting a bit more (read: shredding each others' reputations), we walk back to the hotel down Aliceanna street, and I'm happy to report that there's so much revitalization going on that I never even think about the up-till-recent stupidity of this during the 15-or-so-minute walk.
2130 - 2200: We dress to go dancing; despite four women in one room, it's not the movie farce you'd expect (there's an Arctic Monkeys song waiting here). Piper and I look meaningfully at the clock, then each other. The moms of the group, it is damn near our bedtime. Seeing this glance, Pam introduces us to Mr. Red Bull. Amen, Pam. Amen.
2200: Our merry band heads North up to the Power Plant area towards Mosaic, a newish club at the end of a row of bars/clubs with pounding house music and a trendy couch/tent oasis outside. The alley that it's in has been attractively strung with white box lamps, but we're more concerned with the fact that the bartenders are moving like tectonic plates and the place is still too empty, so after a while we head a few doors back to a confluence of outdoor bars/clubs. We stop at Mex.
2245: where I cannot help but notice that we are in the middle of more firefighters than a Pam fantasy. I also start counting up the bachelorette parties, and find at least four stapled-on veils within a 40-body radius. Yeah, it's THAT kind of night. Pam, Piper, and I accelerate our drinking. We occasionally yell at the brides-to-be not to do it.
2300: We have attracted attention, not all of it wanted. One blond, middle-aged fireman corners me, he's nice enough, but earnestly drunken and sweaty, and soon I would rather be talking to a tape dispenser. Or arborvitae.
2315: Pam has made a new friend; not a firefighter, kinda short, but a v g dancer. Polo bails to go order por-, er, take a shower and collapse back in the room.
2330: The dancefloor at Mex is suddenly parted by black-clad bouncers escorting about 6 nubile young women who climb up onto the bar. They are wearing bikini bottoms, but all else God-given has been body-painted to advertise the various bars in the area. Firefighters stampede like Bud-drenched buffalo, and soon a forest of RAZRs and Motorolas is in the air clicking away like mad. I take a great picture of this.
All Balls: Back 2 Mosaic. Not surprisingly, the firefighters are not here. Piper, meanwhile, finds a new friend! I take a great picture of this as well, in retaliation for her gleeful provocation that she has already cruelly abused my towel.
0030: God save me from drunken, braying 23-year-old buttboy Tweedledums, BECAUSE MY FRIENDS SURE AREN'T.
OhDarkThirty: Collapse back in the room after raiding the vending machine. No pictures taken, but sleep aids might be. Damn you, Mr. Red Bull.
Aug 2nd, 2007, 04:39 AM
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Day 2:
Sunday, 0630: Damn, damn, damn! I'm awake out of habit (son does not recognize sanctity of sleeping in on weekends).
0830: I go downstairs to recon breakfast in the hotel cafe. The steam-table brunch ($10) has apparently just been plundered by epileptic monkeys.
0900-1100: The sleeping beauties awaken before I think to violate their towels; matutinal ablutions begin (if we were hung over, I'd say we were just washing our faces). A humid, overcast day greets us as we make our way to Harborplace, knowing that at least one of the chains will be open for breakfast we're starving, so we're not going to wait for the 1100 opening of the recommended Blue Moon Café. This may have been a mistake; with conflicted feelings I lead us towards the dreaded Cheesecake Fattery, that bastion of American gluttony. But I can smell coffee, and am a huge breakfast fan, so how ridiculous can it be? Pam and I both order the breakfast burrito.
Definite mistake; they are bigger than footballs. I am ashamed to say that we should've split one (here's hoping my leftovers are feeding a Guatemalan village).
