Fell’s Point is a collage for the senses, taking you back and forth in time and place, new and old, fabricated and real. I took a stroll in and around the maze of under-construction streets and relived memories while I explored the area deeper with my less-used senses.
Starting off by the water, the air was saturated with the scent of the sour, salinated bay, the lingering smell of an 18th century dock. The cloudless sky cast a matte white light on the brown brick, the buildings rising up off the dark bricked sidewalk looking as organic and established as a forest.
I wove around couples enjoying a day off, walking on the same streets where dirty porters and malnourished sailors spent days working just a century ago. The cobblestone roads, what once played host to wide wagon wheels, now precariously balanced the thick plastic wheels of full strollers.
Continuing down the streets, under the awnings of the stoic Admiral Fell Inn and countless bars that compete with each other for how many beers they have on tap, I could not avoid the smell of brunch mimosas, citrus sickly sweet, and cigarettes. The stains of gum and drinks on the sidewalk from long bright nights passed.
I passed a neon yellow-clad construction worker digging up brick placed before his lifetime on the curb, and he saw me. I could see the smile in his eyes even through his dark sunglasses as he called out to me, “Hey, how you doin’ darlin’?” The heat of the day hadn’t yet arrived to sap my energy. I told him I was great, and how was he?
“I’m marvelous!” He replied, and I agreed. We went on our separate ways. After I walked past Jimmy’s Restaurant, where the open window played a symphony of metal spatulas on a wide metal grill, I had to pass Jimmy’s garbage, where the Fell’s Point flies were getting their breakfasts alongside Jimmy’s patrons inside the restaurant. Then, I was in the residential alleyways, where three centuries of architecture were crowded into blocks. The old home of Admiral Fell stood stalwart on the silent street, but soon the modern smell of garbage overtook my senses and I had to leave the historical place.
Doors on the residential streets opened up, and owners followed their excited dogs out into the day. A Doberman jumped to hug me in his haste to expend some pent up energy, and kissed me on the cheek. His owner and I exchanged stories about our spoiled dogs before The dog and his brother went off again with their owner to a leisurely walk.
Turning back to the commercial areas, I heard the shouting and clamor of shops opening and deliveries made over the cough and choke of exhaust pipes and the loud, gruff purr of idle delivery trucks.
I took a look in the darkened window of Bertha’s Mussels, where my dad and I once polished off three bowls of the buttery bivalves. Then, it was back to the lemonade stand, surrounded by shops, and the former police station, which I know better as the setting for Homicide: Life on the Streets, and Munch’s bar was just nearby it on the television show. Of course it wasn’t actually there, but the memory of fiction and history coexist in Fell’s Point, where the mysticism and nostalgia of history makes just as good a story and gimmick on all the old bars (“est. 177-whenever”) as fiction.
