People here in France often ask me if I miss the USA. I do, but can never give a fast answer. I don’t really know what the USA is like these days, and a lot of what I miss is ephemeral. I’ve been here for almost 30 years, and a lot changes in that time. But memories don’t change, and the passing of time makes them more intense, romantic and desirable.
I recall my dad buying me a gold Schwinn Stingray bicycle in Pikesville from an elderly Jewish couple at the original Princeton Cycle and Ski Sports shop, before it moved to Lake Ave. I saw tattoos on their forearms and asked my dad about it. Never one to mince his words even with a child, he informed me about Auschwitz and “The Final Solution.”
I remember riding my Stingray up Wyndhurst Ave. and the feeling of strength I felt in my legs. My father told me that a test had shown that the Stingray bicycle could beat any car on earth in acceleration in the first 20 feet. At eight, this gave me the feeling that I shared a connection with drag racers I admired, Tom “the Mongoose” McEwen and Don “the Snake” Prudhomme. When I came to France, I learned that a “Prudhomme” is someone who judges civil disputes.
I once cut through a yard in Guilford. I liked that neighborhood because the houses were so spectacular, and I’d stroll around haphazardly. I was about 16 at the time. An older woman suddenly called from an upstairs window and asked what I was doing in her yard. Leaning out of the window, I could see that she was naked from the waist up. Her dangling breasts reminded me of the tongue of a slaughtered cow. “What a perv!” I thought.
If I miss anything tangible about the USA, high on the list would be the alleys that run through Baltimore. Alleys are the secret meanderings of the mind and soul. They’re one of the elements that defines a Baltimorean. They wander parallel to the main streets, but few people ever take them. They’re perceived as dangerous; in plain sight yet remain hidden. There’s a subtle change which occurs in alleys, it produces a feeling that’s present and absent from the social world.
Paris doesn’t have alleys; the buildings here are built in huge blocks. The Parisian particularity is courtyards which are often spectacular but remain off-limits because one needs a code to enter. I’ve seen some since I arrived here, but less than .05 percent of what exists. If alleys are psychological, courtyards are more conscientiously social for one’s constantly on display to neighbors. They also reinforce a conception of social hierarchy.
My relationship with the back alleys of Baltimore goes back as long as I can remember. In Bolton Hill, when I was four or five, I saw an older boy named Ricky drinking water from a gutter that ran down the middle of the alley near our house. Even at that age I knew he was crazy. I learned much later he died of an overdose.
In Roland Park there was an alley behind our house. It had a name, but we always referred to it as “the alley.” It’s where, after having watched Evel Knievel jump some trucks on Wide World of Sports, I set up a ramp made of wood propped up on car tires and tried my first jump using my gold Stingray. Unfortunately, I wasn’t aware that you needed to pull up on the handlebars when leaving the ramp and so I flipped. The bike crashed down on me. It hurt, I was bruised and battered, but neither neck nor bones were broken. This confirmed my belief in the Catholic Doctrine of Guardian Angels.
Alleys often served as film sets when my brother and I were making movies. They were perfect and usually equipped with fire escapes which allowed for high-angle shots. Many are narrow and found between tall buildings. These provide great framing opportunities for they offer complex yet controlled visuals to fill the shot. There were often doorways, little passages, and overhead lights that could serve to make a shot interesting. In Paris I haven’t been able to find an equivalent except for parking garages, but it’s not quite the same.