On Visiting the Past


On Visiting the Past – This weekend we are in Baltimore – a reunion for him, a nostalgic return for me, as are all visits here. So much is gone, disappeared. And I’m not too enamored of the ersatz glitz that has replaced it. Potemkin’s Village, it seems, with $100 plates of spaghetti ordered by those who forget Baltimore’s past as a real city, one with watermelon rinds floating in the harbor, and Norwegian seamen staggering along Pratt Street. Okay, seen through a sepia lens, but it’s my sepia lens.

I drove up Charles Street, a few blocks from Mt. Vernon Place and my memories of Peabody Conservatory, though I only attended the Preparatory Section. And there is was, or rather, it wasn’t. The Peabody Bookshop. Gone. Ah, well.

And I thought of an earlier time – much earlier, when in high school, when I thought that it really was a bookshop, and ventured in. And it was, though one the likes of which I had never encountered before. Dark, smoky, and books, all right. I tried to make myself at home. But the back of the shop, the stube, well, was this a bar, or what? The few patrons there ignored me, as well they should have, I attired in my grey wool uniform skirt and required black-and-white saddle shoes. I had considered myself quite sophisticated – until that visit. Then I realized that I had much to learn, to experience. So I crept out, and breathed a sigh of relief when I was once again heading south to be met by my father who was patiently waiting outside the music school doors.

I returned several times over the years, each time with more experience, or so I thought. But no matter how often I went there, no matter how sophisticated I thought my order, my black turtleneck and tights, I always felt, deep down, that I was a fraud. Somehow everyone else there belonged; somehow everyone else there really had read Dostoevsky and Proust and Marx, and they knew, really knew, the difference between stout and lager.

And now I wonder.

By now I’ve read Crime and Punishment, and Remembrance of Things Past, and The Communist Manifesto, but I still don’t know my beers.

Another Sunday, www.cynthiastrauff.com



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