Tourism

Well Reading Terminal Market could find and has found its semi-structured naughtiness covered right under the Culinaries heading, but it’s an attraction as much as it is a source of nourishment (?) so I’ll flick between the two like an indecisive bogey fanatic. 

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What of the Liberty Bell? Not much to say. We (ha!) gifted it ‘em. Big bulbous number. Marked a few key instances. Broke. Like, proper cracked. Now it’s famous. Go figure.

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What of the colonial architecture from wor fair land and the Nordics? Well it’s quite beautiful. Rich redbrick numbers that only really stand out because of their immaculate compositions, punctuated by cement of a lighter shade. Plaques on many. Not sure what Nordic architecture looks like to be fair but in all my ignorance I’ve been told they’ve had a big old influence and I’ve absorbed it and regurgitated it willy nilly. 

Of course, this absolves me of nothing. 

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What of the low-sided long-ass bridge that a narrow police whip peruses all day every day, allegedly? Baby blue in lieu of gold —  not quite as iconic. Told to go, stop, snap and return, on account of the hazards that await beyond. It’s like that scene in Lion King. Over there is New Jersey. Anyway, yea, views!, but agonising gradients of the slight variety. Probably something to do with how I live my life.

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Down at the basketball, Miami Heat made many 3s. The 76ers missed some 3s. Aaah Harden in clutch! The perpetually agonising nature of sporting endeavours, a mere half-inch from elation. Post-game pathetic fallacy. Not sure this is all tourism as much as it is the saving grace of metropolitan residents — vis a vis a trip on the subway down to NRG, the windy walk to Wells Fargo, the observation of bounce bounce bucket bucket, and the complete lack of respect for opposition free-throws. I want to go again. 

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Today I got off my arris, where I resided for the bulk of yesterday, and went for a gorgeous sunny run (read: pootle (read: walk)) past the Museum of Art and into Fairmount Park. Blessed greenery! Not the most nourishing grassland or immersive wood I’ve encountered in my life, but life-affirming amid the glass and concrete blocks nonetheless. I sat on a bench and basked in the sun, watching a son and father shoot buckets. Then I descended Lemon Hill Drive, crossed the road, and had a coffee with some cream and sugar by the river, where geese plotted courses through amassing plastic, birds chirped, and my shin splints flared up something not-so-sexy. Later today, I roused more energy, got a Popeye’s chicken sandwich (famous on release a few years back, and deserving of a callout in the Culinaries section) before headed to The Mütter Museum at The College of Physicians of Philadelphia for my 3pm slot. 22nd and Chestnut. Getting the hang of these here grids. 

What a fascinating, mind-boggling, unfathomably complex vessel from which spools these words! By that I mean not only the nerves and signals and wicked, watery, wonderful matter of the swede, but the skin at the end of my fingers, the tendons that allow them to flex and type, the eyes that cast themselves over prolix accounts, the muscle and ligaments that leave my leg comfy beneath the other, the tension in the adequately formed upper vertebrae that I have to release every few minutes with a nod to the right. It’s all beautifully, bafflingly connected. It’s all me. It’s all us. And somehow it unfolds progressively, hopefully without major qualm, from the meeting of a sperm and an egg. Someone actually explain it to me in non-scientific terms!

A regular smorgasbord of physiology, anatomy, pathology, morbidity and wonder unfolds over two floors of old wooden cabinets, wherein specimens — mostly deformed — sit in glass jars of conservatory liquid; some features are highlighted by dye; others are recreated in wax; plaques mark the official terminology of the issue, and what was historically done to ameliorate. There are skeletal remnants aplenty, misfigured foetuses, skulls lining an entire wall, decomposed corpses, gangrenous limbs, swallowed tidbits, emphysemic lungs, cancer, tumours, conjoined twins, and an exhibit on the Influenza pandemic at the end of WWI. Not the most cheery of museum experiences, naturally, very very very naturally, but one of the most visually and intellectually startling. Good stuff. 

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Right on. NYC for 30-or-so hours then is it. It very well is. Whittemore agreed to it despite the debauchery of a stag in Vegas the weekend prior. Worthy of admiration, that. 

Let me start by saying that I posted a couple of postcards at the oldest post office in the US, where the clerk, however helpful, tottered around slowly for my coin change when I needed it not, spoke loudly on the phone about someone or the other (assumedly the office purveyor) having her ‘all kinds of fucked up’, and snarled at the tourists that arrived after I’d penned my kindly words to Ma, Pa, and G. Really cool old redbrick joint with dusty wooden furniture and curved teller desk. From there I headed for the bus, where I met my friend, confidant, and weekend companion. 

Some dude on that outbound trip travelled up north from Philly to the Big Apple, to then rely on MW for the barcode of his onward journey…south…past Philly…to DC. Anyone’s guess really. Stank of skunk on the bus though so that might have had something to do with it. 