1100-1430: We waddle around the harbor towards the American Visionary Art Museum, and when I check our group backpack I gloat at receiving a highly-decorated clothespin as my tag. This is IMHO one of the coolest museums on the planet - the collection is entirely "outsider" art, displaying all manner of works from housewives, schizophrenics, criminals, homeless, autistics, obsessives, etc., and when they can the curators present relevant, sometimes heartbreaking, sometimes disturbing information on the artist (www.avam.org, $12 adults). My favorite, a tall wooden self-portrait sculpture simply entitled "Applewood," was the only work of a seriously disturbed TB patient who happened across a downed apple tree branch its concave chest, painfully thin features, and overall air bears a striking resemblance to any Giacometti. To the right of the sculpture you'll find several excruciatingly detailed painted paper plates, where a mental patient stripped her brushes to 2-3 hairs and painted pointillistic scenes to rival Seurat (due to the nature of her chosen media, much of her work has been lost). We saw this explanation over and over for the inmates and patients due to the poor materials provided and commonplace personal property policies, thousands of intense and unique artworks have been destroyed.
We wander all three floors (note the bathrooms the mirrors are the funhouse kind, and they have lemongrass lotion in dispensers) and finally enter the coolest and most effed-up museum store you'll ever encounter. I am not joking when I say you can get lost in here for hours, as we nearly spend an entire hour poking around the bizarre bibelots (Nunzilla!), reading the profane and hysterical greeting cards (see www.mikwright.com), skimming the brow-raising book selections (Asian Gay Male Tattoo Art!), and constantly rushing to show each other what we've found. I buy some baby temporary tattoos for my son (can't wait until he gets to daycare) and find Gangsta Rap Coloring Books for him and my nephew (50 Cent is pointing his nine at the colorer). We happily learned there was a second building across a little garden area, and there we found a fabulous display of whimsical moving wooden sculptures and a massive, 5-foot-tall Bra Ball made of over 18,000 bras (www.braball.com see the "Letters" section!). The guard tells us that last year the AVAM hosted a breast cancer charity Bra Ball Ball, and all attendees men and women wore bras on top of their finery, many of them decorated.
1430 1730: We finally break away and head South on Covington Street, turning right on Cross towards the Cross Street Market in Federal Hill. I am jonesing for some oysters at Nick's, and the girls play along as they spot lots of open boutiques on Cross Street. Nick's is a sprawling collection of raw bar, fry station, and sushi bar, has a tattered vibe, and is loaded with locals who today were watching Cal's induction into the Hall of Fame (Incidentally Nick's sends shuckers every year to compete in the Galway International Oyster Festival in Ireland). I chat up the shucker (hey now!) who gives me 7 big and beautiful Louisiana oysters for the price of 6 and a 24 oz Bud tallboy and I Am Happy (total before tip $11.50). The others find light eats, and once fortified we boost the local economy, embarking on the great dress-and-jewelry-buying binge of 2007. Zelda Zen and Pandora's Box especially love us, and we love them right back. Piper threatens to tell DH about my purchases; I reply that if she does her towel will need weeks of therapy.
1730 2030: We walk back along the water to change clothes at the hotel accompanied by some house music I scored last night @ Mosaic. Pam is meeting her cousins for dinner, so Piper, Polo, and I once again head down Aliceanna Street to Pazo, a swanky, soaring tapas restaurant with beautiful ironwork and an impressive menu/wine list to match (www.pazorestaurant.com, cheers for the rec M! - would love to see what it's like on Thurs-Sat eves when the DJ is in effect). We decide on their Catalan Table for Two ($64) and also order the calamari fritti and crabmeat gazpacho tapas just in case there's not enough. This would be the second bad quantity call of the day, as the portions are more than enough for us, with the favorites being the sesame-seed not-really-crackers the helpful waitress brings out first (and second, ahem), the best empanadas Piper and I have ever tasted, and a fantastic crème Catalan for dessert. Piper and I split a bottle of the recommended Campo Rosado getting Polo to drink is a three-person sport, and we can tell we're not medaling tonight. Dinner takes two hours, and was one of the most refreshing, relaxing, and gut-busting meals I've had in a looong time.
2030 - 2115: We waddle back to the hotel, meet up with Pam, and because I do not have sisters (sorority or otherwise) begin one of the more mysterious rites I've ever been part of pre-going-out clothes-swapping. I can hear David Attenborough blushing furiously but narrating steadily: "Watch as the youngest female in the pack tears off her shirt and offers it to the eldest. We're seeing one of the most common yet baffling rituals in the world." By the end I have on Piper's necklace, Pam's shirt, Piper's capris, and I am hoping to God and all sundry angels that I am still in my own undies, but I can't be sure. Right before we leave, Pam notes that we are all wearing her shirts.
