By this time, I had firmly decided that I loved Baltimore. It’s got the kind of character that’s rare in American cities—a real, unique personality with loads of little Baltimore-specific idiosyncrasies. It lives in the shadow of DC, but that comparison also illustrates why Baltimore shines. DC almost completely lacks a sense of place. The focal points are those monuments and museums owned by the country or federal government. So many of the people are transients, passing through the halls connected to those national institutions. Whereas I almost never encounter someone native to Washington in DC, I rarely found someone from elsewhere in Baltimore. A DC accent?—maybe one exists, but I never found it. Baltimore, a city of natives, has one, or rather many versions of one, and it’s pervasive.

So I said all this to my new friend. And, as had happened several times before, he immediately agreed. Baltimorians seem reluctantly proud of their city. Tell them you love it, though, and their hidden pride blossoms.

After twenty minutes or so, we were joined by a close friend of the first man’s. (I’m not being evasive or forgetful—these guys learned I was a writer and preferred not to be named.) Our conversations about Baltimore and Portland continued until I had a decision to make: get out of there and visit at least one other brewery, or enjoy my wonderful company. The decision was posed most acutely by my empty glass, and I was waffling because the remaining recommended beers were giants. As I was trying to decide, the two regulars and the bartender went on an extended history of Beazly, the beer they wanted me to drink. It involved Ozzy Osbourne, a lawsuit, and a former bartender and by the end of the odyssey there was no way I could leave.

I was immediately rewarded by my wisdom when a third member of the party showed up at 6:02 precisely, to hoots, backslaps, and smiles. The parking meters go dark at six, and so his arrival always fell in the minutes just thereafter—which amused his friends no end. (The latter two arrivals were natives of Baltimore.) When I got up to leave, they wouldn’t let me pay—“your money’s no good here!”—and even scolded the bartender for taking my card.