So I’ve been lucky enough to go to NYC twice before, once in February of the infamous 2001, and once as an early-to mid teen. soured somewhat perhaps by our wanting to go to the Caribbean but procuring 0 dice to that effect. How awful for us. All this meant — him having also done it a few times — was that we needn’t go on a frenzied tourist venture, but instead just roam, incessantly, gloriously, for the duration, taking in some of the staples as we went, but not really being hellbent on it. That said, I wanted Central Park action. That was my one criteria. And it was met.

There were a number of quintessentially New York food stops that made up the markers of our time. I’ll cover them in Culinaries. 

What else of it? 

Well we walked through Times Square. Loads of bright lights, big buildings, and D-OOH via award-winning in-house teams, no doubt. Also loads of people making their living (?) sporting Disney or superhero costume. Making a buck, somehow, someway. South through Midtown to the Flatiron building which was conveniently doused in scaffolding, a word I had to genuinely strain and squint to remember just then. Madison Square Park was the first of a number of spots wherein I noticed that the distinct lack of quality green spaces necessitated not a human-centric changeup but a doggo meet-and-greet. One almost ripped another one apart. Small little floofas mingled with mangey rats in a smaller pen and bigger goodbois roamed around the bigger bit with the mound. For the duration of our time in the city, Martin tried to defend the idea of having a child, and I fought the corner of our bushytailed amigos. Good stuff good stuff good stuff. 

We were staying just south of Soho, I think, so we went and dropped our bags and headed out for a little bar crawl around East Village, which was super cool. Got turned away from some speakeasy in a hot dog joint. ‘Yeah you can order hot dogs just there at the counter’. Ah reet yea. Got to a dance spot 5 hours early. Sat at a bar and talked about anxiety and careers and how small vinyls are just CDs. Probably touched base on how to take the sheer futility of it all with a pinch of salt given the exact circumstances and scenes we found ourselves in. Bogey is a US word for cigarette. Shania Twain is the best songwriter of all time. Garlic powder is not Parmesan. Now, for context, we foolishly pursued a restaurant for about 15 minutes in the darkening, glorious, dastardly Greenwich Village until we realised that Joe’s Pizza is just there, so we should likely just get a couple slices and eat them on the fly, before heading the fuck out for some jazz. But garlic powder is famously not Parmesan. Now. The jazz. There were two spots. 

We queued for a little while at Arthur's Tavern, and landed a table next to Kurt Russell and his daughter. They welcomed us like long lost, unruly sons (and brothers). The jazz was sensational. This sounds wholly wild and entirely infeasible but I promise you Knopfler was on the strings, Otis Redding sung guest vocals, and the bassist managed to intermittently steal the show from both. We sipped on cocktails consisting of bourbon and ice for a good three hours I reckon, before heading round the corner to the more rustic Smalls. The trumpeter was a change up, and later in the evening there was a jam session in which talented young bastards from (I assume) across the big city’s many conservatoires and academies played jazz tunes just the same way as their more experienced predecessors — with aplomb. They handed shredding, swirling solos to one another willy nilly, offsetting their BTEC garments with outstanding talent. The BTEC bit only really applies to the younger folk actually so I kinda fucked up that comparison but I’ll wallow up that hill and pass out on it, most likely. All in all I was taken by the ability of all players to inspire, entertain and invigorate whilst simultaneously rendering me inconsolably inadequate. Impressive. 

And that was the end of the first day. It was on the tired side of 2am by the time we weaved back. Had that slightly odd but very real sense that we were calling it early. Streets absolutely ripe with life. Lost an hour just after. Weave back for Steve Borthwick. Good album title.

Awake to the sound of the double flush. We’re off and running. 

After this, though both a touch dusty, we were actually remarkably efficient at getting out of there and into the crisp, clear day. Indeed, Sunday was a who’s who of NYC staples, so maybe that earlier comment about not feeling touristically obliged was actually a sizable pile of tripe. Or maybe it wasn’t. I’ll let you — no one — decide. We walked down to the southern tip of Manhattan and stood for a short while amid the sombre scene of the WTC Memorial. The new tower — in progress or nearly finalised when I was last in the city — casts a defiant, marvellous figure over the area. There’s this crazy new feature just across from the two pools, as well: an expansive, skeletal structure jammed between shiny glass buildings. The backbone of the city, still. Ah ya know, the Bull on Wall St., but not really, just past it, cos there are tourists lining up from the front for a snap by the horns, and from the back to get between the stagnant dangling cojones of the city’s financial symbol. Class. Through the Battery Oval, past the Castle Clinton Monument (America’s first immigration centre, no less, and the first port-of-“freedom” for millions at the back end of the nineteenth century) to what can barely be called a viewpoint for the Statue of Liberty. Hm. That resplendent, rusty old love was visible and so it can be called one; consider the case closed. I remember being awed on that little historic mound, and feeling just the same at Ellis Island shortly after. I do remember things. I didn’t entirely fry my brain shortly thereafter. Eh!