2115 2225: We walk back to Fell's Point, our thirtysomething selves earning more than a few appreciative salutations. This is entertaining usually if people are whistling at me it's because my son has dropped his binky. Crawling begins at the Horse You Rode In On on Thames Street. This pub has been around a while circa 1775 and even if it was dead I'd still love it for the name. We're immediately accosted by a seriously twitchy twentysomething who thinks he's funny but doesn't have the brains for it; I take perhaps too much satisfaction in dismissing him. Polo looks like she smells something festering.
2225-2240: Piper, Pam, and I belly up, and are immediately seized upon by a piss-drunk Englishman (is there any other kind??). At first he is amusing, stunned at his own good fortune, and when he asks what we do we struggle to keep our jaws up as Polo says we work for Hooters. Compared to Piper, we clearly work the books in the back room, but we let her run with it.
2240-2245: Englishman discovers the rest of us are hitched, so Pam is getting his full game, and the guitarist starts singing Cat Stevens, birth control and buzzkill rolled into one. Englishman loves himself some Cat. We haul Pam out of there like firefighters.
2245 2300: The Cat's Eye Pub now this is more like it, way cute bartender flirts w/ me as I order this round, and there's a great singer playing guitar, harmonica and singing John Prine. Piper takes a sip of the drink I ordered for us and makes a face like she just tried the rancid piss of a diabetic wombat. I like it, but perhaps it's because I'm well on my way to being shiitake'd.
2300-2310: Best bumper sticker over the bar: Jesus Loves You, Everybody Else Thinks You're An Asshole.
T-shirt on singer dude: I Taught Your Girlfriend That Thing You Like.
I am shiitake'd. Methinks Piper is also pickled. Pam looks ready to lead an international nuclear disarmament conference.
2310: Polo looks like she's having as much fun as Mitt Romney getting a lap dance; she bails.
2310 2330: I am enjoying the music and, um, the bartender, and I want to stay, but instead I meekly follow Pam and Piper to the Waterfront Hotel Bar, where another band is playing. We sit next to a couple of older men, one of whom looks at me, looks at my wedding band, and raises his eyebrows like I have the morals of a red-ass baboon. Somehow I have yet another drink in my hand.
Best Bumper Sticker: You know those bragging white ovals w/ destination acronyms? The Waterfront has the best I've seen: WTF
2330 - All Balls: Classified. Yeesh.
OhDarkThirty: Back at the Hotel: Despite our intoxication, no one is crouched in the bathroom yelling for Buicks. So we all change into our silk nighties and have a knock-down drag-out pillowfight that spills out into the hall.
Okay, that was a total lie for the guys. We raid the vending machine once again (Pop Tarts! Thank God!!) and collapse.
Sunday, 0630: Damn, damn, damn! I'm awake out of habit (son does not recognize sanctity of sleeping in on weekends).
0830: I go downstairs to recon breakfast in the hotel cafe. The steam-table brunch ($10) has apparently just been plundered by epileptic monkeys.
0900-1100: The sleeping beauties awaken before I think to violate their towels; matutinal ablutions begin (if we were hung over, I'd say we were just washing our faces). A humid, overcast day greets us as we make our way to Harborplace, knowing that at least one of the chains will be open for breakfast we're starving, so we're not going to wait for the 1100 opening of the recommended Blue Moon Café. This may have been a mistake; with conflicted feelings I lead us towards the dreaded Cheesecake Fattery, that bastion of American gluttony. But I can smell coffee, and am a huge breakfast fan, so how ridiculous can it be? Pam and I both order the breakfast burrito.
Definite mistake; they are bigger than footballs. I am ashamed to say that we should've split one (here's hoping my leftovers are feeding a Guatemalan village).
