Hampden is certainly not for the levelheaded shopper or faint of heart consumer. It takes an open mind to stroll down Hampden's Avenue, with its funky little shops, eclectic in their wares, offering nothing in particular. It's impossible to go to Hampden in search of something -- that's what the Towson mall is for. To shop in Hampden one must shed all preconceptions and get lost in a wonderful mania of vintage, camp and kitsch.
I started my journey to Hampden quite appropriately: I got lost. I walked Museum Drive, tried some uncertain shortcuts, found myself on a busy stretch of Falls Road, and swore as I passed the same body shop three times. When I finally found the Avenue, I was so disoriented that the often overwhelming array of bizarre shops hardly fazed me. Thoroughly disarmed, I popped into the first shop I saw.
Min87s is quintessentially Hampden, combining all the disparate elements of Hampden culture in three stories of a narrow row-house. Upon entering I was struck with a comprehensive cross-section of vintage goodies: old books and records, "little black dresses and worn-in Levis" (as are advertised), aluminum lunchboxes and nostalgia and a multitude of artwork.
Co-owner Peggy Hoffman gave me the skinny on Min87s, "Although we do buy and sell items, we're a vintage store, not a thrift store." Few boutiques on the Avenue advertise themselves as "thrift" or "consignment" because they are unlike most other buy/sell shops. Hampden shops lack the Salvation Army donation box, the musky hospital smell or the pawn shop counter behind bulletproof glass. They are more high-brow, emphasizing personal expression over charity -- Min87s in particular. Hoffman's husband, Min87s himself, displays and sells his paintings, and upstairs is an art gallery, which becomes a poetry reading venue on the second and third Sundays of each month.
Many college kids go to Hampden for the second-hand clothes, so what does Min87s offer in the realm of vintage threads?
"We only buy clothing that is in excellent condition," Hoffman assured me. "Nothing that has stains, rips, pet hair or odors." Customers are free to partake in Min87s' stylistic rainbow of garments without fear of finding anonymous stains on the lining or suspicious holes that may have come from hot lead.
Before departing, I asked Hoffman's advice on vintage shopping. She simply pointed to the saying painted on the wall: "The more you look, the more you see."
Armed with this adage I decided to look a little more, and soon I saw Fat Elvis. Fat Elvis is, as owner Joe Leatherman described it, "the leftovers from Grandma's house." Walking into Fat Elvis is like walking into a time capsule from the kitschy early 1960s. I almost expected a character from Hairspray to walk in, fix her beehive and start making cookie dough on an old chromed and streamlined appliance.
"I think of all my merchandise as orphans waiting to be collected," Leatherman said. He doesn't get attached to any of his goods, so don't worry about haggling with him for a particularly desirable leisure suit. There is one item, however, that he is quite fond of. He directs my attention to Baby, the stuffed Canadian beaver, who, he remarks, is not for sale.
Avenue Antiques, by and large the biggest shop on the Avenue, occupies three floors of an old warehouse. It is more of an antiques emporium than a shop, a sort of indoor flea-market. 30 vendors peddle everything from old guitars and pianos to classic pinups and Day of the Dead masks. Decades, located in the basement, is a hub of vintage clothes and furniture. Go-Go boots and wide leather belts vibrate sympathetically to tunes from the '60s. Upperclassmen should check out some of the cheap shag rugs and egg-shaped chairs perfect for furnishing groovy apartments.
My last stop was an unassuming little place called Charlotte Elliott. The storefront appears quaint, but as part-owner Chana Hays quickly showed me, the row-house is an impressive antiques gallery. For three years, the Hays family has been offering tons of unique, exotic items (many collected on trans-oceanic voyages) such as genuine African masks, Thai jewelry and Chinese porcelain. (Weezer fans: they have a print from the original wood-block of Hiroshige's "Kambara Yoru No Yuki," the image used on the cover of Pinkerton, going for $300!).
In the basement is a great selection of furniture, from beds to the most comfortable chair I've sat in, all going for modest prices. "The Speakeasy" has a great selection of vintage clothes, lots with a 1920s, prohibition-era flare. Ms. Hays says she would certainly give Hopkins students a discount, so if flapper fashion is your style, check it out.
Heading back up the Avenue, I encountered a group of shoppers from D.C. "We always come to Hampden," one of them said. "You just can't find this kind of vintage stuff anywhere else." Any tips for Hampden shoppers? "Yeah. Don't buy vintage underwear."
Now before you go running off to the most unique neighborhood in Charm City, remember this: Hampden's more fun if you're a little lost.
