In Baltimore, for whatever reason, people lunge into the street. Like this weekend, when a car in front of us swerved, and a man wearing the same colors as the blue-black twilight around him emerged, pedaling towards us. A flash. I dodged him—left, hard. sharp. “Wtf. did you see that?”“I know! That guy almost died. What’s he doing biking in this direction? And at night?! On a main road?”“No idea. Unnecessary. Did you see how I was a calm serial killer? I didn’t even flinch.”“Yeah, you just moved into the left lane. Must be the city in you.”It was Friday the 13th, G’s first night ever in Baltimore, and we’d already almost died twice. All we wanted was Indian food and some good old Baltimore medical. But it seemed, neither of those things was going to happen without significant risk.We continued down 29th Street and Harford Road, until we got to the light. “Where is everyone?” G asked, confused. What does he mean? Who is ‘everyone’? But then I realized that the streets were empty. The night swarmed and lurched with more life than the scant pedestrians. If anybody was outside they were waiting for the bus or hanging as if on a marionette off the sidewalk. “Probably at home,” I guessed. “On a Friday night?”I looked around. I had to double check. Was the city empty? The lights outside the fire station winked. The buildings were dark inside. Every other streetlight was out. And no one was about. But where he saw absence, I saw undeniable hereness. Just there in that building was the old bike shop where my friend used to work. Over there the gas station I rented my last U-Haul. And here was the office building where I see all my doctors and take all my labs. Where he saw absence, I saw my whole life.Nine years earlier, I was tagging along with my roommate to a dinner party. We were three hours late. I had never met the host. I’d only heard that he was a model, a wig maker, and a makeup artist. I barely liked makeup and had never worn wigs. I had never met a model. I heard they were snooty, skinny, and unserious. I wasn’t sure I’d like him.When we arrived at the apartment building, it was late. Well past 9 p.m.; our stomachs calling out like broken engines desperate for repair. G opened the door. He was beautiful. Tall like a giraffe. As dark as the monochrome black outfit he wore. The apartment smelled delicious—on the table a spread of pap, chakalaka, and vors—South African staples. My roommate and I had only been living in Cape Town for a month, but we were already very familiar with South African cuisine. We ate with delight. We laughed for hours. Later, we found out that because we were so late, he’d eaten all the food he’d cooked. Then had re-created the meal before we got there. Since our first dinner, we haven’t stopped laughing. We watched Paris is Burning and laughed. We walked around the CBD and laughed. I tried his handmaid wigs on and we laughed. Over the years, I’d returned to Cape Town to visit him and we’d spend weeks laughing. Then in Tanzania, then New York. The years went by and I’d returned again and again to his homes, but he’d never been to mine. Until now.As we drove down Saint Paul Street, I could feel his scrutiny. Not on me but on the city. In awe he watched the brownstones, the churches, the train station, the glass windows, and the few pedestrians. “This place is different,” G said with genuine intrigue.By the time we arrived at Sweet 27 in Remington, I was itching to hear his observations. We sat at a table towards the back, overlooking the bar. A handful of people were drinking and chatting and keeping the bartenders busy. That’s when G told me his theories. His first theory was that the five people outside Turp’s Sports Bar were the same five outside now seated inside the restaurant. His second theory was an extension of his first. That the Baltimore matrix had a mandatory “make five” quota. Meaning that wherever we went like in The Sims or on The Truman Show they added three other people so we’d make five. His third theory was that everyone in the city was gay, trans or gender plural. That, I told him, was not a theory; it was a fact.“And me?” I asked. “Does being here help you make more sense of who I am?”“Even less.”We both laughed. When we left the restaurant, I took a left on red. He thought I ran a light. Truth be told, like any Baltimore native, I’m known to run lights. But this time, I had to defend myself. “It’s legal to take a left on red here.”Descending underground to the Baltimore subway. Photo by Paul Sableman/Flickr Creative Commons.The next day, we walked up Pennsylvania Avenue towards the Upton subway station. Just before we got underground, we saw one young man exchange a plastic bag filled with white powder to another young man. It was swift. Like air and fire swept up into the head of a balloon. Then, as we descended into the dark, metallic underbelly of the city, I watched G descend into incredulity. “Do we have to pay for this?” he said, miffed. “No, a gate is always open.” I said, as we waited for the man in a wheelchair to go through the open portal so we could walk through. Below, the matrix persisted. There were exactly five of us underground waiting for the subway. The lights barked and the train winked into view. We got on. A man covered in the sharp basement smell of the train was pointedly rap-ranting. He seemed angry. He was erratic. His words were a string of curses half-rhymed with half phrases. He flailed about the car like those inflatable pink tube men outside of car dealerships. We tried not to laugh, but giggles poured out like libations. He was itching to engage one of us. From Upton to Charles Center we looked in every direction but his. By the time we got to Federal Hill to watch the sunset, the park was crowded. A woman in a wedding dress walked ahead of us. A bro on a date with his cheerleader-type gf, spoke loudly. Then, as if the commercials had just ended, the movie came on: the 12 o’clock boys rode down Ritchie Highway, 20, 30, maybe 40 deep—wheels and rubber sticking straight as straw men.“Wtf.” G said. “That is so unnecessary.” His eyes were alight. His eyebrows furrowed. He loved it. I could tell. His expression screamed wonder.  In Baltimore, for whatever reason, we aren’t like anywhere else. People like to take hacks. When I told G this, he bursted out laughing. “If you’d given me a thousand guesses I never would have guessed what that word meant.”“Yeah, people ask me all the time if they can get a hack.”“Like a random ride from literally anyone with a car?” he said, giggling. At the end of our weekend, he said he wanted to come back. That every time we’d left the house, he’d seen something he’d never seen before. Or hadn’t in a while. That the food was delicious. And the people were distinct. That it felt like home, like Africa, in many ways. Then, I asked him what about the city he sees in me. He gave me a list: A quiet confidence. Not flashy or pick-me. Just subtle & rooted. Strong point of view. Even when in opposition to others’ ideas. Room to be different, quirky, distinct. Even if my expression of Blackness is not mainstream. A life-sustaining optimism and hope Urge to elevate my voice so I don’t go unseen  A strong direction and focus towards constructive changeI think G gets it. Baltimore is a city of optimists. Of self-assured, down-to-earth & unique individuals. With strong voices that will not go unheard or unseen. People with a serious handle on quirky. Who aren’t afraid to be misunderstood; who pay no mind to judgment. Who, for whatever reason, will lunge into the street (of life) when called (possessed?).