
I'll never forget that wonderful day on my birthday when I was showing my friend Ruth from Baltimore around the city. She is a fellow art historian, so we were enjoying our sojourn around the city. Driving down Lindell Boulevard, I decided to hang a right on Lake Street and show her Westmoreland Place, one of the toniest private streets in the city. Hey, I'd done it a million times with my parents in their Mercedes Benz.

To put it bluntly, trying to drive a Chevy Cavalier with Maryland tags down Westmoreland Place is not a good idea. A rent-a-cop appeared out of nowhere and angrily demanded the reason behind our presence in such august surroundings. I stammered that I was taking my friend home, at which he requested the address. My BS skills were lacking that day, so I was bereft of my usual quick lies that I am so good at in difficult situations. He told us to turn around and leave, which I did.

The gates to Westmoreland Place are always locked now, and you can see them along Kingshighway. Quite frankly, the private streets in this area are hardly a quiet enclave anymore, beset at one time by housing projects to the north and the loud, thumping stereos of locals--not to mention that constant roar of traffic from the busiest north-south thoroughfare in the city.

It's fascinating to see how the stone has slowly deteriorated over the years.