A few weeks ago, I was driving home after dropping my son off at his college dorms at UMBC. The weather was moody—dark, windy, and wet—as I passed through Arbutus back into Baltimore. The rain transformed streetlights into hazy orbs, casting everything in a diffused glow. Just as I was winding my way through town, a scene appeared like a gift: a powder blue sedan—early '60s vintage—parked outside a tae kwon do gym. In the gym window, a silhouette of a high-kicking figure hovered below the word "perseverance."

The rain made it impossible to stop and shoot, but I jotted down the address and told myself I'd come back the next night, when the light was better and the weather wasn't working against me.

The next night, with clear skies overhead, I returned to the scene with anticipation. But the powder blue car was gone—in its place, a forgettable early-2000s sedan. Not exactly camera-worthy. A little deflated, I turned back toward home.

But just up the road, something I hadn't noticed before caught my eye: perched on a slight grassy rise was a white farmhouse, oddly out of place among the gas stations and side streets. It glowed under the low clouds like a beacon. I pulled over, set up for a long exposure, and made a mental note to return again the next night—maybe the blue car would be back.

Night two: a pattern was forming. It wasn't there. This time, there was nothing in front of the gym at all. I stopped for gas, resigned to another fruitless attempt. But as I was filling up, I spotted a flash of chrome and a hint of tail fin poking out from behind a hair braiding salon across the street. I walked over and found a stunner of a car tucked away back there. Not the powder blue unicorn I'd been chasing, but more than worthy of the trip.

As I was walking back to my car, I noticed this interesting scene:

On night three, a black SUV had taken the blue sedan's place in front of the gym. Not my cup of tea. I drove a bit further before turning around, hoping for anything interesting. I'm glad I did. Down an embankment, in front of a small auto body garage, sat a racing-striped Pontiac glowing in the dreamy light.

I kept going. The suburbs unfolded slowly, and I found myself on a quiet street where a lovely orange two-door was parked with precision, like it knew it was going to be photographed.

By night four, I no longer expected to find the sedan. And sure enough, it wasn't there. But on the way back into town, another orange two-door caught my eye—this one behind the B&O Railroad Museum, framed perfectly against the historic train cars.

Night five brought me to yet another empty spot at the gym. I took my time, wandered a different way home, and happened upon a black SS tucked just off Bentalou Street. The street was empty save for the occasional passing bus, its headlights momentarily illuminating the car's splotched paint before disappearing up the street. The car sat like a phantom.

All week I'd been chasing one image and never got it. But in its place, I found other scenes I never would have noticed if I'd gotten lucky the first night. There's something about going back to the same spot, again and again—not because you have to, but because part of you wants to believe there's still something waiting there. And usually, there is. Not always what you were hoping for, but something.

I never got the photo I set out to take. But I came home with a whole string of others I never saw coming. And that feels like enough. Maybe even better. The reward wasn't in capturing that powder blue car, but in the serendipitous journey it provoked.

Leaving empty-handed is sometimes the fullest way to return.

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