The New York Subway system feels infinitely safer and cleaner than its Philly counterpart. Lighter, too. Just not the same ominous, skunk-smelling, eerie scenes greeting you. At least not on the routes we took and the time we took ‘em. Also what a fine, timely reminder of basic 21st century expectations — being able to tap in and not worry about inane shite like getting a paper ticket. Imagine! Anyway we took one such little jaunt up to the Brooklyn Bridge, City Hall, Supreme Court region, which, stimulating visually as it was, was more of a conduit to the glorious little realms that came next. Little bit more on that whole stimulation thing — it is true that you can walk entirely aimlessly for hours on end and dependably come toe-to-toe with stimulation at almost every turn. Makes it pretty easy to not have a plan, but Martin did supervise proceedings and chart courses superbly. 

Anyway we walked through a park where a dozen elderly souls loomed over a tense game of Chinese chequers, and then entered Chinatown. Just frenetically organised. Everything seems a little more on top of eachother on account of busy storefronts and market stalls. Little Italy is directly on from Chinatown, and has a similar energy, though instead of noodle bars and Mandarin scribings there are more abundant ‘Little Romes’ et. al. Must have been over two hours into our day by the time we stopped and scranned. Good bagel content and a coffee to sip on on the street. Heather walked past in a huff and her two friends tried to cajole her with offerings from their own bags. The dude on the sidewalk table next to us ate a big brunchy bagel number and got up to exclaim ‘shall we go get a hamburger’. A giant plastic cannoli hung on the wall just over the way. Delivery cyclists zoomed just behind my neck. A bloody cool fire truck, too. LOOK DADDY A FIRE TRUCK!! WEEW. Fuc am I talkin aboot now. Cool areas good food cool areas good food. Fortunately enough we headed to another cool area next. One of the coolest. A certified staple. Central Park. Hours there. 

Belvedere Castle is weird. These guys are mad at frisbee they’re working around humans, treetrunks, four-leggers, other two leggers (birds) and general moving parts. Of course, treetrunks aren’t prone to move. Actually one of these guys is trash, but the old old codger is seriously special. Got a knee brace on as well. Frisbee can’t just be a Sunday in the park affair for this silver fox — it’s a lifelong passion. Anywho my bad my ignorance, let’s loop back to the Bethesda Terrace. That little arched underpass is gnarly. Let’s have some fluids. Important in sustaining the life of two young fools. Let’s just sit and watch and commentate. That’s just it. That’s all there ever really is.

Did we go to NYC Zoo once? 

Remind me to check. Write it down in ‘23 Jawn to remind me to check. 

Growing weary spewing this all up now. Didn’t get bored at all at the time; that’s the important thing.

Meatballllllllllls and non-sweaty provolone. 

The fittingly arduous return of the paper ticket for a bobbly tramway up and over the Hudson, past traffic-packed streets, as far as the eye can see. To Roosevelt Island for a wedding shoot and a guy with evident, pathological OCD at the water fountain. Oh and a pretty nifty, water-level vista over Manhattan’s famous skyline. Oh and a grass mound the other way looks over the Brooklyn and some edgy fucks walk in circles shooting a music vid. Back over we go. Then it’s amble amble amble amble oh shit look Grand Central Station cool cool cool amble amble turn walk yep ok there’s the bus station. Here we go. So quite naturally, after some 7/11 panic buys and a few pretty delicious spring rolls, 7pm rolls around and passes with a lot full of passengers looking increasingly bemused. Proper cold out. Two FlixBuses rock up. Neither are for us. Each time the collective body language lifts and slumps. Quite a lot of ‘wot’. 

Anyway, hour and a half later they cancel it, and we’re kinda scrambling. Other Flix options fill up in a beat, and we sit in the relative balm of the train station when we notice both of us feel a bit sunburnt. It was about 7 degrees. Looking at our options, I progressively concede defeat and start rationalising the very real chance we’ll spend $128 each on an hour train back to Philly. Weeeellllll this story ends well, kids. We find a MegaBus for 10:15pm. We walk a few blocks to get it. But there’s time. So we go in a bougie shopping centre. Sigmund Freud is now a brand ambassador for Tiffany or some stupid shite. Anyway the bus fills and we leave and it’s efficient, so crisis averted, but the Spanish woman across from us loves listening to real loud short-videos, and having real loud conversations. At least we’ve got White Cheddar Cheezits. 

As I’m absolutely certain you can deduce, New York was tremendous and terrific. 

