Baltimore's Identity Crisis

Baltimore weather has been going through something lately. I do not know who hurt it, but it is clearly not okay.

One day I am walking to class in a cute dress, feeling optimistic about life and the fact that spring might finally be here. The sun is out. Birds are doing their little chirping thing. People are sitting outside like they suddenly remembered fresh air exists. I haven't seen so many people on the quad since the first week of class. It feels warm enough to convince me that winter has finally packed its bags and moved on.

Naturally, I believe this lie.

Because the very next day Baltimore wakes up and decides to completely lose its mind.

Rain. Wind. Gray skies that look like someone turned the brightness all the way down on the city. The temperature drops like it remembered something important. My cute dress suddenly feels like a terrible decision. I am walking across campus clutching my arms like that is somehow going to generate heat.

But Baltimore was not finished.

The forecast casually mentions a tornado warning. A TORNADO WARNING. In March. In Baltimore. I stare at the notification on my phone like maybe I read it wrong. Maybe my phone is confused. Maybe this is a mistake.

It was not.

Within hours the weather decides rain and wind are not dramatic enough. Now we are talking about snow again. Actual snow. At this point it feels personal. The same city that convinced me it was safe to wear a dress yesterday is now demanding I dig my winter layers out of the closet like winter never left.

So there I am once again bundled up like I am preparing for an Arctic expedition. Hoodie. Jacket. Layers I thought I would not need again until next November. My face hurts from the cold. My hands are frozen. It is late March and somehow I am questioning every weather decision I have made this week.

Meanwhile the sun will probably come back tomorrow just to keep the chaos going.

This is the thing about Baltimore weather. It never commits to a season. It samples them.

A little spring here. A little winter there. A sprinkle of rain. A dash of potential natural disaster just to keep everyone humble.

And the worst part is the psychological games it plays. It lets you believe spring is here. It gives you one beautiful day. Just enough warmth to convince you that it is safe to dress normally again. Just enough sunlight to make you think winter is finally over.

Then it yanks the rug out from under you.

Suddenly everyone is walking around confused. Half the people are in coats. The other half are stubbornly sticking to their spring outfits like they are protesting the temperature itself. Someone is wearing shorts. Someone else is wearing earmuffs. Nobody looks like they checked the same forecast.

At this point getting dressed in Baltimore feels less like checking the weather and more like gambling.

Do I bring a jacket? Do I bring two? Is it going to rain? Snow? Tornado? How about a tsunami this time? Who knows.

All I know is that yesterday I was enjoying spring in a cute dress, and today I am bundled up again wondering how winter managed to sneak back in like it forgot something.

Baltimore weather is not predictable. It is not reasonable. It is not stable.

And honestly, at this point, I am just trying to keep up.

My First Orioles Game

I have never claimed to like baseball. I have, however, claimed to like my friends. So when they said, “Orioles game,” I said “sure,” knowing full well I could not tell you the rules, the positions, or why everyone suddenly stands up sometimes.

Traffic on the way there was brutal. Baltimore traffic that makes you question every life decision that led you onto that highway. I mentioned, casually, that I was hungry. One of my friends reached into her middle console and handed me a bag of gummy bears. “Take these,” she said.

Somewhere in my childhood, a voice whispered: don’t take candy from strangers. But these were my friends. 

So I ate it. 

It tasted terrible. 

I decided that was punishment enough and didn’t take another.

Camden Yards is massive. Brick walls, steel beams, and the scent of fried food and pretzels drifting through the air. People in bright orange jerseys stream toward the gates like a river. Vendors shout about Crabcake sandwiches, giant soft pretzels, and Bud Light specials. Somewhere a kid is waving a foam finger the size of his head.

We found our seats. The game started (apparently). I cheered when my friends cheered. I booed when they booed. I nodded like I understood. My friend leaned over and started explaining baseball. Something about innings. Something about strikes that aren’t actually strikes. Something about why everyone loses their mind when a man hits a ball and runs in a square. I could not keep a straight face. I was trying so hard to be respectful, but none of it made sense, and the seriousness with which it was explained made it even funnier.

I was starving. We all got nachos. These nachos were unreal. Perfect cheese-to-chip ratio. Warm. Salty. Life-changing. Baltimore, you did not warn me.

