Where We Live: Roundtable

Salutations and Good Evening, faithful readers. It is time once more to delve back into the ridiculous and the sublime in the form of our These Gentlemen Roundtable. As you may have gleaned from the title, this week we will hearken back to the Gentlemonth of September and examine a question regarding Where We Live.

This ongoing segment was extremely popular* (especially amongst the Gentlemen), and so I thought it fitting we dedicate a Roundtable to the subject. In this case, we will be looking not so much at where we do live, but rather where we would want to live.

With that in mind, I give you the Where I Live Roundtable question, and then open the floor to our Gentlemen for their responses:

After witnessing a heinous criminal act, you are put into witness protection. You are promised that anywhere you go, you will be kept safe, but you can't stay where you are. So, since you have to uproot yourself, where in the world do you decide to go, and why?


Max Nova

Canada.






Stephen Bragale

I would move to somewhere in Idaho. Why? Well, I like potatos a lot. When it comes down to it, I haven't heard much bad news coming out of Idaho. And no one would find me if I went there. I like that. It's Idaho for me. Idaho, land of peace, home of the best french fries this side of the Mississippi.







Butterfree Graham

If I'm in the witness protection program then I am not just taking myself to a new place, I am becoming a whole new person in a new place after witnessing a heinous event and facing a terrifying trial, during which I may or may not be killed by the person I am testifying against. With all that in mind, I'm going to the beach. Perfection would be a really warm beach with white sand and turquoise water with few to no overweight tourists or drunk college kids. Local culture, music and theater. And not an island, because that's just way too much ocean (and the ocean is way too much like space).

Sooo basically I'm going South. Way south, past the American South, to South (or Central) America. Maybe Costa Rica or Brazil, but I'm not that picky. I just need a beach, a cheap drink, and as little civil unrest as is manageable. And then I'll be ready to take on that mob boss.


ali d.

Hawaii.

If you've ever seen the majestically silky black sand of Punaluu Beach on the Big Island or breathtaking Waimea Canyon of Kauai, then you already know exactly why and I need explain no further. If, however, you've never been fortunate enough to travel to the 50th state, you'll just have to trust me when I tell you that it is the most beautiful and diverse place in the United States. Deserts are located just miles from rainforests, and active volcanoes overlook pristine beaches and clear blue oceans.

As this is the Where I Live Roundtable, a little background on my visit: My dad, the Honorable Lt. Col. Lawrence R. Daniels, was in the ROTC in college, after which the army put him through law school. In exchange he had to give the Army four years after he received his J.D. After finishing school, he was stationed in Hawaii, and lived there until he finished his stint in active service, at which point he joined the Army Reserves and moved to Maryland. There he met a beautiful young judicial secretary named Beverly Cooper and married her. Years later, he was determined to share with their four little girls the beautiful island that he had once called home. When I was 14, we made the trip, and it remains to this day the most amazing place I've ever experienced.

Plus, let's think rationally. If I've witnessed a heinous crime, I'm probably a little high strung right now, and I could use some time to relax. Where better to do so than in the hot sun on a beautiful beach? And if I'm nice and tanned, it's a natural camouflage from any bad guys who might be on the lookout for me. Add that to the fact that the state is made up of 7 separate inhabited islands, and I'm going to be one tough chica to find.

Take that, sinister mob bosses. Now bring me something with an umbrella in it.

David Pratt

So, I'm on the run, and I've got to keep that in mind. I want to go somewhere that lets me lay low, but also where I'm going to be happy potentially spending the rest of my life. The two most obvious options are either go somewhere isolated from mainstream society, or somewhere so engulfed in it that I blend into the crowd. I've decided to opt for the former. I'm heading for the hills of Ireland.

The ancestral home of my father's family gives me the opportunity to spend the rest of my days in relative anonymity, yet still enjoying the best life has to offer. Breathtakingly gorgeous landscapes, great historical sights, even a small Jewish community - Ireland has everything I would need to occupy my time from now until my plastic surgeon makes it so the mob can't recognize me.

Hm, with that in mind, maybe I should pick Argentina . . .

And so there you have it my Roundtable friends. As always, I leave the question in your hands. Where would you go, given the chance to go anywhere? Let us know, as the Roundtable continues, only on These Gentlemen.

*Popular relative to our average number of readers

Where I Live: Rockville, MD

One night a long time ago, I was up ridiculously late and I absolutely had to stop and fill my tank on the way home. I had been putting it off for longer than I should. The reading on the meter was pegged on empty as I drifted into the gas station.

Stepping out of my car, my senses sharpened as my mind raced. I took a quick inventory of all the things about gas stations that I noticed before that were increasing my chances of being murdered that night.

Every inch of pavement was brilliantly lit.

I was exposed, between the pumps and columns, in pretty much every direction.

I was alone.