1100-1430: We waddle around the harbor towards the American Visionary Art Museum, and when I check our group backpack I gloat at receiving a highly-decorated clothespin as my tag. This is IMHO one of the coolest museums on the planet - the collection is entirely "outsider" art, displaying all manner of works from housewives, schizophrenics, criminals, homeless, autistics, obsessives, etc., and when they can the curators present relevant, sometimes heartbreaking, sometimes disturbing information on the artist (www.avam.org, $12 adults). My favorite, a tall wooden self-portrait sculpture simply entitled "Applewood," was the only work of a seriously disturbed TB patient who happened across a downed apple tree branch its concave chest, painfully thin features, and overall air bears a striking resemblance to any Giacometti. To the right of the sculpture you'll find several excruciatingly detailed painted paper plates, where a mental patient stripped her brushes to 2-3 hairs and painted pointillistic scenes to rival Seurat (due to the nature of her chosen media, much of her work has been lost). We saw this explanation over and over for the inmates and patients due to the poor materials provided and commonplace personal property policies, thousands of intense and unique artworks have been destroyed.
We wander all three floors (note the bathrooms the mirrors are the funhouse kind, and they have lemongrass lotion in dispensers) and finally enter the coolest and most effed-up museum store you'll ever encounter. I am not joking when I say you can get lost in here for hours, as we nearly spend an entire hour poking around the bizarre bibelots (Nunzilla!), reading the profane and hysterical greeting cards (see www.mikwright.com), skimming the brow-raising book selections (Asian Gay Male Tattoo Art!), and constantly rushing to show each other what we've found. I buy some baby temporary tattoos for my son (can't wait until he gets to daycare) and find Gangsta Rap Coloring Books for him and my nephew (50 Cent is pointing his nine at the colorer). We happily learned there was a second building across a little garden area, and there we found a fabulous display of whimsical moving wooden sculptures and a massive, 5-foot-tall Bra Ball made of over 18,000 bras (www.braball.com see the "Letters" section!). The guard tells us that last year the AVAM hosted a breast cancer charity Bra Ball Ball, and all attendees men and women wore bras on top of their finery, many of them decorated.
1430 1730: We finally break away and head South on Covington Street, turning right on Cross towards the Cross Street Market in Federal Hill. I am jonesing for some oysters at Nick's, and the girls play along as they spot lots of open boutiques on Cross Street. Nick's is a sprawling collection of raw bar, fry station, and sushi bar, has a tattered vibe, and is loaded with locals who today were watching Cal's induction into the Hall of Fame (Incidentally Nick's sends shuckers every year to compete in the Galway International Oyster Festival in Ireland). I chat up the shucker (hey now!) who gives me 7 big and beautiful Louisiana oysters for the price of 6 and a 24 oz Bud tallboy and I Am Happy (total before tip $11.50). The others find light eats, and once fortified we boost the local economy, embarking on the great dress-and-jewelry-buying binge of 2007. Zelda Zen and Pandora's Box especially love us, and we love them right back. Piper threatens to tell DH about my purchases; I reply that if she does her towel will need weeks of therapy.
1730 2030: We walk back along the water to change clothes at the hotel accompanied by some house music I scored last night @ Mosaic. Pam is meeting her cousins for dinner, so Piper, Polo, and I once again head down Aliceanna Street to Pazo, a swanky, soaring tapas restaurant with beautiful ironwork and an impressive menu/wine list to match (www.pazorestaurant.com, cheers for the rec M! - would love to see what it's like on Thurs-Sat eves when the DJ is in effect). We decide on their Catalan Table for Two ($64) and also order the calamari fritti and crabmeat gazpacho tapas just in case there's not enough. This would be the second bad quantity call of the day, as the portions are more than enough for us, with the favorites being the sesame-seed not-really-crackers the helpful waitress brings out first (and second, ahem), the best empanadas Piper and I have ever tasted, and a fantastic crème Catalan for dessert. Piper and I split a bottle of the recommended Campo Rosado getting Polo to drink is a three-person sport, and we can tell we're not medaling tonight. Dinner takes two hours, and was one of the most refreshing, relaxing, and gut-busting meals I've had in a looong time.