Then it hit. A strange feeling. Heavy. Floaty. Wrong. I paused mid-chew. A memory clicked into place: the gummy. I turned slowly and asked, very carefully, “What was in that?”

Silence. Then laughter. Then the words I was not prepared to hear: “Those were edibles.”

I panicked internally while pretending externally that everything was fine. I felt funny. Suspicious of my own hands. The cheering was louder now. The lights felt brighter. Every crack of the bat, every shout from the crowd, every bounce of a ball felt exaggerated in my brain. The mascot, a giant bird in orange, danced like it knew my secret. I clutched my nachos like they were life rafts.

By the end, I had learned something about baseball (sort of), about my friends (definitely), and about myself (maybe a little too much). I left Camden Yards with a newfound appreciation for nachos, a healthy respect for candy warnings, and the realization that sometimes, experiencing a city’s culture means showing up, paying attention, and surviving whatever curveballs come your way.

Baltimore’s culture isn’t just in the stadium, it’s in the fans chanting “O! R! I! O! L! E! S!,” in the smell of peanuts and fried food mingling with the harbor breeze, in the little rituals of seventh-inning stretch songs and high-fives with strangers. It’s chaotic, vibrant, and unforgettable. And now I understand why people love it, even if I might never understand baseball.

Loyola's Hidden Tunnels

If you didn’t know, there’s a secret network of tunnels beneath Loyola University Maryland. You won’t stumble on it unless you wander past the pond by Lange Court, or get roped in by friends who clearly have no fear.

We started at the grassy area near Maryland Hall, slick from a teasing light rain. Patrick, AJ, Nichole, and I headed toward the entrance. The air smelled damp and metallic, like the tunnels were breathing. I called my boyfriend on speaker, and as soon as we stepped in, his voice dropped out. No service. Just us and the echo of our own nervous laughter.

The darkness hits immediately. Deep, black, infinite. The walls are alive with graffiti: layer upon layer of colorful chaos. Neon tags dripping like they were painted mid-storm. Faces in distorted cartoonish forms. A fox wearing sunglasses, an alien playing the trombone. Someone had written “BANANA OVERLORDS” in gigantic bubble letters. A corner was entirely covered in scribbled equations that made no sense. Maybe someone’s attempt at math. Maybe a secret code. One wall had a stick figure stabbing another stick figure with a pencil, captioned simply, “Mondays.”

AJ slipped within the first ten feet. The floor was wet, treacherous, and apparently designed to test our balance. He nearly became one with the tunnel. We all waged a silent war against soaked sneakers for the rest of the trip.

Then came the dare: climb into a tiny crawl space for twenty bucks. 

Easy. I'm smaller than the average human. But...spiders. Bugs. What if there's a rat?

But hey, twenty bucks is twenty bucks. 

I squeezed in, scraped my hands, and discovered it led to a storm drain somewhere beneath the school. The graffiti continued here too, smaller and more frantic. A line of tiny, almost unreadable letters spelled, “If you can read this, you’re late for class.” Another wall had the words “PINEAPPLE REVOLUTION” repeated over and over in red spray paint. And of course, there was a crudely drawn cat riding a skateboard, somehow balancing a slice of pizza on its head. The crawl space smelled of wet concrete and old rainwater. I wondered if I’d be the one the warning graffiti had been about.

By the time we emerged near Lange Court, the rain had stopped. Climbing the steep hill back up was an adventure in itself: slippery grass, uneven steps, and a few near-deaths (AJ included). But the sun hitting our faces made it feel like a victory lap.

These tunnels aren’t just concrete and graffiti, they’re a living, breathing insider’s history. Layers of student marks, pranks, messages, and art piled over years. Tags from last semester, neon from three years ago, tiny cryptic warnings, bold murals, chaotic scribbles that make no sense all jumbled into this subterranean tapestry. One section looked like someone had vomited a rainbow, another had “HELP I’M TRAPPED IN A TOASTER” scrawled in blue marker. Nonsense meets obsession meets art. You walk through and somehow it all fits.

When we finally climbed back to daylight, everything looked normal again. The pond, the grassy slope, Maryland Hall, they hadn’t changed. But we had. Wet, laughing, a little scared, and a lot more in tune with the secret life of our campus.

And I was twenty bucks richer. 