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St. Paddy’s Day got a little loose. Got together with a few friends and had it out to the tune of Guinness and live music. Met some Irish twins (they were Irish, and Irish twins, not actual twins, you with me?) and their Ma, Josephine, the bloody lej, and we spent a fair bit of the night’s conclusion chatting nonsense to them. Green greeeeen joviality in the city. Next day was tough. Real tough. 

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But I did make it to The Barnes Foundation — an impressive collection of impressionist art that my wildly fatigued body just about carried me around. I like that style of art more and more, I’ll have you know. It is essential that you now know and that I have haved that of you. There was plenty of Monet and Cezanne and Van Gogh action in action, or inaction, or fleeting bursts of life, or whatever the fuck. Some standout little paintings — slightly larger than a postcard, and a whole bunch of them — by an artist called Pinto. These might be more so post-, given the bold lines and slightly surreal scapes and the sorts, but yea I liked them. By the end my blood sugars were so low that you could scrape an old credit card against the marble floor and still not gather them all up. 

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In the spirit of lonesome aestheticism, I went to the Philly Museum of Art on my penultimate Friday night. Jesus wept, dried the moistness from his cheeks, wept again, ran out of tissues, ran to Wal-Mart, and brought a gun instead: that place (the Museum, but also Wal-Mart, I guess) is more expansive and exhausting than perhaps even the Louvre. Class though. Genuinely. One meanders, without any real structure, purpose, or poise, from realist portraiture (including the Gross Clinic, remarkably dynamic paintings of surgical amphitheatres, full of action and life and expression) to a celebration of glassmaking, to a recreated or drafted in Japanese tea house, which made me want to go to Japan, go figure, to a smaller little corner focused on the stunning art of Japanese calligraphy, through rooms adorned with huge columns  drafted in from ancient civilisations and plonked in this giant stately building, to little ceramic dishes from oriental dynasties, to renaissance archways, a fuck load of armour, swords, daggers and the sorts, to baroque art (this is what I love — absolute drama! Absolute urgency! Pandemonium in the scene, immortalised) to calmer rooms of gold awning and elaborate furniture, to sparse Pennsylvania German kitchen recreations, to a bust of wor boy Benny F, to impressionism and that which followed it, to lovely little numbers by the likes of Churchill, to some absolute heathen who’s just splifged on huge white canvases and attributed some historical pertinence to it, and then to the more pleasing sight of surrealism and cubism, even though it’s anyone’s guess what they’re about, and perhaps that’s the point, and then back to the door and down the steps on jelly legs. 

Nice 1. 

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Yesterday’s sun-doused activities avec Ian. Does drinking Guinness in the sun on South St. count as tourism? I’d struggle to argue against it. Also fairly residential. An entirely compelling toss-up. Perusing the vintage stores and sports shops up and down it definitely constitutes tourism. Retail tourism under the veil of chic. Disguised as sustainable and cool. Bought a few things as well, so fuck you Greta. But seriously it was proper sun-doused. Having as little melanin as i do, it took all of 3 minutes to get a nice little rouge shnoz going on, so I’ll add the indisputable future melanoma to the lung cancer, busted liver, and — if the city-wide notice yesterday is anything to go by — poisoned blood on account of chemicals in the water, Now it’s a party. Class day though, shooting the shit with Mr. Leahy, who is a certified good person. Had a wee whiff of his weed pen and that was a nice change-up. Ate some dirty scran following and alongside beers, strolled back via Franklin Square, where he gave me a “good ole fashioned ass whoopin” around the city-themed mini golf course, and then through Chinatown for a chilled one watching shit and thinking shit and shit. 

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On my final morning in the city, I did get to Eastern Penitentiary — a pillar of “corrections” and incarceration that inspired confinement and secluded styles the world over. People ended up there for all sorts of nefarious dealings, including, absolutely no less, stealing a horse. Silence was a staunch rule. Prisoners that breached the code and tried to whisper were flogged. Any prisoner whatsoever that required moving from their cell — beyond the one hour daily exercise in their personal yards — were hooded and dragged, so as to conceal their identity. Other things I noted down were that the architecture of the place permitted one (or a cluster of) guard overseers to look down every corridor. Some sort of Panopticonic commentary. And the Pennsylvania system vs. New York system of imprisonment, the nuances of which I forgot pretty much immediately, but the crux is that NYC got its people working and interacting more. 

Eventually, at Eastern State too, silence fell, or rather it evaporated, and in its place came camaraderie, collaboration, and cross-corridor politics. I was taken by the exhibit after the main bit, which pointed to the crippling financial cost of mass incarceration, and the seemingly unshakable nature of that as America’s default. There was a casual ‘shanked him in the eye’ recount on the hospital wing, and a little commentary on one of the channels from some contemporary climber who can get out so yea what’s the problem all.