I fumbled over the nozzle as I tried to get the gas flowing as quickly as possible. I was slowing myself down by going too fast. As soon as I got the pump going, I started pacing back and forth. I couldn't help it, my legs simply took over. I was terrified, and my body was in survival mode.

Between the evening of October 2nd and the morning of October 3rd, 2002, John Allen Muhammad and Lee Boyd Malvo violently killed 5 people in Montgomery County, Maryland, with gunfire triggered from long distances. The worst 24 hour murder streak in County history started off what was to be most commonly known as the D.C. Sniper attacks.

The situation was chaotic. For weeks people in the greater Washington D.C. area were terrorized by a seemingly endless line of random killings. There was no connection between the victims, other than the fact that they were killed while performing everyday task, like getting groceries, mowing a lawn, or pumping gas.

The case had few clues at the very beginning. There were no significant witnesses or leads as the investigation started. Montgomery County Police Chief Charles Moose famously claimed that there was no threat to children from the shooter. Muhammad and Malvo responded by shooting a 13 year old. Public schools instituted a lock down, with all outside activities suspended indefinitely. Moose and the sniper team were sending cryptic messages to one another on TV.

For me, the scariest part of the situation was that the adults were scared. I was a 17 year old high school senior, watching the police fumbling over the case, and watching grown men and women ducking for cover and zig-zagging while out in open public places. I saw clips of people crouched in their cars while pumping gasoline.

So I was pacing. I didn't know if there was a shooter coming down route 28 in a car, or if he had set up his shot in a nearby wooded area. It wasn't irrational. I was pumping gas, just like other victims. I was in close proximity to other shootings that occurred.

But above all else, the worst thing I had going for me was the fact that I was at the closest gas station to the very police station that Charles Moose was holding his press conferences. In a case where messages were going back and forth, I was a bullet away from becoming one.

The loud click of the nozzle startled me. I put it back in the pump and got in my car, snapping my head back and fourth as I turned the key. I thought it would be a good idea to avoid a head shot. I was shaking as I drove home. I didn't feel safe until I walked inside. I sat down with my back to the door. I didn't stop shaking, even as I went to bed.

Eventually the shootings ended. Muhammad and Malvo were caught. The rest of my senior year was much more normal. I graduated high school in the spring of 2003, and helped my family move to nearby Bethesda in the summer.

After spending 15 years in one city, in one house, the most vivid memory I have of Rockville is of that gas station. I will never forget that night. The otherwise tame decade and a half I spent in Rockville left me with a bitter aftertaste, caused by chaos, and by the shedding of the blood of the innocent, and by fear.

The Hindenburg burned. The Titanic sank. People fall victim to the inevitability of, well, an outcome. But despite the fact that the cross-hairs are always on us, we all continue to live our lives. I am reminded of this whenever I see, hear, or think about Rockville.

Where I Live: Baltimore County

There is likely only one reason you've ever heard of Glen Arm, MD, and that is if you know me personally. Furthermore, you have probably only been to Glen Arm, MD if you were coming to visit me at my parents' house.

That's because Glen Arm is not really much of a city. We have our own zip code only because the area once contained a post office. That post office closed a few years ago though, due to lack of business, and it now sits a lonely shack on Manor Road. The Long Green Volunteer Fire Company is still alive and well, and there are a number of fine churches in the area. Long Green Baptist even boasts a baseball diamond out back, where I played softball in my elementary school years. Mostly though, Glen Arm, MD is miles of farmland, interrupted here and there by single-family homes.

The house that will always be my first (and probably most cherished) home sits just up the hill from Kanes Road. It is bordered on two sides by cow pasture (I became all-but immune to the smell of manure years ago and cow tipping is a myth) and on the third by a mid-19th century Mennonite Cemetery. We have one neighbor on the remaining side of our property, but you would never call our street a neighborhood. I have always envied the children who could run up the road to play with their best friends, because my friends were always at least a 10-minute drive away.

There's just not much to do in Glen Arm that doesn't require a heavy dose of imagination. Just about anything that is worth doing near my hometown requires a 20 minute drive, with one exception:

Ah, the memories. After only 8 short minutes (during which time we'd encounter our one stoplight about 2.5 miles into the trip), we'd reach the shopping center commonly known as Four Corners in Phoenix, MD, where my love affair with Safeway Food and Drug first began.

Once a week we'd venture out to civilization to pick up our six gallons of milk and two loaves of bread, stock up on cereal, ice cream, and ground beef, and replenish our lunchmeat supply. The woman working the deli was always so friendly - she'd slice off an extra piece of Yellow American for us to eat as we shopped. We'd weave our way through the bins of colorful produce stacked high in their bins, and if we were lucky, we'd convince Mom to stop in the bakery and pick up a box of Entenmann's Rich Frosted Donuts.

The aisles were always clean and neat at Safeway. Everything was organized and in its proper place. The whole store smelled like fresh bread. It was just as a grocery store should be.

