The main commercial strip, titled “The Avenue”, runs through the center of town at its apex. The banality of its name counters the brightly colored boutiques and cafes that line it. The small businesses here lack the modern chic of big city boutiques, but their charm and character more than compensates. The buildings around here have held on to just enough of their history. If it weren’t for the hybrid cars lining the street, the place could be perceived as stuck in a different era—the era that The Feminine Mystique called for an ending to. But this neighborhood proudly hearkens to a time when women spent the majority of their day in flower print aprons.
Through the world wars Hampden housed thousands of workers employed by the Jones Falls mills. For many years it served as Baltimore’s middle-class utopia. The seventies, however, saw the closing of many mills by the hands of a growing corporate America. By the 1990’s Hampden had become a trendy arts district, with house prices to match.
Since its facelift, most of the shop owners have made a living out of selling nostalgia. Inside the appropriately named Hampden Junque nostalgia smells like dusty, stale oak and comes in the form of Brownie cameras and yellowing movie posters. From every cluttered cranny at least one Natty Boh man, Baltimore’s Big Brother, has an eye—and only one eye—on you at all times.
It’s undeniable that Hampden is cute. Yet Hampden knows it’s cute. Inside the popular Café Hon, everything from the apple pie to the décor reeks of saccharine self-awareness. At the door stands a life-size Elvis statue draped in a pink feather boa, and at the cash register stands a rack of neon, cat-eye sunglasses. Hampden walks a fine line between quaint and tacky, all too often crossing the line into outright kitsch.
On the street, a wiry, leather-skinned lady with a case of Keystone Light peers into a retro diner window at a twenty-something couple savoring warm cups of Maryland crab soup. “Good day for that, eh? Soup.” she says to her trucker-capped husband shuffling beside her. They both wear oversized purple Ravens sweatshirts. When they pass the dimly lit local sports bar he cranes his neck to see through the glare and slurs a drawn-out “Daaam” followed by “They’re losin’ 20 to nothin’.” The people at the bar sip their beers lazily and the bartender serves with little conviction. It’s a Monday night. The bar is consolation—football, an escape.
A yellow 1963 Camaro rumbles by and the buildings rumble with it. Seeing the classic car roll down the street is like seeing a glimpse into the past. The man driving turns his head out the window and yells to someone on the street “I’ll give you a good fight!” It’s difficult to tell if his tone is facetious rib jabbing or belligerent threatening. Half-a-block north a young woman sits on the doorstep of yet another shady bar that breaks-up the independent art shops and cafes. She has candy-apple-red lipstick and takes a slow drag on her cigarette while gazing across the street at nothing in particular. Her elbow rests on her knee, and she ruffles the ear of a howitzer-built bulldog. He looks in the direction of a man on a nearby corner who mumbles to himself loudly. Roughly shaven and sipping from a brown bag, the blue flannel shirt he wears could easily be worn by one of the many wannabe Ginsbergs who populate the Hampden bars. A group of them are taking a smoke-break with the girl and the dog. They have thick-framed glasses, greased side-swept hair, and a style that looks like whatever-is-for-sale at the vintage consignment store. In Hampden, homeless and hipster have nearly the same appearance.
But back across the street, a more refined group of three young women clonk by in high-heels and pea coats. They look straight ahead with determination and hug the inside of the sidewalk when they pass the mumbling man on the corner. They quickly duck into a posh coffee-shop.
The streetlights come on just as the last of the sun’s crescent wanes on the horizon. The tweed-jacketed grandfathers and thinning beehive grandmothers walk hastily to their cars when leaving the novelty restaurants. Maybe it’s the chilly air. Maybe it’s the fear that they’re not in the same Hampden that they raised their children in 50 years ago.
At both ends of “The Avenue,” terraced housing stretches into the darkness. Rifts in the sidewalk give way to overgrown patches of grass. It’s only just past sundown, but all doors are closed and locked. The streets are now empty, save a few middle-aged men who smell of ethanol and transient lifestyles. As children of this once close-knit neighborhood upon a hill, these men dreamed of following in the footsteps of their fathers and fathers’ fathers by working in the mills. Today there are no mills, only cutesy shops for the tourists passing through.