2030 - 2115: We waddle back to the hotel, meet up with Pam, and because I do not have sisters (sorority or otherwise) begin one of the more mysterious rites I've ever been part of pre-going-out clothes-swapping. I can hear David Attenborough blushing furiously but narrating steadily: "Watch as the youngest female in the pack tears off her shirt and offers it to the eldest. We're seeing one of the most common yet baffling rituals in the world." By the end I have on Piper's necklace, Pam's shirt, Piper's capris, and I am hoping to God and all sundry angels that I am still in my own undies, but I can't be sure. Right before we leave, Pam notes that we are all wearing her shirts.
2115 2225: We walk back to Fell's Point, our thirtysomething selves earning more than a few appreciative salutations. This is entertaining usually if people are whistling at me it's because my son has dropped his binky. Crawling begins at the Horse You Rode In On on Thames Street. This pub has been around a while circa 1775 and even if it was dead I'd still love it for the name. We're immediately accosted by a seriously twitchy twentysomething who thinks he's funny but doesn't have the brains for it; I take perhaps too much satisfaction in dismissing him. Polo looks like she smells something festering.
2225-2240: Piper, Pam, and I belly up, and are immediately seized upon by a piss-drunk Englishman (is there any other kind??). At first he is amusing, stunned at his own good fortune, and when he asks what we do we struggle to keep our jaws up as Polo says we work for Hooters. Compared to Piper, we clearly work the books in the back room, but we let her run with it.
2240-2245: Englishman discovers the rest of us are hitched, so Pam is getting his full game, and the guitarist starts singing Cat Stevens, birth control and buzzkill rolled into one. Englishman loves himself some Cat. We haul Pam out of there like firefighters.
2245 2300: The Cat's Eye Pub now this is more like it, way cute bartender flirts w/ me as I order this round, and there's a great singer playing guitar, harmonica and singing John Prine. Piper takes a sip of the drink I ordered for us and makes a face like she just tried the rancid piss of a diabetic wombat. I like it, but perhaps it's because I'm well on my way to being shiitake'd.
2300-2310: Best bumper sticker over the bar: Jesus Loves You, Everybody Else Thinks You're An Asshole.
T-shirt on singer dude: I Taught Your Girlfriend That Thing You Like.
I am shiitake'd. Methinks Piper is also pickled. Pam looks ready to lead an international nuclear disarmament conference.
2310: Polo looks like she's having as much fun as Mitt Romney getting a lap dance; she bails.
2310 2330: I am enjoying the music and, um, the bartender, and I want to stay, but instead I meekly follow Pam and Piper to the Waterfront Hotel Bar, where another band is playing. We sit next to a couple of older men, one of whom looks at me, looks at my wedding band, and raises his eyebrows like I have the morals of a red-ass baboon. Somehow I have yet another drink in my hand.
Best Bumper Sticker: You know those bragging white ovals w/ destination acronyms? The Waterfront has the best I've seen: WTF
2330 - All Balls: Classified. Yeesh.
OhDarkThirty: Back at the Hotel: Despite our intoxication, no one is crouched in the bathroom yelling for Buicks. So we all change into our silk nighties and have a knock-down drag-out pillowfight that spills out into the hall.
Okay, that was a total lie for the guys. We raid the vending machine once again (Pop Tarts! Thank God!!) and collapse.
Aug 2nd, 2007, 09:27 AM
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Monday, 0630: Eff. Eff. Eff. Eff!!
0830: I look like ten miles of bad road. I wash my face. My towel whimpers.
0900: The rest of the crew is up. Pam is ready to run ten miles, Polo looks serene. Walls of hate vibes crash towards them.
0915: Piper's husband calls re: Gymboree drama. I realize that I can't remember if I talked to mine or not. I may have talked to Piper's, but I cannot be sure. I check to make sure I'm wearing my own underwear.
0945: We head out, once again to a chain (Panera) but this time hunting for boring bagels and water, sweet, sweet water. And lots of coffee. Lord Almighty, lots of coffee.
0950: I realize with horror that in fact I talked to my husband, but I did not speak with my Mother yesterday.
0950:13: Yesterday was her Birthday.
0950:14: I am completely and utterly effed.
