Destination: Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
Duration of Excursion: March 10, 2009 - March 13, 2009
Mission: To rescue Jess from her gloomy New Jersey prison and set out for new horizons
I set out in a hurry at six in the morning, loading up on coffee with so much sugar it could've put a moose into a coma and Sheetz McMuffins so greasy it would make a chubby kid weep. Not even two hours into the trip, I noticed my iPod battery dangerously close to the red zone - Gott sei Dank for my German audio cds, which managed to keep me awake despite the awful drone of the German tutor: "Eins....good! Now try zwei....did you do it?" Yes, of course I bloody did it. "Gut! Es versuchen." Wait, what?
A quick stop at Jess's in New Milford, New Jersey and we were on our way. At this point, I was a little uncertain about the trip: Philadelphia wasn't just a lousy excuse for a Spring Break escape (I would've went to Virginia beach or Montreal in that case - and yes, those two are very different), but it was more of a try-out. After graduation, Philly might become home, so I was nervous about my first impression of the city. Please, Buddha, don't let this be another Atlanta or Knoxville.
Bad news hit us the minute we reached our Mecca of Eastern PA, our couchsurfing host calling to tell us he wouldn't be able to host us overnight due to a sudden and all-too-convenient sickness. We didn't buy it, but it didn't matter much - we had back-up plans. Charlie and Margaret, friends of my mother, had already agreed to put us up for however long we needed, so our ominous flashbacks of Asheville soon ebbed away.
Our first stop in Philly, not exactly the norm for tourists, was the grand Mason's Temple, situated snugly between the cluster of buildings including City Hall, or, in our minds, French Parliament. We arrived just in time for the 4 o'clock tour and explored the vast marble halls and staircases winding their way through the many ornate meeting halls. Our tour guide was a seemingly-unimpressive man, but surprised us with his quirky and sometimes suspicious details of the Masonic Lodge's history.
Our first stop in Philly, not exactly the norm for tourists, was the grand Mason's Temple, situated snugly between the cluster of buildings including City Hall, or, in our minds, French Parliament. We arrived just in time for the 4 o'clock tour and explored the vast marble halls and staircases winding their way through the many ornate meeting halls. Our tour guide was a seemingly-unimpressive man, but surprised us with his quirky and sometimes suspicious details of the Masonic Lodge's history.
After fooling around on what seemed to be a life-sized Monopoly Board outside the temple, we met up with a couple of Jess's friends at a cool and cozy restaurant downtown and then decided that that was enough foreplay with the city for now. Tomorrow, Philadelphia would get it.Not too far away over in Northern Liberties, Charlie and Margaret had been preparing for our arrival. Charlie had been how I remembered him, exceedingly generous and young at heart. Margaret, during our two days' stay at their wonderful three-story house, still had the wit and sass I remembered her for, but had also become disenchanted with the world around her. She was no longer counseling individuals in the gay community, but working with prisoners at a correctional facility. The job seemed to have sucked out all the innocence and hope from her, leaving her with a bitter view of the cruel world and its people. However, they both welcomed us into their house as warmly and trusting as ever, a "couchsurfing" experience far more exquisite than the others.
The next day, we set out early (a term which has an ever-changing definition for me, I noticed) to grab the bus and head downtown, our destination a small coffee shop allegedly owned by a fellow couchsurfer down on Bainbridge Street. While no one there claimed to know of such an owner, we took the time to check out some other attractions nearby, including the funkiest art gallery I've ever seen. The artist's work was actually all over the city, on the side of buildings and even right under your feet, embedded in the sidewalk.For the remainder of the day, we took the city on by foot, going everywhere from Chinatown to the [in]famous steps in front of the Philadelphia Museum of Art, where countless tourists felt it necessary to imitate the classic Rocky pose and inevitably looking as if though they were shitting themselves. That night, our hosts Charlie and Margaret took us to a Mexican restaurant where meat-eating was questionable, not because of the food quality but Charglot's (this is how we came to affectionately refer them for most of the trip) serious vegetarianism. Once again, Charlie, who seemed like the youngest of the group (in a good way, of course), insisted on us what alcohol he could, ordering a pitcher, yes a pitcher, of mint mohito tequila. Needless to say, I remained prudent under Margaret's sharp and unapproving eyes.
The following day, we received news that a couchsurfing host was willing to take us in for the night, so we sadly left the comfort of Charglot's home, at the same time excited to finally meet another host through the network. (Charlie kept pressing the idea on Margaret, enthusiastic to try couchsurfing - Margaret...didn't agree)
After getting lost in some shady neighborhoods and navigating our way through the bumpy, pothole-laden streets of the "Gayborhood" and its surrounding areas, we decided to do two very important things no one should miss out on when visiting Philly: cheesesteaks and South Street. Jess and I both had been craving an "authentic" Philly cheesesteak since we arrived, and we certainly got it. Them. We got several. It was fucking delicious. We wasted some time traipsing up and down South Street, inevitably stopping by Condom Kingdom. And, as Karma would have it, early that day, I had broken, not a condom, but a piece of the art taken from the gallery. Damn you, Lincoln. And Buddha. And...Scott.Meeting a couchsurfing host for the first time can be a bit awkward, particularly if you've just come from yelling over the phone at your mother in a parked car. Or if your couchsurfer first offers you to go out to what strangely sounds like a club but is actually a grocery store. Yet our host, Seeni, was amazingly warm to us. After food shopping, he made us granola and set up the Wii for some tennis and bowling, something which I found myself either astoundingly good or retarded at. I'm not sure which.
Seeni is a grad student at the university working with robotics, animating arm or knee replacements. An intensely humble individual, he taught us some Ethiopian, played some blues on his guitar and told us some great stories, particularly on his fervid bike riding. He was, by far, one of the most interesting and deep inviduals I've come across in my lifetime.
We got up fairly early the next morning and barely looked back at the city as we crossed the Benjamin Franklin Bridge, knowing that we would soon be back.
I've also realized I never followed up on my trip to New York City with Jess and her sister, Melli, to see the one-and-only Hawksley Workman. We had front row seats at a small table in a candle-lit speakeasy-like room, the stage within arms length - thanks to Melli's advanced reservation despite the fact we were very late.
After the show, we lingered for a while outside Hawksley's dressing room. It may sound creepy, but it paid off - he and his accompianist/vocalist, Mr. Lonely, asked us if we would like to join them at the bars. Sure I was cranky and tired and needed to get back to State College, but who could pass this up? After another wait at a bar downtown, thinking they had blown us off, in walked Hawksley and the gang. Catching me completely off guard, he offered a drink and brought back (Insert drink of choice here). Over in another corner of the bar, Jess and Mr. Lonely hit it off right away as Melli entertained the drunk 40 something groupies who had stumbled in the bar with Hawksley's troupe.
I might've mentioned them before, but there you have it again.
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