Sometimes when we were out we'd have to stop in to other stores to pick up a few items, but it was never the same. Giant. Mars. Super Fresh. Food Lion. ShopRite. None of them smelled quite right. Or they'd be dirty. Groceries would be strewn all over the floor. Their in-store brand wouldn't taste the same. They were just low-rent excuses trying to be Safeway.

Where I'm from, you shop at Safeway. That's all there was, but it was okay, because it was perfect. And so my love persists. When I moved to Montgomery County, I found an apartment complex about a mile from a Safeway. I love it. It's better than any other grocery store in the area.* And that's where I live.

*Whole Foods and Wegmans are not grocery stores. They're little community centers that also happen to sell groceries, and thus in my mind do not count.

Where I Live: Fort Huachuca, Arizona

On two occasions in my life, I called the state of Arizona home.

The first happened when I was fresh off the plane from Germany. My father had been reassigned to Fort Huachuca (which means "Thunder Mountains"), 15 miles north of the border with Mexico. It was here that I recall my first memories. The choo-choo train cake from my 2nd birthday party. Family gathered around as I was given a large plastic knife to cut a piece of it with. My older brother being yelled at by my Grandmother for staying out past dark. The very first thing I remember seeing on television (Fraggle Rock). Arizona is where my life really began.

It's a hot state, hotter than I think anyone who lives in the east or north realizes. Temperatures can climb over 110 degrees in the summer. There's no oppressive humidity, but all that means is that you dry out that much faster. Also, the climbing mercury provides the ideal heat for monsoons - squalls which can cause flash floods in seconds with downpours so tumultuous you legimiately fear for your life. They can put everything around you underwater and then vanish to reveal clear skies in the space of five minutes. When monsoon season rolls around, it is not uncommon to see this event four or five times a day.

Beyond the weather though, there is nothing quite like the sight of the western states. There are deserts teeming with life; plants, mammals, and lizards adapted in ways completely unlike anything back east. There were roadrunners native to the area, and it was a common occurrence to hear coyotes howling at night (yes - we had roadrunners and coyotes). Other native wildlife included scorpions, deadly spiders, gila monsters, mountain lions, deer, javalenas (wild pigs), fire ants, turkey buzzards, and condors. Natural sites of wonder can be found in Arizona's extensive bat caves, a fascinating place to visit and learn about these amazing creatures, the petrified forest, the painted desert, and, of course, the Grand Canyon.

But to narrow it down so much takes away from Arizona's natural beauty. There is little about the state that is not a wonder to behold. If you're unused to the kind of marvel a desert climate can produce, you don't know what you're missing.

My memories of my first tenure in Arizona are dim. My parents divorced when I was 2, and my mother took us to live for a time in a trailer on the outskirts of Sierra Vista, the town adjacent to the Fort. I visited my father occasionally, one such visit giving rise to a classic story wherein my mom - for some ungodly reason - had decided to grow my hair out in a rat-tail. My father took one look at it, flipped out his knife, and chopped it off. If mom objected, she never says so when she tells the story - perhaps she saw me without it and realized her mistake.

At this time, she began dating a young officer named Brad, whose towering height (he was 6'7''!) made a definite impression, but for some reason his roommate was the one who really caught her eye. Thus is was not long before my mother and then-2nd Lieutenant Dennis Schlitt began seeing one another.

We moved into a house, adding my Grandmother AND Grandfather - they'd been divorced for nearly 2 decades - to the mix. There we stayed until orders came that Dennis was to be made a 1st Lieutenant and thus reassigned to Fort Bragg in North Carolina. There we remained - until Dennis was again promoted to Captain, and back to Arizona we went.

This is where my memories of Arizona firmly take root. Having my 7th birthday party at the Pot O' Luck, where they had the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles arcade game. Moving first to the interim housing, then to an apartment, then finally our house at 107A Lawton Ave. Visiting Lake Havasu and enduring temperatures of 120 degrees to see the actual London Bridge - yes, it's in Arizona. Seeing Tombstone and witnessing gunfight reenactments. Driving 90 minutes to Tucson to visit Toys 'R Us, or 3 hours to Phoenix or Scottsdale for the enormous malls. Meeting my best friends ever, Willy and Hannah, the brother and sister who lived next door to me. Then when we moved to a larger house (105A Arizona St.) to accommodate our growing family - now consisting of Dennis and my mom, my older brother, and the newest addition, my younger sister Samantha - my new best friends ever, Mikey and Mallory, the brother and sister who lived up the road. While I had fun after school every day with them, it wasn't until Mikey and Mallory moved away that Jason Chapman moved in, and I had my real first best friend.