0951: My friends are sympathetic, for which I am thankful. If I was with certain other friends they would be casting lots for my clothing. Or my iPod.
1015: We join the line for the estimable Baltimore Aquarium (www.aqua.org, $22 adults) and I cannot reach my mother. Eff. I sing a lame Happy Belated Birthday to their machine, knowing my mother is going to listen to it, sigh audibly, and say, "She sounds tired, does she sound tired to you? Shesoundstired." We finally get in and wind our way through the many exhibits, which is not easy given they've let in the entire fourth grade summer camp from the state of Maryland. It is almost uncomfortably crowded, and I think I accidentally knee one (or two). But being a Mom now, I cannot Hate On these kids I get psyched seeing sharks, too.
1030: Way cool fish: Blind Cave Tetra. These beige-ish guys start out with eyes, which they then lose over their first three-four months, leaving sockets, creepily empty sockets. Way cool.
1130: By the large, circular coral-reef containing tank, Polo spots a ginormous puffer fish. "Make it blow up!" "Poke it with a stick!" "Tell it you used its towel!" "SHUT UP!"
1145: We have found the frogs exhibit (almost missed it there's only one or two on the upper level, to see the rest of them you have to go down into the café area, where there are many more off to one side). The Philippine Moss Frogs are a huge hit, as are the always-stunning poison dart beauties. Toad-licking jokes are inevitable but, um, peter out quickly.
1150-1210: In the middle of the exhibit, I have managed to get my mother on the phone. Mid-apology, I hand the phone to Piper, whom my mother adores, and she gets my sentence reduced. I now owe Piper at least one kidney.
1230-1500: We basically ramble around the Inner Harbor area. After a decent but somewhat unremarkable bowl of noodle soup, I make sure we all get Vaccaro's cannoli (www.vaccarospastry.com next time we'll go to the café in Little Italy). At one point we see some v young, v v cute (Prince William-cute!) foreign military types w/ blue berets walking into one of the Harborplace buildings; we bird-dog them. But we do not enter the Hooters with them. Eff. Polo needs cash AGAIN, she must be blowing money like MC Hammer. She runs off to find an ATM for her bank.
1500 - 1600: We are spent; after heading back I manage to snag free drinks out on the patio of the McCormick and Schmick's back at the hotel. Pam and I haul up the stairs of the adjacent red lighthouse for one last photo op, Polo and Piper are too tired. Our cab to BWI awaits.
1600 1800: BWI: Thunderstorms have enveloped the entire planet. Piper is hosed, tries for standby on a flight that was supposed to have left two years ago. Pam stays with her to keep her company.
1800: Our Southwest flight back North is boarding, and our Coveted Group A selves have to say adios to our Piper. We promise each other to do this again soon
Before getting some much-needed shuteye on the plane, I realize that you've got to have friends who will get you smashed, friends who will listen, friends you can shop with, friends you can laugh with, friends who are willing to adventure, friends who will just Show Up.
The trick is to make sure they don't know each other.
Happy Travels (and watch your towels).
0830: I look like ten miles of bad road. I wash my face. My towel whimpers.
0900: The rest of the crew is up. Pam is ready to run ten miles, Polo looks serene. Walls of hate vibes crash towards them.
0915: Piper's husband calls re: Gymboree drama. I realize that I can't remember if I talked to mine or not. I may have talked to Piper's, but I cannot be sure. I check to make sure I'm wearing my own underwear.
0945: We head out, once again to a chain (Panera) but this time hunting for boring bagels and water, sweet, sweet water. And lots of coffee. Lord Almighty, lots of coffee.
0950: I realize with horror that in fact I talked to my husband, but I did not speak with my Mother yesterday.
0950:13: Yesterday was her Birthday.
0950:14: I am completely and utterly effed.
0951: My friends are sympathetic, for which I am thankful. If I was with certain other friends they would be casting lots for my clothing. Or my iPod.
