D visits my 'hood

My leg will not stop fidgeting. Maybe it is the sugar from the third peanut butter cookie I ate, or maybe I am just anxious. D called me 2 hours ago to remind me to pick him up from the airport. I laughed on the phone. The date had been circled on my calendar for weeks.

As the last speaker ends, I bolt out the door. I do not even wait for the clapping to subside. I could not understand a word he said anyway. I look at the tray of cookies and walk away. I get in my silver Nissan Versa. It was sunny in the morning and now it appears the clouds have moved in. Not to worry. The airport is only a 10 minute drive.

I find a parking spot and wait for D to come through the hallway. Unfortunately, the AirTran terminal is set up so I am staring into the entrance of a Men's restroom. I, unconsciously, meter the time it takes some men. I debate whether the man in the gray windbreaker has a prostate problem or had other reasons to linger. I see a man with his Italian leather hold-all, dark jeans, a military jacket over an orange sweater. It is unmistakably D.

D is the Felix to my Oscar, the AJ to my Rick, the Will to my Grace. After being surrounded in Natty Boh drinking dudes, D is a refreshing bit of Boston snobbery. He has tickets to the Boston ballet, and to the NY Met opera and flew down to Baltimore to see me.

We drive straight to his hotel so we can get all of this check-in nonsense out of the way. Now, for those who know me, know driving is not my strongest ability. As a matter of fact, all of those negative stereotypes of Asian women drivers may have stemmed from me and my family. I give my new iPhone to D and ask him to navigate us to the hotel. Not realizing it would make a difference, he does not type in South as part of the address. I am blindly following directions, only to realize that we are at the JHU medical center. And as if it could be distinguished, we are in the scary part. There are teenagers at one corner and older men drinking out of paper bags on a stoop of a building that is boarded up. Welcome to B'more, D.

Once we get back to the white part of town, D still feels uneasy. He wants to know why every boy he sees is wearing a striped or checked button down shirt that is untucked over a white tee and jeans. Oh and shoes, they all wore ugly shoes. I did not have an answer for him, mainly because I never noticed it before.

Everything is more upbeat once we get dinner. We go to a brew pub and everything comes with bacon. mmmmm bacon. Brunch comes with bacon. Dinner again more swine. D comments he is going to have to take double doses of his cholesterol meds.

Between hours of gorging ourselves, we walk around the town. We go to Federal Hill, walk around the harbor, and we even get to see Ft. McHenry. At Ft. McHenry, we walk the barracks and through the barricades. We see reenacters practicing marching with their bayonets. D like the epaulets on the Colonel's jacket. They are a little gaudy for my taste. I sing the Star Spangled Banner under a flag in the fort. I find myself amusing.

The weekend whizzes by, and by Sunday afternoon he is off to Boston. His departing words, "Make sure if you date one of these Baltimore boys he has good shoes. Or at least buy him some."