Hier Kommt das begginnen: Philadelphia, PA
Yesterday doesn’t really count since it was mostly on a plane and I was asleep. But today counts. 24 or so hours ago I arrived and met T, my roommate or hotelmate, Sheraton University City hotel mate. But what’s stranger than that, which isn’t so strange, is that while getting the ground transportation at Philly airport a woman had the same hotel request.
“Peace Corps?” I asked.
“Yeah”, she said.
Long story, short, we shared a crowded van to the hotel and she was from Portland and I was from Portland—small world.
“I recognized you” she said, “you were asleep the whole time. I noticed you with that red pillow.”
I brought my mom’s red mochi pillow, it doesn’t condense well so I have to attach it with a shitty carabiner and so it rubs up against everything... dirty—airport floors, dirty airplane seats, dirty Philadelphia sidewalks. In any case, I thought it was weird, 3 out of the twenty-four volunteers are from Oregon, 2 from Seattle. The Northwest kicks ass!
My roommate (or hotelmate) A, the other Portlander, and I went to the White Dog Café which was recommended by the lady sitting next to me on the Liberty van that took us from the airport. The porter at the hotel said Peace Corps people always pack too much. “we have to” A said. The White Dog is a great bar. Well maybe not great. It could be cheaper, but the music is handpicked and the atmosphere is as well. What’s most impressive is the street on which it lives. Sansom, although A and I thought naturally that it was Samson. But T bet us the opposite and of course we were wrong. But as we licked our wounds I take comfort in hearing every local Philadelphian say “Samson Street”. So there. T is a geographer so I guess he reads street signs. F*ck geographers. But Sansom Street is quaint and beautiful. It looks like it got lost and is trying to find Greenwich Village again, a thin row and a tight one-way street lined on one side by brownstones. They’ve re-done on the ground floors to become cafes, bars, restaurants. The White Dog, is the only place in Philly that’s served me a beer. They feature local beers only so as to stay local. It’s a cute idea that the rest of the world should adopt. When we walked in, they were playing Ella. When I came back in to use the bathroom, Pointer. I’m a pointer, and we were sitting outside, the music was none other than Bob Dylan, good omen. “and like a fool I mixed then, and they mangled up my mind and people just kept getting uglier, and I lost all sense of time.” I non-soberly sang long. The White Dog’s good enough that I’m back here again writing this.
Today I woke up and denied my roommate company to the Rocky stairs and went it alone to downtown. I took the 36th? Station thinking it was a real subway but it wasn’t. It was a trolley, a trolley underground. Strange. I got off at City Hall, which was gorgeous at least from the outside. I then walked down Market to the Delaware River. I was surprised that the sister city to Philly was Camden, a town I have only heard disdain for. But seeing it from across the river on a sunny clear, eighty some degree-day, Camden didn’t seem so bad. How lucky for me to see the brighter side of shitty horrible places, when of course I am far away and safe and naïve.
I didn’t go inside anywhere historical because, frankly once I got there, I wasn’t interested. I walked then, grabbed the real subway back to 34th no 40th avenue and walked back to the hotel. But before I got there, I went inside an Indian place, got the buffet, and did all my PC paperwork.
Orientation was all right. I had to busy myself with doodling and the lead facilitator I think, wasn’t so hot about that. I caught her eye a few times. They gave us a debit card with $180 on it and asked us to pull it out at once and we were happy to hear that. Reimbursement and per diem. So I’m back at the White Dog. Last night I caught the eye of the bartender a few times, right now she’s a few seats down between two d-bags trying to make important conversations. I’m glad to know that Portland isn’t the only town where people b.s. about their home made bikes and being an artist and how important and interesting it all is. But in the end there is always uncomfortable silence because who F-ing cares about bikes and self-righteousness. But who am I to judge, I’m alone at a bar. But I’m glad cynicism isn’t just for Portland and Seattle, the whole world can enjoy it.
...and just when I thought things couldn’t get stranger, the bartender from yesterday mentions Gambia and how her sister served there for the Peace Corps five years earlier. We talked for a while and she wrote down the village where her sister lived. If I make it there I’ll have to mention her name and see what happens. Amy from orientation doesn’t know I’m here, she’s on my left. This bartender is on my right, they both speak of the Gambia. The omens are strong. Maybe I’m meant to go there after all. Too bad for Tanzania.
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