1015: We join the line for the estimable Baltimore Aquarium (www.aqua.org, $22 adults) and I cannot reach my mother. Eff. I sing a lame Happy Belated Birthday to their machine, knowing my mother is going to listen to it, sigh audibly, and say, "She sounds tired, does she sound tired to you? Shesoundstired." We finally get in and wind our way through the many exhibits, which is not easy given they've let in the entire fourth grade summer camp from the state of Maryland. It is almost uncomfortably crowded, and I think I accidentally knee one (or two). But being a Mom now, I cannot Hate On these kids I get psyched seeing sharks, too.
1030: Way cool fish: Blind Cave Tetra. These beige-ish guys start out with eyes, which they then lose over their first three-four months, leaving sockets, creepily empty sockets. Way cool.
1130: By the large, circular coral-reef containing tank, Polo spots a ginormous puffer fish. "Make it blow up!" "Poke it with a stick!" "Tell it you used its towel!" "SHUT UP!"
1145: We have found the frogs exhibit (almost missed it there's only one or two on the upper level, to see the rest of them you have to go down into the café area, where there are many more off to one side). The Philippine Moss Frogs are a huge hit, as are the always-stunning poison dart beauties. Toad-licking jokes are inevitable but, um, peter out quickly.
1150-1210: In the middle of the exhibit, I have managed to get my mother on the phone. Mid-apology, I hand the phone to Piper, whom my mother adores, and she gets my sentence reduced. I now owe Piper at least one kidney.
1230-1500: We basically ramble around the Inner Harbor area. After a decent but somewhat unremarkable bowl of noodle soup, I make sure we all get Vaccaro's cannoli (www.vaccarospastry.com next time we'll go to the café in Little Italy). At one point we see some v young, v v cute (Prince William-cute!) foreign military types w/ blue berets walking into one of the Harborplace buildings; we bird-dog them. But we do not enter the Hooters with them. Eff. Polo needs cash AGAIN, she must be blowing money like MC Hammer. She runs off to find an ATM for her bank.
1500 - 1600: We are spent; after heading back I manage to snag free drinks out on the patio of the McCormick and Schmick's back at the hotel. Pam and I haul up the stairs of the adjacent red lighthouse for one last photo op, Polo and Piper are too tired. Our cab to BWI awaits.
1600 1800: BWI: Thunderstorms have enveloped the entire planet. Piper is hosed, tries for standby on a flight that was supposed to have left two years ago. Pam stays with her to keep her company.
1800: Our Southwest flight back North is boarding, and our Coveted Group A selves have to say adios to our Piper. We promise each other to do this again soon
Before getting some much-needed shuteye on the plane, I realize that you've got to have friends who will get you smashed, friends who will listen, friends you can shop with, friends you can laugh with, friends who are willing to adventure, friends who will just Show Up.
The trick is to make sure they don't know each other.
Happy Travels (and watch your towels).
Bring the little dude to the 3 Nov GTG in Weehawken and hook up with the Jersey girl. 
Aug 2nd, 2007, 11:52 AM
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Totally Forgot This, Polo and Pam (among others) endorse an Appendix:
Sunday ~0940: Pam and I are in the cush purple chairs in the lobby area waiting for the other 2 when we see three people approach: two African-American men, one wearing a baseball hat wheeling a black suitcase, the bigger one pulling a whole stack of black and hot pink suitcases. Man in the cap is definitely Ice-T, didn't recognize him immediately as he's shaved his goatee and his hair is in 2 braids under the cap, and we assume he's with Coco - tall, huge sunglasses, straight blonde ponytail Down To There, and she had on THE SHOES. A few hours later I am totally stoked to see Ice in my new coloring book.
Sunday ~0940: Pam and I are in the cush purple chairs in the lobby area waiting for the other 2 when we see three people approach: two African-American men, one wearing a baseball hat wheeling a black suitcase, the bigger one pulling a whole stack of black and hot pink suitcases. Man in the cap is definitely Ice-T, didn't recognize him immediately as he's shaved his goatee and his hair is in 2 braids under the cap, and we assume he's with Coco - tall, huge sunglasses, straight blonde ponytail Down To There, and she had on THE SHOES. A few hours later I am totally stoked to see Ice in my new coloring book.
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Oct 1st, 2003 08:28 PM
