Thanksgiving in Philadelphia

Thanksgiving is fast becoming one of my favorite holidays in my adulthood for the very reason it wasn't a favorite when I was a young kid - it's probably the least commercial holiday (although all those poor turkeys might beg to differ). I spent this Thanksgiving in Philadelphia with my family, and I'm proud to say I orchestrated a pretty good meal out of it, with enough time to spare to walk down and see the Thanksgiving day parade -- the only pageantry of the day that might smack a bit of commercialism, what with the Campbell's and Starbucks sponsored booths and all, but we have to be willing to indulge ourselves a bit, right? It's in the spectacle of holidays and big events that Philadelphia blushes in slight embarrassment to our big, more successful sister two hours north. Macy's day parade, we learned from television, had a guest list so stuffed with stars it could have been a galaxy of its own. Philadelphia, on the other hand, does its best with floats of Elmo and Frosty, and tries to get at least some mileage out of the star power of Miss New Pennsylvania. Some soap opera star was at the bottom of the art museum steps (not being a soap opera watcher, I wouldn't know who), and sang a version of "I Saw Mama Kissing Santa Claus," complete with choreography by not-so-burley men. Not much competition for the endless concerts given by the likes of Shakira and Justin Timberlake in New York. We in Philly will smile sweetly, thank Santa for his appearance, and hope we can dazzle them with Mummer's on New Year's day.

We'll always be the quieter, slightly less successful sister that people forget about, but we've got a charm all our own, too. We'll be proud of being a bit less overwhelming, and a bit more accessible for real living. And, of course, we'll always have Rocky.

The beginning of a mini-marathon

Benjamin Franklin Boulevard, cutting from City Hall all the way up to the Art Museum, is normally a main feature in any Philadelphia bike or foot race, and usually represents either the first or the last stretch of concrete that the athletes must tread. You can often tell when the city is gearing up for a weekend of racing by one major sign: blue port-a-potties appear lined up neatly on either side of the street, boxy and patient, like colorfully dressed soldiers waiting for orders. There are sometimes a few, sometimes hundreds of them, secured by little plastic locks, shiny and clean, reporting proudly for duty. Every time I see them lined up, I always have the same reaction, and the same conversation with myself: Firstly, I can't imagine why there is a need for so many of them - surely all the athletes won't need a potty all at the same time - then I reason that maybe there's a certain capacity the potty can reach, so that once, say, 20 people have used it, it's gone from decently clean to disgusting to absolutely unusable, and whatever it is inside the potty that holds all that unpleasant stuff is at a dangerous capacity. At that point, there would be a need for the next potty, so that the next 20 people can use it. So the port-a-potty company might figure, if you saturate the area with potties and there are lots of potties to choose from, different folks will choose different ones, reducing the probability of one potty going bust to a safe recess. I then try not to think about the process of cleaning all of those potties, and the poor people who have the job of doing it. Who knows. I suppose, though, if I ever do run that marathon, having a new, clean potty to use at the end of the race will be all the more incentive to cross the finish line sooner.

The end of a mini-marathon

Today was the Philadelphia half marathon.  I did not run it.  I didn't even stand on the sidelines and cheer.  What I did do was go jogging myself at the tail end of the race, next to the river on Kelly, with the sun glaring and powerful, the river high and muddy.  I watched the stragglers as I headed past; dragging their feet, or walking, heads low, exhausted but still going.  There wasn't any sort of crowd left to watch the race, but those of us on the pedestrian path, even while we were moving, cheered them on and sometimes got a bit of a nod in return.  When I reached the art museum steps (the beginning and end of any proper Philadelphia race), the announcer declared that all runners - those who stayed on course - had crossed the finish line.  There was a lull, and then he said, as an afterthought If you're still waiting for people, they might have gone off course, they might just be walking on a sidewalk at this point.  I imagined a family waiting expectantly for Uncle Willie, a sign that said You made it!  or We believe in you!, drooping as they looked up helplessly at the announcer on stage, wondering what to do next.  

Though I have never acted on the impulse, I've always played with the idea of running in a real race - maybe starting with a 10K and working my way up to a half-marathon (I would stop there.  A full marathon gets into real athlete territory, and that I will never quite be).  It must be really exhilarating to have a whole crowd of people cheering you on as you pass, waving and smiling, encouraging you to go for it.

I jog regularly - on average 5 miles or so.  The farthest I've ever made it is seven miles (my best estimate), and my husband assures me that I could do a half marathon with one leg tied behind my back -- after all, at a certain point, you're trained up and ready for any distance, right?  He's not a runner, and I'm not so sure.  But, maybe next time I should take a page from Uncle Willie's book and go for it - after all, if you run, walk, or limp across the finish line, you've still made it.  And that's something those stragglers, even the ones who veered off course, can be really proud of.