Jason, supposedly an actual descendant of American legend Johnny Chapman, or Johnny Appleseed as he is more widely known, was my first best friend. We played at the playground by my house. We played at the playground next to the bus stop. We drew together (he was much better than me). We made up whole stories and worlds and acted them out in my backyard. We fought and hated each other and then apologized and forgot and played some more. I still have some of the stories we made up to this day. I keep telling myself that one day I'll do something with them. Ultimately, he moved to Germany, and it wasn't long before we lost touch.

There were so many others, though. Jesse and Ted, David Muldanado and Jonathan and Justin. Brandi, Sam, Christian, Chris Sontag and Matt Oldham, even my first girlfriend (we never actually went on a single date) Jennifer Achaval. From age 7 to 13, Fort Huachuca was my home. It was where we had our Irish Setter, a purebred named Princess Shanel (but referred to as Shanny), and where I had my first two iguanas, Godzilla and Gigantis. It was where Mrs. Gross, the teacher of the Academically Gifted class, educated me and my friends in literature and logic for 5 years running. It's where I met Ms. Bird, the nastiest and yet somehow most caring teacher I've ever encountered. Arizona is where I first became old enough to walk by myself to the PX and the Commissary, where I saved up all my allowance and birthday money to buy my own Super Nintendo and Sega Genesis. And where the youngest member of our family, Evan, my little brother, came to be.

Now, Fort Huachuca itself is an army base. There's not a lot that will ever change there. My brother visited recently and tells me the only difference is that the yards, formerly lush green grass, have all been replaced by smooth desert rock, likely in a water-conservation effort. Other than that, the houses all remain the same. There's the enlisted housing, officer housing, Colonel's Row, the Officer's Club, so on and so forth. What sets Fort Huachuca apart is the mountains. I am not exaggerating at all when I say there was a mountain range in my backyard. Literally - there was the fenced-off portion of my backyard, about fifty yards or so of open grass, a steep decline that led to the one road out of town below, and then mountains. Waking up to a red sunrise spreading out over those majestic green peaks was always something to look forward to. And on occasions when it snowed, it was even more breathtaking. Snow, of course, was a rare sight to be treasured. It was much more common to be told to put on a sweater if it dipped below 60.

The outlying town, Sierra Vista, is, I'm given to understand, now heavily developed. When I was there, it was more or less a single road with stores on either side, leading to some apartment buildings where my Grandfather lived. There were run-down saloons and Native American gift shops, tiny shopping centers and a single comic shop, Stasis, that became a treat to visit. The most monumental occasion of the time I lived there was when they opened up a Blockbuster. I'm told that these days the town is unrecognizable from what it once was. Maybe one day I'll go see it again, but I prefer to keep my memory of that quiet little town where every new happening was monumental.

As often happens, I eventually found myself further along in time than I had been before. Dennis was not going to make Major, and at that time in the army the policy was up or out. So, for the first time, I was about to leave my life in the military. This time, the destination was Ohio.

Oh, but I completely left out North Carolina. Well, both my time in Fayetteville and Dayton were transitional times for me. Maybe it's best I cover them elsewhere - perhaps in my next installment of Where I Live.

Where I Lived (and Left): Culvert Cowntee

"God Bless Y'all, Real Good"

- Louis L. Goldstein

Yep. Should one choose to exit Calvert County at its southern-most tip, crossing into St. Mary's via the Solomon's Island Bridge, a casual look to the left will reveal this brick-laden farewell in all of its grammatically deficient splendor. Unbeknownst to him, former Maryland Comptroller Louis L. Goldstein managed to capture the quintessence of Southern Maryland in only five words - and he presented it perfectly. Welcome to bumfuck.

Calvert (also referred to as "CC," "Southern Maryland, and, "Uh, it's near D.C./Annapolis. Sort of.") is a peninsula bordered by the Chesapeake Bay and the Patuxent River. From top to bottom, it is approximately 45-50 miles long, and borders counties Anne Arundel, Charles, and St. Mary's. There are about 5 main drivable exits - the most notable being Route 2-4 as the primary pipeline in and out (non-drivable exits include helicopter, water travel, and death).

Calvert County is split into three main areas - Northern (North Beach, Chesapeake Beach, Owings, Huntingtown, and Dunkirk), Central (Prince Frederick, Dares Beach, Port Republic, and Barstow), and Southern (Brooms Island, St. Leonard, Lusby, Cove Point, and Solomons Island) - each with a corresponding high school. You could say that Northern is "where the money is" - noteable that their region now has (count 'em) two* public high schools named "Northern High" and "Huntingtown High." Prince Frederick is the central "town center" - a collection of strip malls and living communities - home of Calvert's oldest high school, Calvert High. Southern Calvert boast proudly of the nationally famous "Tiki Bar," claims the closest Nuclear Plant to Washington D.C. as its own, and is home to this author's alma mater, Patuxent High. If you ever visit Southern Calvert, I advise driving straight to Solomons Island. It's this author's personal favorite.

