House in Little Italy By Nuzhat Shahzadi

Photo caption: My house in little Italy: 3rd from the right

On a sparkling, sunny morning I landed in Baltimore, Maryland.

In 2004, my twelve years of UNICEF work came to an end (post abolishment). I did apply within the agency, wasn’t successful. I meant to be somewhere else, I guessed. I was offered a job to head an HIV/AIDS project at the Johns Hopkins University/CCP in Baltimore, USA. We operated under the Hopkins-school of Public Health.

I left UNICEF with a heavy dowry––indemnity, etc., etc. However, after two years of Hopkins when I applied to UNICEF I was reemployed. Not sure why UNICEF couldn’t keep me in the first place. My severance came at a cost. (We are notorious for “penny-wise-pound-foolish” strategies, though.)

Anyway, the BWI airport appeared friendly. I had been to Johns Hopkins before to make a presentation on behavior development/change through entertainment-education (2003). I assume it played a part in my employment with Hopkins.

A colleague received me at the airport. I had met her a few times in Kathmandu. Seeing a familiar face felt good. I had been to the US many times in the past but those trips were more touristic––visiting my son, sister, brother. Never stayed more than four to six weeks (from 1996-2015, I was sort of a gypsy––didn’t have a place I could call home). I definitely had planned my retirement life far, far away from America. But “man proposes, God disposes . . .” This woman was shamelessly confused . . .

We came to the hotel that the office had booked for me in downtown. It was a suite––bedroom, living room, kitchenette, a full bathroom.

“Don’t venture out. Baltimore is not safe,” she cautioned while taking leave. I also had received formal briefing papers about safety.

I didn’t heed her advice, went out for a walk and got lost. I took a wrong turn and as I kept walking the surroundings changed––looked more run down, sinister. I got a bit scared and stepped inside a car garage-kind-of a store that looked okay. The owner was helpful.

“I will call a cab to take you back to the hotel. Security is poor here,” he said, matter of fact. Day one of adventure wasn’t very positive.

The next day, I got a tour of the office, met the HR and colleagues. The office was nearby––$5-$8 max in a yellow cab. In the evening my sister and her husband drove down from Long Island. My son flew over from New York. It was a great family reunion.

My boss had taken me around the neighborhood––across the inner harbor, around Little Italy, the famous Whole Foods store.

“You don’t need to cook. You can buy organic salads, fruits, ready to eat food,” he advised. He somehow recognized my gypsy traits. I didn’t want a house in the suburb, buy a car––I was not a settler! My job included 70-80% travel.

It was the pre-smart phone era (GPS wasn’t popular). My sister and I looked at the newspaper for rental advertisements. Finally, we found a house in downtown, beside the inner harbor in Little Italy. The landlord offered to pick me to show the house.

A very big, oldman arrived in a black-new- Mercedes. He was Italian––Tony Abato. His match-box-three storied house was only ten minutes walking distance from my office, just beside the inner harbor which was a tourist attraction. The aquarium, restaurants, shops drew people from all over the country. It was a vibrant place those days. A campus town. On summer weekends, live bands played at the inner harbor, carnivals and fairs were common happenings.

I liked the house––318 AlbeMarle Street, Little Italy.

The first floor included the living room, dining space, a half bathroom/powder room and a kitchen. There was a very tiny backyard totally concreted. The first floor had a large bedroom, closet space and a full bathroom, the third floor had one bedroom and then was the spiral, narrow stairs to the roof. I could see the entire inner harbor and beyond from the rooftop. In the twilight the bay and city looked magical.

Then there was the basement with a washing machine, dryer and lots of wires and strangeness. It was spooky.

During the late 19th and early 20th Centuries, Italian immigrants moved in this area and it came to be known as Little Italy. The paintings on the walls, the Italian restaurants and confectioneries, family-owned handmade pizza stores flourished, carrying the flavor of another era. On Friday evenings in summer, open film shows were held––projected on a large wall. We needed to bring our chairs and food–– didn’t need to know anyone––you just belonged.

My neighbors knew me. Across from my house was a small Italian eatery. The waiters kept tab on me in a good way––not stalking. They knew the face of an immigrant woman living alone . . . outside the parameters of Little Italy was a violent universe. In 2004, Baltimore City recorded 278 homicides, averaging roughly 23 per month.

“This house belonged to my childless aunt. She gave it to me. She died here––almost around 100,” Tony told me. He showed me wooden trunks in the basement full of crocheted tablecloths, bed spreads, goodies. “You’re welcome to use them.”

I could smell her everywhere––I made a truce with fear––began calling her “grandma” and learned to live with grandma’s ghost.

I fell in love with the house, grandma’s ghost, the inner harbor. On winter weekends, downtown became empty––snow fell heavily. I spent many sleepless nights listening to the harsh wind rattling my windows, lonesome streets stripped of echoing footsteps . . .