My side of the bed

H and I, like most couples, chose a side of the bed and stuck to it when we first moved in together.  I was on the left, he was on the right.  People, it seems, claim their side of the bed and guard it cautiously, building up mountains of stuff by their night tables, their kleenex boxes, their pictures, their little glasses of water and leisurely reading -- all a sign to say 'Keep Off,' like a dog marks his territory with a raised leg and an attempt at aim.  I began this ritual, too - it only seemed natural - until one night I headed into the bedroom to crawl to sleep, shuffling through the door wearily, only to find that my husband had firmly but innocently stretched himself a bit too far into my territory.  I shoved him a little and whined, but then he raised the ante.  He gestured to the alarm.  Our only alarm.  On my side.  What if we switched just for the night?  He had to get up later than me.  He could be responsible for the alarm and let me sleep.  At first, I firmly shook my head.  I was shocked.  The nerve!  Proposing to sleep on my side!  And what if I need one of my many...things here on the night stand in the middle of the night?  But he was unbudgeable and I was tired.  So, I crawled over to his side huffily and fell asleep.  Somehow, though, I found that I liked being on the other side.  It was away from the door and closer to the window.  It felt cozy and protective, and, it was true, I didn't have to worry about the constant beeping in the morning.

We now switch off regularly - depending on who has to get up earlier, who goes to bed first, and just how we feel.  I've even started rotating the pillows we use.  We have a flat one and a fluffy one.  He takes whichever strikes my fancy slightly less on any given night, sometimes with a groan, but mostly with a shrug and a lazy blink.  I wonder if it'll stay like this, rotating, playing musical bed-side into the years.  The most logical solution might just be to get another alarm.  But what's the fun in that, hmmm?

The club scene

I'm sure the club scene in Philadelphia is a rip-roaring good time that could potentially knock the socks off of any bass-beat addict or cocktail junkie.  I wouldn't know.

I was walled in yesterday, trying to put a dent in a project that has long been hanging over my head, and in a fit of very serious cabin fever, I whined to my husband (who is by now very accustomed to my intolerance for long periods spent in our apartment), who immediately told me that, before any discussions about where to eat dinner or what we would do after, before my head collapsed in on itself, before he had to listen to me cry about being in my pajamas all day, and in a fit of healthy spontaneity, we just needed to leave the house.  We put on some decent clothes and went to a pub on South Street for some greasy food, and then decided that we should expand our horizons a bit and try out the music scene.  A couple of weeks ago, we went to a half-empty jazz club with friends and shared cocktails and a few laughs over a band named something super cheeky (whose name, I'm now realizing, just didn't stick with me).  It was a fun night, and we decided to give live music another shot.  

On the corner of Arch and 21st, hanging outside of the real city scene, and in a space with only a few meandering pedestrians at night, there is a piano bar that both of us had noticed a couple of times.  We shrugged and headed over.  Just after ten o'clock, we were greeted by four very big black men at the door, who gave us a quick up-and-down and said hastily You're looking for the piano bar.  It's moved. They explained politely where it was and shooed us away only after we innocently inquired what the old piano bar had become.  The Lotus Lounge, they told us.  One of them added a vague We open at ten.  You can come in if you want, but...  We walked away.

I went merrily down the street, oblivious to our send-off.  My husband explained.  They didn't want people like us in their club.  We had, apparently, been turned away, that last 'but' hanging in the air like a dividing line between the us (me, fuzzy-haired, turtle-necked and in practical black boots, my husband in a plaid button-up shirt and suit pants), and the them of the new, posh Lotus Lounge (men with jelled hair, in jeans a bit too tight for them and snake-skinned boots, no doubt, and women with sparkly tops, high heels, and bight-colored lipstick).   I smiled and laughed.  Well, so what if we looked like we wanted to go to the piano bar?  We were looking for the piano bar!   I can count the number of times I've been in a real 'club' on one hand (I can actually think of only three times, twice when I was underage).  I'll leave the thumping, the bright lights, the expensive drinks, and the serious grinding to other people.  Even in their haste, the bouncers had made the correct assessment.  We just weren't club-ready.

The piano bar, we found, had a line out the door, so we ended up in a dive bar below ground with a decent d.j., a television muted with the Wizard of Oz playing, graffiti-ed carpet on the door and signed dollar bills pasted to the ceiling.  I had a cosmopolitan, and my husband looked smashing in his suit, sipping a martini.  Our kinda place.

Whitewater

I have gone whitewater rafting three times in my life - all three with the same route, on the New River in West Virginia. I have a friend who is a huge rafting enthusiast (I don't use the word 'enthusiast' lightly, but that she is), and she accompanied me down the river the first time, and graduated to raft guide for the subsequent trips. I thought when I was first convinced to go that if there's any extreme sport, this one's surely for me. I took to water when I was young like a fish takes to...ahem...water (if the metaphor fits, I guess...). What's a short swim through some white water? I become one with any body of water the minute I'm immersed, and I was sure I could take it.