The most interesting thing about Calvert is its pattern of urban development. For all intents and purposes, Calvert County is predominately rural, but maintains its own sub-urban flair. Driving from end to end, you'll be bombarded with isolated residential communities and market centers contrasting with long stretches of country roads, farmlands, old family plots, and watershed protectorates. Formerly cheap land, an exploding population, and steady immigration combined with the residents' desire to maintain the county's rural aesthetic, watershed laws, and building restrictions coalesce to form Calvert's impression as contradiction manifested. Hence, another Gentleman's coining of the term "ghetto country" might not be such a misnomer - representing Calvert as an odd combination of backwater boonies and urban sprawl.

Interestingly enough, despite said booming population there hasn't been a sufficient concentration of people over one particular spot to form an entire "town" (exceptions: North Beach and Chesapeake Beach are technically considered towns). Instead, what you have are select districts (some mentioned above) of residential areas that are assigned to different post offices around the county - some labeled as "town centers." As opposed to having the same municipal standing as full towns, these "town centers" are simply zoned for residential and commercial use. Their infrastructure is designed to ultimately curb urban sprawl and preserve agricultural and rural areas. In essence, this equates to there being, "not a whole lot to do," in the conventional sense. For those over 21, this means a lot of seedy bars spread out across long distances, bars in restaurants, and bars in hotels. To contrast, it also means a lot of local owned establishments once you get away from "town centers" - which are more likely to run the gambit of chains. The town center thing actually worked and kept away a lot of the amenities you might find with place of higher population density.

To demonstrate my point I'll tell a story:

One point during college, I drove down to St. Mary's to a friends party, passing through Calvert on the way, where I was accompanied by another Gentleman and a former roommate from the area. Said Gentleman started flipping around on the radio looking for a local station, when I looked at him confusedly. "Well, we get DC 101 or 98 Rock," I said, returning to driving not knowing what else to tell him. I would have mentioned HFS, but this was 2007 and HFS had long since dissolved. Clearly, that wasn't what he was talking about and he continued to ask for a local station where we played songs from bands around the area. He explained that most places have this sort of thing and he wanted to know what the station number was. Still confused, I tried to explain further that the closest thing we had to that was a whole-in-the-wall station that praised God every time the DJ spoke and played old-timey, twangy country. The Gentleman wasn't buying it and further tried to explain what he was looking for when our backseat companion chimed in with, "Uh, well, there's the Rocket." "What's the Rocket?" I asked, baffled. "It's like a modern rock station, I guess? It's new. Local," he said. I was dumfounded. Apparently, I had been away for awhile - in 2006 said old-timey station had switched over and changed its branding to "97.7 The Rocket," playing contemporary rock, possibly from local bands. I had a slight moment of shock, but I don't think it was apparent. It ended up being an OK station. Not great, but certainly not horrible. Also, I was still in shock.

"So, what do you do for fun in a place like this?"

Well there's not a whole lot to do, as I mentioned before. However, if you like solitude, relaxation, or the outdoors, it's a great place to visit. Local activities include your usual gambit of sports (soccer, football, basketball, baseball/softball, etc.), crabbing and fishing, boating and sailing, kayaking and canoeing, running and hiking, beaches and bonfires, and horseback riding. We have nature preserves Cypress Swamp and Flag Ponds, as well as the Marine Museum, which serves as our own, public mini-aquarium. There's Anne Marie Gardens, if you like outdoor art. You used to be able to visit the Nuclear plant (before 9-11). Of course, there's the Tiki Bar, which opens on Solomons Island every spring and shuts down before winter hits. Local bands (of which there might have been 3**. Maybe.) might play at bars, the Clubhouse in Lusby, or the St. Leonard Volunteer Firehouse. Outside of that, get ready to spend a lot of time in friends' houses and basements. For many, this leads to a lot of a) illicit drug use (It was rumored that the Ranch Club, a residential district, had either a heroin addict or dealer on every street and that, in this particular region, heroin was cheaper than pot) or b) deviant sex (boredom is the mother of invention). If you did neither, you were left to make your own fun - just hanging out and having a good time with your pals. Sometimes, we went across the bridge to the Ihop in St. Mary's because it stayed open late. A selection of my friends began making movies for fun - which usually wasn't a bad idea. Note, however, that going and "doing something" takes time - most places worth traveling to are between 15 min-30 min away. Traveling to Baltimore, D.C., or Waldorf meant gathering a day trip involving an actual reason to go.

And that's Calvert County for you. The essence captured. I actually had a pretty decent time when I lived there. But, I admit, I only go back under very limited circumstances.

* - the running joke: since Patuxent High was in the "poorer" part of the county, yet was relatively new, ran great programs, and had the heads of the Advanced Placement commission as teachers, the "money got mad" and pushed for a new school in their district to entice PHS staff up towards the north.

