If anyone deserved a lunchtime indulgence Monday, Barry Robinson did. His normal 60-minute drive to work, from Accokeek to Baltimore, took four agonizing hours, much of it spent on a ramp to Interstate 495, waiting for the tractor-trailer in front of him to unstick itself. "I was thinking there's got to be a better way," says Robinson, Baltimore's chief of transit and marine services.
Seeking the type of consolation that comes only between two slices of rye, he waited in line at Attman's Deli, just east of downtown, for a corned beef sandwich: "A big one," he said.
With the aftermath of this weekend's snowstorm lying heavy over the region, countless thousands of Marylanders were left inconvenienced, aggravated and just plain stuck. Those who had to get to work were struggling and swearing, wrestling with Mother Nature to free their cars. Those whose workplaces stayed shuttered had the morning free to walk brazenly up the middle of snowy streets, thinking only about where to stop for coffee, where to sled and what today forecast of more snow might bring.
Early Monday morning, Ken Crowley sprinkled some snow-melt pellets outside his store, Lombard Hardware, near Fells Point. He and his wife, Lillian, had hiked there from their home in Canton. His hands froze while she stayed warm bundled in her grandmother's beaver fur coat.
Their four-wheel-drive car was simply not making it out of their alley, not unless, Ken Crowley said, "someone goes back there, or I go back there, and shovel it out." Even if the car could make it, there wasn't a single parking spot near the shop - only huge piles of dirtying snow.
Inside, the couple sipped hot coffee, and though they'd only been there an hour or so, thought about trekking home. They hadn't sold a thing. What people wanted, they didn't have.
The phone rang, and Ken apologized before quickly hanging up. The front door jingled open and then quickly closed. No shovels, no business. The Crowleys sold every one they had within two hours Friday morning as the storm loomed.
"I wish we had 300 shovels," Lillian Crowley said as the door banged shut. "Three hundred?" her husband said with a snort. "I would have bought 3,000."
Not far away, things couldn't haven't been more different for Sean Guy, who owns Water for Chocolate at the corner of Lombard and Wolfe streets.
The tiny gourmet takeout has struggled at that spot for nearly four years, ignored by most of the neighborhood. What turned things around? Staying open in nearly 30 inches of snow.
After seeing a dramatic uptick in foot traffic on Saturday, sledders and shovelers suddenly wanting hot drinks, Guy opened on Sunday, his typical day off, and all but sold out.
Eager to restock in case Monday brought more sales magic, Guy got up at dawn, dug out his car with the help of a neighbor and set off for the market in Highlandtown. He got stuck three times, but persevered, desperate to buy the spinach, tomatoes and asparagus he needed for his saltimbocca, his salad nicoise.
Before he left, Guy and his wife had a little argument about saving their parking spot. She said chairs. He said no.
"She said we could lose the spot and I said, 'The spot? What about the chairs? Those are $50 chairs," Guy said, laughing. "She was right. We got home and the spot - and the chairs - were there."
While Guy was serving the morning's first chai and latte, Matt Malaquias stood a few blocks south with his husky, Echo, at a snow-covered intersection. He looked lost in contemplation.
Behind Malaquias, on Ann Street, a large tree had fallen into the street, blocking it entirely and crushing a car with, the neighbors giggled, Florida plates. In front of him, nothing but more barely passable roads.
"I'm just trying to figure out what we're going to do," he said. "And I think I decided we're not going in to work."
By we, he meant Echo, who usually accompanies him to the office near Penn Station. Malaquias sells museum cases. He had a big deal pending, but figured he could work on it from home.
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