The first time, I managed to stay in the raft all the way down the river. It was a pretty light trip, and I was actually surprised at how easy it seemed. But whitewater and I made for a troubled marriage. I would learn that it was just not meant to be. The second trip, I took a plunge when we were surfing in a whitewater hole. An easy plunge, mind you, that plenty of people take. I went under the raft, pushed around like a ragdoll going through the permanent press cycle, bubbles flying and my head kicked around so much that I wasn't sure which end was up. I came to the water's surface, with the aid of my life vest, gasping and sputtering. That, dear friends, was the end of that. My love affair with whitewater had officially and suddenly come to a clumsy end. I braved the last trip solely so my husband could see the beautiful West Virginia mountains, and I clung for dear life to the side of the raft with knuckles so tight they competed for the whitest thing on the scene. I am not cut out for extreme sports in any way. Nothing even remotely intense. I'll take my jog through the park, thank you very much, and leave the other stuff to the professionals.

My friend visited this weekend, and told wild stories (she always has them) about her trips down the New and the Gauley, animatedly motioning with her hands to represent the flow of the water, the tip of a particularly mean rock. She talked about people making clumsy splashes, and others getting their foot wedged underwater, only to be pulled up minutes later. Some of her stories ended with a chuckle, some with a gasp and an open mouth. I sat back while I nodded and reacted, sipped my tea, listened to the steady tick of the clock, and relaxed.

Fall in the city

A friend of mine has a little house tucked away in the Poconos. She moved recently, and I haven't been to see her at her new (owned!) house yet, but I have no doubt that it's as charming a place as you could want for a quiet time by the fire with a hot cup of cocoa. I was hoping to get there this fall - with the pending move to Europe hovering somewhere in our near future, I realize that I could very well be spending my last fall here, and the foliage has struck me as particularly beautiful this year as I make my way through the city, trying to freeze the image of the soft, deepening colors in my head. I can only imagine how it would be at that look-out point to which my dear friend can hike, gazing down across rows of mountain tops that crackle with autumn in such intense ways that it makes your heart pound.

For now, because of busy schedules and weekends that seem to slide by under our noses without the courtesy of a pause, that visit will have to wait until the trees are bear and frozen. I only have the respite of city parks to carry me through the fall - a different but still sturdy alternative. In New York last weekend, I took a breath and some time to enjoy Central Park in all its foliage-laden glory, and was thankful that such a bustling city has havens for those craving a bit of quiet nature and seasonal celebration. The scapes were really beautiful, even if they weren't in the mountains.

If you look closely, you can see a little girl climbing the rock.

Maybe when I do make it to that look-out point, I'll have trees shimmering in snow cover waiting for me. In a last winter here in Pennsylvania, that would be at least some recompense for missing the fall. And that cup of hot cocoa will taste all the better in the cold!

How the Village does Halloween

I have been waiting to post for a couple of days because we suddenly can’t seem to figure out how to upload pictures from our camera to our new mac. Ah, mac. They say you do things so much better, but I’m not convinced. Why won’t you read my camera input? Why be so stubborn after we’ve treated you to our business? Been loyal to you for a full two months? Filled you with all sorts of meaningful bits of our networked lives?

But, I digress- this post was never meant to be about the mac/pc war.

This year was a New York Halloween for me, and I couldn’t stop my heart from fluttering at the messy finesse that New Yorkers apparently put on the spooky day . We stopped by Washington Square to see the children’s parade ending, all the little ones spilling into the empty fountain’s pit, squirrels chasing lizards, princesses in a row, swinging their dresses gently, witches trying to keep their hats from sliding into their eyes as they climbed on the fountain’s spout, and parents grinning and flashing their cameras furiously. (There was one toddler with hospital scrubs on who, when he turned around, revealed a sign pinned to his chest that read Death Panelist. Ah, New York parents. You can’t even blame them for using their children to make political statements- they just enjoy it so damn much, and honestly, they’re so damn good at it.) We also stood for a brief minute at the trick-or-treat bag line and sighed, eyeing the free bags of candy longingly and wondering if it would be wrong to borrow someone else’s kid to make us legit enough for one of our own.

This little boy was a helicopter for Halloween.
As you can sort of tell, his parents were very proud.

We didn’t go to the Halloween parade, but we took a stroll around the Village before leaving, which was parade enough for us – the zombies, scarecrows, giant cats, Supermans, Fred Flinstones, Marios and Luigis (a popular one this year, although I’m not sure why), slutty nurses, slutty red riding hoods, slutty lady bugs, slutty donut girls, slutty baseball players, and slutty nuns (YES, we did actually see a slutty nun) offered plenty of amusement and giggles. We, at some point, rounded a corner to see some poor woman eating outside, bent over her plate, straining her neck to reach her food…in a hot dog costume. Complete with yellow tights. She wins my prize for best costume, purely for the circumstance. A hot dog eating soup al fresco in the rain. Apparently, it doesn’t get more Halloween in NYC than that.