THE NUMBER 51

The late afternoon outing was turning out badly, I had missed the M-3 in both directions which mean that I would have to wait for what would fell like an eternity for another. I was at a loss; hate upper Park Heights Avenue for its transportation options.

In the end walked the back streets to the Reisterstown Plaza metro stop not so much for the train but for the number 27 bus, thought about Port Covington. It wasn’t there and it wasn’t due to arrive for another 30 minutes, picked up a 51 schedule and it was the same I had just missed its departure at the Rogers Avenue Station.

Another 15 minute wait for the train down at Mondawmin as I thought about either Brooklyn via the 16 – not for another hour, or the five to Cedonia – was looking to make it to Butcher’s Hill. A 22 comes and goes and when I notice the destination wished that I had jumped on. Again wandering around at a loss I try to regain control by walking to the old neighbourhood and documenting the places I used to play.

The 51 rolls up, I stop hop on and head south.

I had been over most of the route before when I headed out to Arbutus to find my grandmother’s grave. Only remembered that the cemetery was on a hill and the undertaker mispronounced her name causing me to laugh. I knew that this route really didn’t link classes, it was poor all the way.

I was shocked at Westport though. Vaguely remember it when I went with my father to Cherry Hill when he ran the projects. Now, however with a great view of downtown was this slum with a few people milling about but almost nothing open.

I was on it for the ride for it seemed that my indecision at Mondawmin had thrown me more than I thought – I wasn’t going to make it to Brooklyn. I was too far away from East Baltimore to explore over there and I didn’t really feel like walking the inner harbour.

At the Patapsco light rail station – which resembled a scene from the Constant Gardener – people running along the track from Cherry Hill to catch the train – I remembered this open area at the Baltimore Highlands stop. I could see it from where I was.

A rural walk how novel – especially with my new urbanity making me a bit wary of open parkland. It seemed that everyone else was equally as wary for except for a couple fishing, and a model airplane meet comprising of four people I was alone to walk the trails.

Photographically a bust, it was too easy to be cynical with a pond where the lily pads were old tyres, found a mattress in a field, a ballpark with potential as there were containers in the distance mimicking the backdrop. Back in Peasants Pissoir as an indication of the summer is going I ruined the film by flicking on the light before I completely closed the tank. If I had to lose a roll this was a good one to lose.

Before leaving a snap of a landlocked boat under some high tension wires wishing that I had more time to explore down here and so that the loss of this day wouldn’t be so important.