The Greatest City In America

     There's a place called Baltimore. It's in Maryland. You've probably never heard of it. It's the greatest city in America. Self-proclaimed, of course. I stayed in a house of accents, some South African, some German, some a concoction. I was immediately enveloped by a weird warmth and a crayon-drawn welcoming picture. Genuine generosity feels a little wrong. It doesn't follow most American relationships in the their infancy. Being in a European household is like being in your parent's house, eating dinner in a reunion with only the cherished members of your extended family. The food itself reflects equality and happiness on a small, intimate level. A Matisse painting of dishes brighten the table. Colors swirl as plates are passed. Health and well-being play a central role in the food choices and everyday activities. Dinner was vegetables, a simple meat, bread and butter. Dessert was fruit salad.
     Boys will be boys. We went to the best bar in America. Self-proclaimed, of course. Home brews are consistently shadowy. An IPA doesn't taste like an IPA. Their amber looks opaque. No one makes bitters. Merry making made its way to a new bar with new people. I shook hands with an almost caricatured variety. A ghetto resistant black man, light in the trousers and a bit too much finger in his greeting. The pretty girl that just doesn't want to admit it yet. Holding on to some sense of self worth. Dave set his teeth into her before introductions were completed. There was also the larger girl. Over compensating knowledge so that her brain would feel at ease in that corpulent prison. I was left to jab with the less beautiful. Something I'm used to. A fine experience because this girl was smart and witty. Her banter was like a dry riesling that pirouetted on the palate. Without her, the night would have been fraught with sober ennui.
     I went to the bar to talk to a famous underground musician. Before I could permeate the fan girl wall I was waylaid by a stripper. She was one of those bitches that always has a nostril staring at you and can't keep that couple of run away strands out of her face. I drew attention to them by saying she had a lovely haircut. "I wouldn't be talking to you if your hair was bad," she managed to add to the conversation. She told me she would take me to all the hip spots of Baltimore, suggested I come see her dance. She would have promised me undying love if we had stayed at that wet counter any longer. Someone became bored and walked away. My acquaintances wouldn't believe that I had been hit on by an exotic dancer. Exotic doesn't have the same meaning anymore.