Snapshots from the Baltimore Museum of Art

 

1. Marble Entrance 

Cool marble underfoot, echoing every step. My sneakers squeak against the polished floor and I feel ridiculously conspicuous, like the floors can see all my thoughts. Sunlight filters through the glass doors, slicing golden rectangles onto the ground. The smell is faintly of polish and museum quiet, slightly intimidating, slightly inviting.

2. Matisse Room

Colors so loud they hurt my eyes in the best way. The blue is electric, the reds are aggressive, and the yellows feel like they could combust. I can almost hear Matisse laughing at anyone trying to categorize him. My ISP cohort murmurs about brush strokes and technique. I lean closer, squinting, thinking about the 1914 donors who started this collection. What did they hope we’d feel here, a hundred years later?

3. Abstract Sculpture

Twists of metal and stone. One looks like a smirk, one like a question mark. Someone whispers, “Is it alive?” I can’t answer, so I nod like I understand the unspoken rules of abstract art. Shadows stretch across the floor, bending the sculpture’s angles into something almost sinister.

4. Contemporary Wing

Glass cases, minimal labels, objects that are more ideas than things. Ghanaian textiles, threads catching the light like they’ve bottled sunlight. A portrait of a Baltimore activist, eyes sharp, almost accusing, lips pressing stories into the canvas. A Japanese print so precise it feels like it could whisper. Each piece hums its own quiet, urgent history.

5. Small Details

Dust motes floating in the sunlight, tiny specks of life that seem to glow when the angle is right. The way footsteps echo differently on marble versus tile. The soft creak of a bench when someone sits to stare longer. My cohort leaning close to discuss, whispering ideas like we’re not allowed to breathe too loudly.

6. Gift Shop Finale

Bright lights, clashing colors, postcards lined up like tiny windows into masterpieces. Mugs shouting slogans: “Art is Hard.” Tote bags adorned with abstract prints that might or might not make sense. I notice the gap between the solemn galleries and this commercial explosion, it’s hilarious and comforting at the same time. I leave the museum with two unnecessary stuffed animals and a ramen bowl I'll never touch because I'm convinced I'll drop it the second I try. 

7. Exit Into Baltimore

Sun blazing down the steps. Murals screaming color onto walls outside. Street musicians strumming, laughing kids running past. The museum was quiet, deliberate, curated. Outside, the city is alive, messy, loud. Inside, centuries condensed. Outside, life keeps layering itself over history.

A Day in the Life

6 AM

the gym smells like rubber mats and regret

I lift, I squat, I convince myself this is wellness

I watch a guy drop a dumbbell once—no blood, just ego

headphones in, music punching me awake

7 AM

Boulder café

omelet: eggs, bacon, broccoli, onions, cheese, perfect chaos on a plate

protein shake shaking in my hand like it has plans

countless students slouched over laptops, coffee cups, existential dread

I tell the cashier “extra bacon, please”

she smiles like she knows I deserve it

8 AM

molecular genetics

I sit in lecture hall 204

text my boyfriend a random fact: mitochondria is the powerhouse of the cell

emails to professors ping constantly: some urgent, some passive-aggressive, all unavoidable

I nod along as the professor talks about CRISPR

I pretend to understand the ethical debates while mentally planning lunch

9:25 AM

biology of mammals

I watch a video of a meerkat standing sentinel

I realize the campus squirrels are probably plotting against me

I smile quietly, headphones off because this lecture demands my attention

somebody sneezes, “bless you” echoes

a fleeting moment of shared humanity

10:40 AM

synthetic biology

lab coats, pipettes, accidental chemistry explosions in theory

my partner laughs at my terrible pipetting technique

I laugh too, humor is the only thing keeping me from crying over DNA strands

1 PM (sometimes)

lab rotations, like a carousel of petri dishes

I taste test nothing, but smell everything

note-taking, pipetting, accidentally learning something new

my brain juggles RNA and tomorrow’s fashion show schedule simultaneously

Home

home smells like quiet and procrastination

sometimes strawberries, sometimes caramel

homework, online classes for travel reporting, popular culture, management

my brain toggles between ER shift anxiety, assignment deadlines, and texting my boyfriend dumb memes

sometimes Choolah for lunch, sometimes sushi

every bite a small cultural adventure, Indian BBQ that tastes like the city’s immigrant stories condensed into sauce

sushi rolls that feel like tiny, disciplined art pieces

I’m alone, yet the world hums through my headphones and notifications

8 PM

fashion show practice

I walk in, confident in heels, terrified inside

I memorize choreography, smile through mirrors, nod at the chaos around me

laugh at my own clumsiness

10:15 PM

back in my dorm

day collapses into lists for tomorrow

emails drafted, alarms set, protein shake residue on desk

I feel like I touched the city in tiny pieces: cafés, labs, gyms, classrooms, hallways full of ambition and exhaustion

