This past week I found myself clocking more miles on Maryland’s highways than I have in years, driving to and from Baltimore on my own. What I imagined would be a simple string of solo commutes quickly turned into an unexpected adventure, complete with confusing exits, detours through crumbling industrial zones, and more than one wrong turn into neighborhoods that made me grip the steering wheel just a little tighter.
Most of my trips “across the bridge” have been to Washington, D.C., over the past thirty-eight years. Baltimore, on the other hand, has included a handful of peaceful visits to the National Aquarium or the American Visionary Art Museum with my family. Those trips were well-planned and predictable: park, explore, head home. But this was different. This was real Baltimore. And real Baltimore is a patchwork: some parts filled with energy, grit, and culture; others, quiet, haunting, and a little depressing.
On my first day as I was returning to the Eastern Shore, my GPS led me down to the area where the Francis Scott Key Bridge used to be. I wasn’t expecting it. I didn’t even realize how close I was until I noticed the sudden lack of skyline and the silence that seemed to hang in the air. Navigating my way out from there and back onto Route 97 was one of the trickiest drives I’ve done in recent memory, not because of traffic, but because of the sheer uncertainty of it all. Twisting ramps, detour signs, an ancient tunnel, and an eerie awareness of where I was.
There’s something humbling about relying on your phone to guide you, only to find yourself completely disoriented. The intermittent, reassuring voice of the GPS doesn’t account for construction zones, collapsed infrastructure, or how a place makes you feel in your gut.
But in a strange way, I’m grateful for the experience. It reminded me that stepping out of our comfort zones, even involuntarily, shows us what we’re capable of. I navigated it. I don’t think I’ve ever been so relieved to see a road sign as I was when 97/Annapolis appeared in front of me. Crossing the Bay Bridge felt like a gift from heaven after such a long drive. I made it home and I got a clearer picture of a city I’d only known through museum doors and aquarium glass.
As I continue my journey to and from Baltimore next week, I might plot my route the old-fashioned way, or at least glance at the map first. But part of me knows that even the wrong turns have their own stories to tell.
My deep appreciation for the quiet comforts of the Eastern Shore persists because at the end of the day, there really is no place like home.
Kate Emery General is a retired chef/restaurant owner who was born and raised in Casper, Wyoming. Kate loves her grandchildren, knitting, and watercolor painting. Kate and her husband, Matt are longtime residents of Cambridge’s West End, where they enjoy swimming and bicycling.
Lyn Misiaszek says
Just to echo your experience: I’ve been on that route, or close to it, guided by GPS as well! First time, totally disoriented and even a reluctant stop to check paper map unhelpful. Had to call my destination for reassurance that I was, indeed, headed the right way, despite my twisting route taking me through a rough, mostly industrial landscape where the streets and the whole area seemed bombed-out, deserted, dystopian. Second trip through there later was less disorienting but no less dread-inducing. I have an enduring affection for Baltimore and my connections there, but this ride is something else.