A Long Winter, Season's End

Baltimore's farmer's market is a seasonal entity spanning the warmer half of the year and the lower part of the city. From May until December locals haul their wares underneath the I-83 overpass on Saratoga Street, in the shadow of the downtown skyscrapers and nestled against the eclectic Hollywood Diner. No one will actually mention it, but it is also within a stone's throw of the historic "Metropolitan Transition Center" (prison) on Madison, that huge gray stone building that looks like a castle. I have not been to the market in several years and was long overdue a visit.

Waking up and getting downtown by 8 AM is routine, even on a Sunday. At dawn the skies were gray with mist, unusual weather for May in Maryland, and the sun was a pale white disk behind temperamental tendrils of cloud. Within the hour it was clear and blue, leaving only a more ambiguous film at our level. I couldn't help but think of a sleepy Sunday morning in downtown San Francisco, shortly before our graffiti escapade half a year ago. Fog is not a common occurrence in Baltimore and is probably been caused by the cooler, moister weather that we have been experiencing lately. This rare haze lent an otherworldly feel to the events that were to follow.

At 8:25 the market was hopping. The first market of the year! It is surely a day to celebrate. The smells of barbecue and bread, automotive fumes and the occasional waft of incense was as clamorous on the nose as the sounds were to the ears. Peeking between the huge steel joists of the overpass was the shy slanted sunlight, making golden liquid pools in the cold shadows. I was taken by the colors and motion, the halos of light illuminating hair of all textures and colors and shapes as people milled around. Jars of sweet amber honey, forbidden cans of homemade salsas and chutney, tiny promising pots of fresh baby herbs and baskets and bins of fruit. Like any other farm market we kept our eyes open for fresh vegetables, anything that came from the green fields of our state rather than struggling warmer countries across the world. There were also crusty brown loaves of bread baked fresh, dusted with flour and inviting to the teeth. Sticky cinnamon buns, innocent-looking muffins, salty kettle-popped popcorn, even wheat grass smoothies and the longest line for coffee I had ever seen in Baltimore. Between the farmers' stands and handwritten signs were steaming buffet trays of Caribbean samosas, home cured bacon, crisp fried fish (you can't be in Baltimore without fried fish), made-to-order omelettes. Closest to the street was a short alley of art vendors: batik clothing, wood carvings and jewelry. The variety in goods was mirrored by the variety of people brought here together for the day.

I could see pieces of scruffy urban life minging freely with the nouveau hippie, sharing the common goal of supporting the communal sale. Neon Trader Joe's bags under so many elbows slanging together with hemp and cloth and plastic and in one case even a little red wagon! Punk hipster hair here, curly grey there, highlights yonder. Hawkers, pokers, sniffers, testers, waiters, servers, shoppers, takers... everyone became one between the muraled pillars and the intermittent growwwwl thump! of trucks overhead. Friends shared fruit and pastries sitting together and laughing against parking meters. Children ran underfoot and oogled at the bounty of the fields. Old women with armloads of petunias magisterially cleared swaths through the crowd with only floppy pink blooms.

Patiently, Alex Brown, Legg Mason, the Shot Tower and Baltimore Trust waited, holding the mist at bay for a few more hours. Across the way at club Sonar, a sleepy-looking bouncer in a pinstripe hat looked completely out of place in the morning sun. We toted our goods to the car, knowing we would be fed for a few days at least. I wondered idly if the dragon roar of the overpass had been infused into the crunch of my lettuce. As I enjoy my salad in my kitchen at home, would I taste the thunderous shake overhead and the explosive vibrance of the urban market? I regrettably did not bring my camera this morning because I was not expecting to be so pleased with the experience. Sure, there were no giant ruby strawberries, chilled sweet apple cider, juicy dates or ten varieties of fresh oranges at every corner but Baltimore has shown that it has much of its own matchless identity in these weekly bazaars. Nothing can take the true Charm City foibles out of the streets or the people, no matter how hard you try. But for what reason would you want?