Weekends in the ER

10 PM to 7 AM

hospital fluorescent lights hum lullabies of urgency

patients, families, monitors, whispered fears

I move through it like a ghost of my other self, noticing diversity in suffering, in resilience

the city’s heartbeat becomes real here: different accents, different stories, all under one roof

Reflection

Even in the microcosm of campus and ER life, I glimpse the city’s diversity: students from around the world, local café owners, hospital staff, patients. Each space, whether Boulder café, Choolah, or the lab, offers a lens into the culture, priorities, and pulse of this place. My day is chaotic, but it’s a living map of a city defined by ambition, resilience, and constant movement. Visit these spaces, or ones similar, not just for sustenance or learning, but for the stories that unfold. Boulder for breakfast that fuels your brain and humor. Choolah for spice that reminds you the city is bigger than campus. Labs for tiny victories and discoveries. ER shifts, if you dare, for a crash course in humanity, diversity, and life unfiltered.

Baltimore Snowpocalyse

Baltimore does not do snow quietly. 

The forecast could say two inches and suddenly the city moves like it has been personally wronged. The week leading up to the storm was nothing but vibes and opinions. Some people swore nothing would happen because everyone kept talking about it. The more warnings, the less snow. That is Baltimore math. Others were already emotionally preparing for death, power outages, and a future where bread became currency. There was no agreement, only confidence.

The grocery store told the real story.

The parking lot looked like Black Friday with worse attitudes. Inside, people moved fast and avoided eye contact. Carts were packed to the brim. Water was gone. Not low. Gone. Bread was disappearing mid-reach. Milk was being hoarded in quantities that suggested people planned on bathing in it. Someone had enough eggs stacked in their cart to build an igloo. I grabbed what I needed and pretended not to stare.

My boyfriend did stare.

He’s from California, where snow exists mostly as a concept and occasionally as a weekend getaway. He went shopping with a friend and came home visibly shaken. He kept repeating that the water shelves were empty like he had just uncovered something deeply unsettling about East Coast survival instincts. He said it slowly. The water was gone. Completely gone.

Then the snow actually came. And it did not play around.

The city went quiet under a whiteout that seemed determined to erase it entirely. Streets vanished. Cars looked like lumps of snow someone forgot to shovel off. Wind clawed at anything exposed, turning every step into a negotiation with physics. Trees bowed dramatically, like they were auditioning for a tragedy. It was terrifying. It was absurd.

Obviously, we had to go outside. 

I emerged from the bedroom looking like I had gained fifty pounds under three layers of pants, two shirts, a hoodie, a heavy jacket, earmuffs, and a bandana covering half my face. I stared at him and said, “Okay… ready?” 

He stood there in a hoodie, sweats, and… plastic grocery bags wrapped around his socks? 

He looked at me. I looked at him. We just… stared. The silence stretched like the snow outside, both of us silently negotiating the absurdity of this situation.

“Yes,” he said finally, with the confidence of someone who had absolutely just invented survival footwear five minutes ago. “I’m ready.”

He was not.

I put on my tall UGG boots. He grabbed his Crocs. 

Yes. His Crocs. 

“What’s with the bags?” I asked him. He beamed like some survivalist MacGyver, “It’s tech babe, trust.”  He told me the bags would help keep his feet dry. He was very proud of this system. 

Not wearing Crocs would also keep your feet dry, but whatever makes you happy honey. 

Without another word, we left the bedroom, went outside, and did not come back in.

We threw snow. We threw each other. We slipped. We laughed too hard at absolutely nothing. He checked his feet every few minutes like he was waiting for betrayal. Somehow, the bags worked. The Crocs did not, but that was a separate issue. At one point he admitted that next time he might bring a jacket. Possibly his work boots. Growth was happening in real time.

