It was strange to watch my way of life be dismantled by a force beyond my control. I spent my real life, living and working, in Center City, Philadelphia. In one day last March, that life was pretty much over. I toughed it out, locked in my apartment for months, and watched houses go on the market for less and less. I said goodbye to friends who were my family, and they were replaced by unknown strangers who could suddenly afford to live in the city as the cost of rent dropped.

Like many people who lived and worked in big cities prior to the pandemic, I eventually went somewhere else, where life seemed like it might be more manageable. I came to the Bay side of Maryland’s Eastern Shore last November, where I could walk out the door without having to make a strategic plan first. The fact that I could go to a restaurant, and actually sit somewhere, seemed like an all but forgotten fantasy. It was sleeting and I was dying for a cheeseburger and a pint of beer.

Being a regular anywhere in Philly is based on unwritten rules, customs and manners. Basically, keep your mouth shut, respond when spoken to, tip well and then go home—and this is hard for a lot of people for whatever reason. While I definitely didn’t plan on being a “regular” anywhere here, I thought adhering to the same standard of behavior would ensure I didn’t end up getting kicked, punched, dragged out the door and dropped into a dumpster like a tourist back home.

As I began my research, I noticed a pattern: I would get bombed by the same sequence of personal questions every time I entered specific places, by the same people, for nine months now and counting. What’s your name? What’s your last name? Where do you live? Why are you here? Where are you from? What do you do?

When I arrived at the word, Philadelphia, followed by the word journalist, I was immediately cursed off in one case; directed to some electrical plant and told I was going to be trafficked in another; and, in a third, I was told to take an “off-the-books” “waitressing job” I didn’t request—and wasn’t convinced was legal—by someone who claimed to be involved in racketeering.

Nevertheless, I persevered in my quest to find a burger—and the answer to why it seemed like I wasn’t supposed to be a journalist as long as I lived here.

I started in Talbot County, drove into Dorchester, and then to Kent and Sussex Counties. Then back to Worcester County, down to Accomack County, and ended in Northampton. By no means a comprehensive list, these are the noteworthy places I found myself in as I drove all around the Eastern Shore.