Goodbye, Greyhound Tavern, the strangest, homiest dive bar in my neighborhood

What is there to say about a corner bar that’s given you everything and nothing at the same time?

Greyhound Tavern, a beautiful, twisted place about as strangely endearing as the dog its named for, was my favorite bar in Baltimore. Only there would the best martini that’s ever graced your lips sit on the same menu beside an abominable Fruity Pebbles-inspired concoction filled with rum.

Now the serendipity that brought this beloved monstrosity into my life and others across the city has taken it away. On Thursday, a note was posted on the Fells Point bar’s door, calling the business closed “fiveever.”

“Thank you friends and foes for almost 6.5 years of tragic magic. Be safe and be well. Long live Mr. Macaroni,” the handwritten note read.

I’ve brought exes, dates, out-of-towners and my mother — not a big drinker — to this place more times than I can count, and I still have no idea what magic macaroni they’re talking about … which might say more about me than anything else. Owners David and Molly Spelce declined requests for comment but have posted on Instagram and GoFundMe that Greyhound was being evicted by the building’s owner to make way for a new buyer. The online fundraiser for the bar, which had its liquor license tied to its lease, asks for help paying off a small-business loan and getting the Spelces started on whatever’s next.

But I want to live in the past for a little.

Greyhound Tavern was a dive in the truest sense — I would never touch my bare skin to the bathroom toilet seat — and yet I’ve somehow never felt more at home.

At times, the dimly lit bar felt like a fever dream. It was brimming with trinkets you’d expect a long-lost eccentric aunt to give you over the holidays: multicolored shot glasses, a hand-sewn picture of a dinosaur, a portrait of a wolf, a printed black-and-white ad resembling a newspaper clipping with the words “Lesbian Vampyres!” in bold. The chaos felt cohesive, like a living, breathing backdrop as energetic as the community gatherings it hosted.

The Spelces also clearly had unmatched taste in entertainment. Walk in on a random day and old tapes of “Beetlejuice,” “A Few Good Men” and “When Harry Met Sally” played on small television screens hanging above the liquor bottles. Just last week, I was surprised to see Frank Sinatra concert sessions, seemingly from the 1950s, as the diversion du jour.

Another time, I stopped by in the middle of a run for a pickle martini — fit with a remarkable house-made brine and mustard seed vermouth — as they played cartoons from the ’90s. There were monthly drag shows, often starring the glorious performances of Beth Amphetamine, along with watch parties and private events.

I know I’m not the only one grieving. Across the city, neighborhood bars and eateries close, often with little fanfare, despite the impact on people’s lives. There are so many losses, whether it be in jobs, game nights, book clubs or just a welcoming space, that it can all feel heavy when it’s happening on your block, breaking up your routine.

So if you are planning to drink away your sorrows, maybe at a crowded bar that now requires a bus, a car or a sweatier-than-expected hike to get to, know you’re not alone. I, too, would rather be somewhere that no longer exists.