Philadelphia and I have had an on-again-off-again love affair for over two decades. Driving into work as a 19-year-old apprentice mechanic, the skyline greeted me as I coasted down Main Street in Mantua toward Woodbury. Without pulling over and being late for work, I would let off the gas to make the moment last. It was a shy dance we did. She made her presence known while I had to summon the courage to introduce myself. Her grandness appeared closer in the optical illusion on clear mornings of high humidity, making her feel just on the other side of the trees. When in reality Center City is 12.3 miles from the very point I would first lay eyes on her in the morning.
My parents didn’t go into the city. They had no reason, South Jersey has everything you could need or want, except for what I needed. Which was to know what made Philadelphia, Philadelphia. Why would they build those buildings there? Why do people choose that location to exist, to raise families, and to do business? Growing up watching 6abc news as a child, there wasn’t much good news coming from the city. This is probably what kept my family on the Jersey side of the Philthy stream. My father did take my brother and me to a Phillies game and a childhood friend’s father did take his son and me to an Eagles game. This is before I had any concept of the city and no appreciation for the skyline or the history. In 5th grade, on one of the last class trips I ever went on, the class did the obligatory Independence Hall tour. Even then I resented being unable to explore on my own, possibly causing my lack of engagement with what I was looking at.
My cousin Shane broke the ice for me traveling over the bridge. Oddly enough, it was a specific traffic light in the Mantua section of West Philly, also pronounced Man-chooh-wah, not Man-too-wah. Pronounced the latter way and you will be seen as a boob at best and a foreigner at worst. This is where I first marveled at the West face of Center City, lit up at night. It was marvelous and mesmerizing. I needed to get to know her better. After our forays into the then-dangerous North Western territory of 38th & Lancaster, close to the site of the infamous 1985 MOVE bombings, I had a new confidence. I had seen what seemed like the worst and wasn’t shot, robbed, or stabbed, immediately. Old & Center City are playgrounds compared to the demilitarized zone we traveled to for the underground Punk venue affectionately called “The Killtime.”
The first solo dalliances over the bridge were via the Patco train, out of the Woodcrest Station. I had to first overcome my fear of driving up Interstate 295 before I could even get to the train. Road testing gigantic Cadillacs for highway speed driveability issues broke me of this. I don’t remember where I went or what I did the first couple of times going there. I know that I got off at 16th & Locust. It was +/-15 years before I started using 8th & Market. I know I’m ridiculous, but I’ve come to accept, if not love it.