- Another running joke: There's a Patuxent Elementary School and a Patuxent High School. Patuxent Middle School, however, does not exist - because the administration doesn't want to have to deal with a school with the initials "PMS."

** - On Local Bands: I only remember two of them - There was Hydra FX, who everyone liked because they actually were pretty decent and everyone knew them, and the Flinging Ferrets, who everyone hated because they sucked, were annoying, and, also, everyone knew them.

Where I Live: Augsburg, Bavaria Germany

When Where I Live was announced as part of the upcoming Gentleman's schedule, I was conflicted. Certainly I do LIVE someplace, as in, physically occupy a geographic location, but the spirit of the concept seemed to be asking for more. This is not just a rundown of where you go when you get off from work. No, we are meant to capture the essence, the soul of a region through the lens of our experience. My conflict was that I have no place I am "from," no point of origin or hometown. It was a habit of my family to move every few years, one I have picked up and continued on my own. My journies have taken me across the country several times, with stories to share about each new destination.

Hence I have decided that I will break my experiences down into a series - one post for each major period in my life. These would be, in rough chronological order; Germany, Arizona, North Carolina, Ohio, New York, and finally, Maryland.

So I'll begin at the beginning. The place I was born - Augsburg, Bavaria, Germany.



The time is April 28th, 1983. College student Marci Eve Willner and husband Vladimir James Pratt are expecting their second child. Marci is finishing up course work via - funnily enough - the University of Maryland. Vladimir is serving a tour of duty overseas for the U.S. Army. They met when Marci was in the army herself, just as Vladimir was separating from his first wife, a high school sweetheart. Their son, Vladimir James Pratt II, is 3 years and 9 months old.

The pregnancy has not been an easy one. Marci almost miscarried once and was consigned to bedrest for several days. 10 days after her due date, she goes into labor. The birth is not easy. At first the baby simply refuses to be born. Ultimately, the doctor decides to use a suction tube in order to literally vacuum it free. This is not without complications. Her baby is delivered with the umbilical cord wrapped around its neck, and is a frightening shade of blue. Things don't look good, but after a touch-and-go moment, he begins to cry. At 8lbs, 6 ounces, David Andrew Pratt is welcomed by his parents. The name was the subject of some debate, but Marci ultimately won out - she had already given in to Vladimir James Pratt II, she wasn't about to let another one go without a fight.

Thus for the first ten weeks of my life, I lived in Germany. My memories of this time are understandably dim, but for some reason whenever it's brought up I think of the color blue. With no firm recollections of Bavaria, instead I've prepared a short lesson on the area and its history.

The city of Augsburg was founded in 15 B.C. as a garrison for Roman soldiers. Situated as it is between several key European cities, it soon became a bustling hub of trade and commerce. It would survive being sacked by both Huns and Charlemagne to become a vibrant college town rich in history and culture. It is the only city in Germany with its own holiday - the Peace of Augsburg. This commemorates the day when, for the first time anywhere, a treaty of coexistence was signed between Catholics and Lutherans.

Augsburg is also home to a famous marionette theater, the world's first artificial whitewater course, the 900-year-old Perlachturm bell tower, and the Fuggerei - the world's oldest social housing complex still standing today. It was also the home of playwright Bertolt Brecht, inventor Rudolf Diesel, and Leopold Mozart, Wolfgang Amadeus's father.

Bavaria itself is the largest state in Germany, accounting for 20% of the country. The indigenous population does not seem to have migrated here, but rather been formed by a combination of groups held over following a Roman withdrawal from the area. It has changed as Europe changed, from Rome to Charlemagne to Napoleon. Bavaria managed to remain a monarchy even after being defeated by Prussia in 1866.

Contained in Bavaria are the cities of Munich and Nuremberg, both famous in their own right. Munich was heavily bombarded during World War II, but has since risen to prosperity once more. In 1972, it played host to the Summer Olympics.

Well-known natives of Bavaria? Look no further than Joseph Ratzinger - or as we know him now, Pope Benedict XVI.

That is what I know about Augsburg, Bavaria Germany. I do hope to visit there one day, out of a sense that cannot even be called nostalgia. More simply a desire to see the place where I drew my first breath. Absorb perhaps some of what I first saw when I entered this world.

At 10 weeks old, I departed from Germany for America. This would see me land in Fort Huachuca, Arizona, for what would not be the last time.

But more on that tomorrow.

Where I live: The LDN

It took me some distance to appreciate London. After my semester there I was a bit burned out on being in a city every day and more than happy to be back in America where all sorts of little things that I missed all came back to me.

The thing about London is that at times it seems like everyone is from somewhere else. And while I think that can add spice to a city, it's a characteristic that I find makes me want to visit places but not live there. New York, Rome, London are all cities I love to visit, but I find myself a not unhappy to leave at the end. I think there's a part of me that would take to Manchester or Chicago easier if I moved there than the really big cities (and the feeling I got when I visited a friend in Bristol during my semester in England seemed to sort of confirm that).

