Baltimore's population plunge from nearly 1 million in 1950 to about 641,000 in 2006 may have something to do with the Small- timore notion that friends and former lovers are just a few handshakes away.
At the same time, Baltimoreans' immobility could contribute to the Smalltimore phenomenon. That nearly three-quarters of Baltimore City residents were born in Maryland, according to census data, also suggests that Baltimoreans are an inert lot, says Mark Goldstein, an economist with the Maryland Department of Planning.
"What fascinates me about Baltimore are the concentric circles of friends and acquaintances," says Karen Stokes, a Baltimore resident for 17 years, in an e-mail.
"I have many of those circles (like all of us have) -- you know, the people you know from the swim club, from your kids' pre-school, and then elementary, middle, and finally high school," says Stokes, executive director of the Greater Homewood Community Association. "Then there are the sport teams your kids have played on, the church you go to, and in many ways less important -- the work you do."
At a recent Lauraville fete, Stokes says, "I ran into lots of people from those various circles, and not realizing until I saw those circles connecting at the party that all of these people also somehow knew each other." That's mostly a good thing for Stokes, an inveterate civic networker. But, beware, she says, "There is no anonymity in Baltimore, and hardly any anonymity of your own activity either."
The `Donna's twitch'
Small-town discretion is advised. "We have the `Donna's twitch,'" says Moreno, 35, who works for a local nonprofit. "When you have lunch or dinner at Donna's and you're sitting with a colleague or a friend and start getting maybe a little critical of [another] colleague, then all of a sudden you catch yourself and do this little spastic sort of movement to try to take in the entire room and make sure the person you're talking about is not there."
Another measure of Smalltimore is whether a personal anecdote has ever been relayed to you by a stranger. Baltimore photographer Chris Hartlove remembers expressing admiration for the gravel-voiced troubadour Tom Waits to a new acquaintance at a party. "This person said, `I read this great story in Style magazine about a guy who asked a woman to marry him because she knew the lyrics to Tom Waits' songs.'"
That guy was Hartlove, who married Abby Lattes, although not only for her perfect recall.
