It did not escape Rob’s or my attention that we are moving from a clean, tranquil, and perfectly safe city to a hotbed of crime, grime, and rubbish. That is to say, we are moving from Manhattan to Baltimore. And while we will certainly do our best to cope with the lower standard of living, there is another factor that may introduce a monkey wrench into the works.

I often say that the chief difference between New York City and Baltimore is that that in New York everyone is crazy and knows it, and in Baltimore everyone is crazy and thinks he or she is perfectly normal. In theory, this may seem like the slimmest distinction, but in practice, it is night and day.

In New York, all but the most raving of lunatics leave you alone (and you can see the most raving of lunatics coming, so in the event of a conflict, you have no one to blame but yourself). This is because everyone knows that, in this city, each person is crazier than the last, and the one who looks innocuous may actually be an axe murderer. Why chance it?

In Baltimore, however, all bets are off: I have had the most bizarre encounters of anyplace I have been in the world in that city. It is there that, walking down the street with my friend Viki, a woman approached, introduced herself, and said to Viki, “Would you go home and change your dress? It’s very indecent, and you’re showing too much skin.” (It would have been even wackier if she had said that to me, but the one thing I can never be accused of, even by the most deranged of people, is showing too much skin.)

Viki and I were also together when we were cornered by an ancient man named Sal, who spent thirty minutes explaining that the surest way to a woman’s heart is to lick a cinder out of her eye.

It is also there that I was followed home one time by a male prostitute on his night off, a young African-American guy who claimed that I was the most handsome man he had ever seen and would give up his licentious career if only I would become his boyfriend. (I told you Baltimoreans were crazy.) I graciously, but persistently, refused, but he would not let me go inside without giving him a parting kiss, which I did, much to the horror of the church group that was letting out across the street (but they were Episcopalians, so it didn’t matter). That same young gentleman would escort me safely home whenever we encountered each other after dark, but he always respected my decision and would have to be satisfied with the memory of our single moment of passion.

And then there was the time I was carjacked by a man without a weapon, who only wanted a ride to buy drugs in the next neighborhood over. When we reached the prescribed corner, he got out of the car and made me to promise to wait for him, a promise I kept for all of two seconds before I zipped away with a squeal of tires and a puff of smoke. (Now I feel guilty for being so untrustworthy, but I am working it out in therapy.)

Ah, Baltimore.

I can’t wait.