There is a lot to be said about London, though. Central London is quite walkable, and the vast differences from Oxford Street to Brixton to Canary Wharf to Baker Street are vast intriguing to me. Waking up every morning a block away from Regents Park made for a lot of wonderful morning runs. And after class I would come home and read the Independent or Economist. It was a very nice life, really.

Seeing Tottenham games reminded me of how engaging sports can be, and how teams can literally be weaved into the fabric of a city. North London had it's charm with the mix of ethnic communities and working class folks, and the University of North London campus was a fascinating (and somewhat baffling) mix of various architectural ideas. Plus you can't find a much more culturally attuned city, and I probably went to as many concerts and museums as I had at any point in my life.

But it never quite felt like home. It was more a collection of nice events, and nice moments and perhaps too many nice cds that I bought, yet it never came together.

Where I Live(d): Ohio

or 'What is home?'

This weekend, I went home. As a concept, 'home' is something that I personally have trouble defining. For the purposes of this post, I'm using it to describe my parents' house in Ohio. I lived there for 12 years (ages 6 to 18), but during the course of the past two years I haven't spent more than a few days there at a time. Now, according to my mother, any place that she and my father live will always be my home. (At least, that's what she told me once when I made the mistake of using the phrase 'going home' to refer to a post-Thanksgiving return to Maryland.) But that made me wonder: does she still think of her own father's house as 'home'? She never lived in his current house, and she's spent more time away from Philly than I have from Ohio. Similarly, when my parents move (which they undoubtedly will, since my father refuses to spend his retirement in a red state*) where will 'home' be? I'll no longer have any ties to Ohio, but their new residence won't exactly be 'home' for me either. At that point will I finally be allowed to grow up, and decide for myself what 'home' is?

Because even when I lived there, Ohio never really felt like home. In college, whenever people would ask where I was from, I always answered very specifically, 'I grew up in Ohio.' Because, you see, I was born in Bensalem, PA, and even though we moved to Ohio when I was six, I'm very adamant about not being from there. Don't get me wrong- the small-town Ohio thing isn't all bad. Piqua is so safe that we once left our front door open- not unlocked, but open- while on vacation, and came back to find the house undisturbed. Every person I meet on the bike trail says 'good morning,' no matter how out of breathe they might be. The sunsets are gorgeous, and the night sky is stunning. And the traffic on the highway through Dayton is certainly a nice change from the Beltway.

But for me, none of that balances the drawbacks. Growing up, I didn't go to concerts and art exhibits and plays because there weren't concerts and art exhibits and plays. I spent hours in the car every week so that I could go to ballet rehearsals and theatre classes in Dayton. And forget Saturday night sleepovers- all of my friends had to get up for church on Sunday mornings. In elementary school, a classmate asked if I had a Jewish television that would show Hannukah specials instead of Christmas programming. In high school, one of my friends burst into tears in her car and, when one of our other friends asked what was wrong, she answered, 'Alex isn't going to heaven with us!' In my little town in Ohio, I was the 'other.' While I danced in the show choir and was president of the Honor Society and was even on Homecoming court, I was always very aware of being an outsider.

Maybe it was all in my head, but I felt like the fact that I was an East Coast liberal Jew made me different. My parents didn't graduate from Piqua High School, my cousins didn't live down the street, and I didn't plan on marrying my high school sweetheart so I could settle down there too. Instead, as soon as I could, I moved back to civilization (though apparently Maryland's status is debatable). While I love my parents (and a few select local purveyors of food), Ohio is not a place that I particularly enjoy visiting.

And should I really call a place like that 'home'? I took my boyfriend with me this weekend because I wanted him to see my little town and understand where I grew up. Most of my friends, in their lovely East Coast bubble, don't really get it. Piqua's a town where nothing changes: religion, morals, and political views are passed down like family heirlooms. It's easy enough to ignore these people when I'm not in Ohio. Then they become a vague community in the Midwest; they are the 'other' instead of me. But every time I go back, I'm forced to confront the fact that they really do exist. I grew up with them and it helped shape my life. But I am not one of them, and I really don't want to call Ohio 'home' anymore.


*Yes, technically Ohio's current governor is a Democrat and its electors went to Obama, but my parents live in a county that voted 63% for McCain and a district that has repeatedly elected John Boehner to Congress.

Where I Live: Silver Sprung

Let's start by getting out the way the old "Where is Silver Spring, really?" question -- from the wikipedia:

"As an unincorporated area, Silver Spring's boundaries are not officially defined. Residents of a huge swath of Montgomery County have Silver Spring mailing addresses. This area extends roughly from the Washington, D.C., Prince George's County, Maryland and Howard County, Maryland lines to the south, east and north, and Rock Creek Park and Plyers Mill Road to the west and north-west. These boundaries make Silver Spring larger in area than any city in Maryland except for Baltimore."

