Yesterday, the hub and I went up to Baltimore to pay our respects to Mr. Poe; we went to his grave in Westminster Cemetery:



And to his house, in a bad neighborhood (as it was then):



It was interesting and pathetic, all at the same time. He traded lifetime poverty for literary immortality, which I suppose is worth it.

We had lunch in Little Italy, and as we drove home, we passed Camden Yards, with a big billboard outside:

"We bleed Orange in summer, and Purple in winter. Yeah, we know. It's weird."