For the first time in seven years, Robbey and I live, yes live--not visit together, not share a laugh with, not hold each other for ten minutes--but live in the same state. Not province, not capital--just kidding I won't put you through that dead end of a joke. But I will put you through a joke that ends in you being dead. I know, not funny. Because I don't even know who "you" is.
So, Robbe made history in a couple of ways these past two weeks. He not only made the fastest successful house-hunting time in the history of histories but made the best house-hunting deal, which makes him--drum roll please!--Lord of the house-hunting land! (He makes me call him that now which is getting a bit tiresome with all the bowing I have to do every time I see/leave him. Help!)*
Before this official and deserved title, he visited two other places, one of which I was lucky enough to check out with him. And by "lucky" I mean, "out of my mind." Let me set the scene for you.
Charles Village, Baltimore.
Baltimore = home to Bubbles, The Wire, street rats (literally and figuratively), John Waters, Ray Lewis, the most unattractive use of the letter "o".
Charles Village = Johns Hopkins, hit or miss area blending livable, non-livable, and are there bodies in this basement?
We visited the latter.
We knew as we approached the steps leading up to the house that it was bad news. The small porch area had an overturned chair that had probably been collecting dirt for oh, approximately two thousand years. The random bits of fast food trash surrounding the historical piece detracted from its ancient authenticity but not its statement. The statement being: Robbe and I were going to die. And when you know you're going to die, the only thing left to do is to knock on death's door (which was a little wobbly by the way). So Robbe knocked. And Death answered...