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.