There is no mayor, and no city hall, but because Silver Spring is Montgomery County, it tends to be taken pretty well care of. But I promise this won't be a rant about how I live in the real Silver Spring.

Instead I figured I'd mention one of the dominant issues of Silver Spring when I was a teenager - Mall of America 2. Yes, a decade or so ago (maybe it was even longer now), the developers who brought you Mall of America (the greatest/worst bit of capitalism in this fine nation), decided that Silver Spring would be the perfect place for the sequel to the epic monstrosity in Minnesota. In their plan City Place would bite the dust, and be replaced by a super-mega mall with a water park and roller coaster, and more stores than you could shake a stick at. At the time I thought it would be really cool, although most folks in the area disagreed. If I remember right the yard signs said "Smart Growth Yes, Mega-Mall No"

At the end of the day financial factors won out, the developers couldn't put together any funding and there was no Mall of America 2. And smart growth has actually happened. Downtown Silver Spring is a wonderful, highly walkable place, with a few movie theaters (including the AFI, which is a gem), a Boarders and Whole Foods, a bunch of restaurants and the world headquarters for Discover Communications, which we stole from Bethesda. Sure it's not perfect. There are too many chain restaurants, and with the amount of snot nosed little teenage punks walking around the downtown area, it can feels like a mall sometimes, but as a whole it's proof that you can make a much more inviting environment.

In the end downtown Silver Spring actually ended up exactly how people wanted it to. An already well developed more-urban suburb with excellent public transportation and a diverse and very educated group of residents was revitalized into a vibrant city (or "unincorporated area") center.


[First image from http://freshpics.blogspot.com second image from http://www.justupthepike.com and I miss that artificial turf field.]

Where I Live: Murraland

Maryland is not the South. I've lived in the South. I lived there a long time. Part of me still lives in the South. This is not. The South. If you're going by what many Southerners [unfortunately still] do, and use the Civil War as a rote test, Maryland proves itself an independent. Maryland was going to secede with the rest of the South until the Union troops surrounded Baltimore and cut off all food and supplies from entering or leaving the city. Thus, Maryland fought, and won, with the North.

But Maryland is not the North, as I thought when we first moved here. Winters here aren't as long, and the sense of individuality of the North meshes with the Southern obligation to family and greater society to make a hodgepodge of responsibility across the state.

It's a tiny state, by most standards, but the geography goes West to East, from rural mountains to suburbs to The City back to suburbs out to farms and finally to beaches. Marylanders identify themselves by the county they associate with, names and nicknames rolling off tongues to immediately place a person in a rote social position.

-Calvert (Southern Maryland)... best described as the "ghetto country" where one can find tricked out cars weaving down country roads and historic red barns housing drug deals. Idyllic, and softly urban.

-PG (southeast of Southeast)... say it like it's your 'hood. Proud location of the University of Maryland and cities with names like "Beltsville" that sprang up with little rhyme or reason when the beltway was built in the seventies.

-HoCo (between DC and Bmo)... farms and McMansions. And Columbia, Suburb of Nowhere.

-MoCo (northwest of Northwest)... intensely populated (ex: Calvert has 4 high schools; MoCo has almost 20) and more diverse than the others I've mentioned so far, but if you live here, you're probably Jewish. Or possibly, if you're Jewish, you probably live here.

I could talk about the Appalachian rusticness of Western Maryland or the indecipherable accent of the Eastern Shore (oshters, anyone?) but I've never lived there, and I don't think I could do them justice. I could talk about Baltimore (ie Bmo, Balmer, Body-more, Charm City...) and "Naptown" with relative ease and knowledgeability, but I'm going to leave those up to other Gentlemen.

Maryland is a great state for all its geographical, social, historical diversity, but the best part is what brings us all together. Crab cakes and crab pickin' in the summer. The Orioles (Geau Eaus!). Old Bay. Roundabouts, and hating on people who can't drive in them. Scrapple. Having to explain what the "mid-atlantic" is. Army vs. Navy. UMD sports.

It took me a really long time to admit this, but I consider myself a true Marylander. I love my tiny little overlooked state, and I want others to love it too. So next time you're in the DC area, stop by in Maryland. Try to make it in the summer. Don't mention Pittsburgh, Dallas, or Duke. We'll show you a good time.

Where We Live: An Intro

Up until now we here at These Gentlemen have employed a certain free-wheeling spirit in what we posted and discussed, be it art, politics, hilarious internet videos etc. But this month we're going to try something a bit different. In addition to our regular posts about all the things that are on our minds, we will all be devoting the rest of this month to discussing "Where We Live" and where we have lived and where we may live one day. Although most (okay, maybe all) of us have done time in the lovely state of Maryland, we all have many stories to tell both in and out of The Old Line State.