Baltimore shut down completely. Classes were canceled. Then canceled again. Then cancelled again. Three full days. Streets stayed buried. DoorDash and UberEats moved to pick up only. Group chats filled with pictures of snow-covered stoops and messages from people who had absolutely doubted this would happen.

And that is Baltimore.

Half the city insists it is all hype. Half the city prepares for the apocalypse. The storm arrives anyway, unapologetic, and forces everyone to experience it together. We did not die. We did not run out of water. We did get a ridiculous amount of snow, unexpected days off, and a very clear lesson about outerwear.

Baltimore panicked. Baltimore doubted. Baltimore delivered. Baltimore survived.

And my boyfriend will never forget a jacket again.

Pigs, Roller Coasters, and First Date Chaos

There’s something about fairs that makes time stretch and bend, where laughter, adrenaline, and sticky cotton candy collide into memories you didn’t even know you were making. The first date my boyfriend and I went on, before we were officially “us”, was to the Maryland State Fair, and it was an adventure in every sense of the word. From the moment we stepped onto the fairgrounds, the air buzzed with energy: the smell of funnel cakes mingled with the tang of popcorn, carnival music looping endlessly, and the occasional shriek from a ride that made your stomach lurch. He bought me a strawberry lemonade in a fair cup that I still have tucked away somewhere, simple, silly, and somehow perfect for the day.

He won me a stuffed pig named Pork Chop at one of the game booths, and we watched real pigs race around a tiny track, squealing and kicking up dirt. I still don’t know if I should be impressed or horrified by how invested we got in the pig race, but we were cheering like it was the Kentucky Derby. Then came the rides. He’s normally terrified of the gravity defying rides I crave, but he went on one because I wanted to. In the process, he nearly ripped my arm off holding on so tightly, and I couldn’t stop laughing and panicking at the same time. There’s a strange intimacy in that kind of chaos, shared adrenaline, shared fear, shared laughter that leaves your cheeks hurting for hours.

After surviving the fair, we drove over to Towson and indulged in one of my favorites: KPOT Korean BBQ and Hot Pot. I’ll be honest, there’s something exhilarating about cooking your own food at the table while steam and sizzling sauces fill the air. There’s a rhythm to it, a tiny dance of timing and taste, and watching him try, and sometimes fail spectacularly, at flipping thin slices of meat while I teased him just enough made it even better. Sharing a meal like that feels like more than just eating. It’s collaboration, a little messy, a lot of fun, and completely revealing of character.

Our next stop was my “thinking spot,” a little park in Federal Hill tucked near a children’s science museum and a short walk from PowerPlant, famous for its electronic bull and the college crowds it draws. Climbing up into the teepee structure, we looked out at the harbor and skyline. The rain had washed the city clean, and the water shimmered like glass. In that quiet moment, we talked about everything, the shape our upbringings had given us, the dreams we secretly harbored, and the little things we noticed about life that sometimes go unspoken. It was one of those conversations that makes you feel like you’ve been let in on a private world, one you build slowly with someone who’s just as curious about it as you are.

As we wandered down from the teepee, we stumbled upon a 9/11 memorial. Seeing one of the rebars from the towers in person was sobering and grounding, a reminder that life, with all its adventures and thrills, is fragile and precious. And because no adventure is complete without dessert, we took a sweet detour to the Cheesecake Factory. I’d never had tiramisu cheesecake before, and paired with strawberry cheesecake, it felt like the perfect reward for a day full of new experiences, pig races, roller coaster terror, and deep conversations.

Looking back, that day at the fair, the hot pot dinner, the thinking spot, the memorial, and the cheesecake feels like a condensed lesson in connection. Activities that push you slightly out of your comfort zone, or allow you to pause and reflect, are surprisingly beneficial for relationships. They show you different sides of a person: their thrill-seeking, their reflective nature, their willingness to go along for you, and the way they respond to joy, fear, and everything in between.

Sometimes, the first dates that seem like nothing more than fun turn out to be the ones that teach you the most, not just about the other person, but about how to navigate life together. That day, we didn’t just go on a date, we discovered pieces of each other, of ourselves, and of the life we might share in the future.