I’m sitting in a sidewalk seat at a restaurant/margarita bar on Market Street in Philadelphia on a gorgeous Saturday afternoon. It’s April, and the weather has eased up. I like this city. I like cities. I’m a Los Angeles girl through and through, but when I’ve got a lot on my mind and three hours to spare until I have to take the train back to my New Jersey retail job, I can’t help but submit myself to the ever-present longing for being back in the city.
I sit down in a seat facing the street, and a pretty girl with blonde hair, a bright smile, a pink tube top, and a pair of jeans comes over and hands me my menu. Already I’m lost in my word world, wondering how I’ll scribble down my account of my me-day. I thank her, lean back in the maroon-and-yellow beach chair, and draw in a deep, cleansing breath. Somewhere near me, a guy in sunglasses speaks Italian and laughs with his friends, and a young couple plays with their child. I smile. I love cities.
The waiter, a charming young man with a natural talent for making people smile, comes and takes my order: Guava tea (they didn’t have passion fruit anymore) and a Turkey Club. I begin to write, two paragraphs; a table, a family of four, sits down next to me. The son and daughter look friendly, indie, and I smile politely and friendly-y as the daughter and I make eye-contact. I eat my sandwich. Halfway through it, the mother, younger middle-aged, blonde hair half-up, asks me what I’m eating. I tell her, “It’s delicious.” She thanks me, and apologizes for interrupting me, but I smile and say it’s okay.
As I eat, I write, and it’s a wonderful day in the city. The son looks back at me a few times, and I stare up at the tower of a historic building, framed by bare trees acting as a reminder of the still-early season. As I write, I breathe and hear and see the city, and my head clears itself of chaos and becomes filled with familiar distractions. My cell phone sits quiet on the table. Today there is a breeze just strong enough to blow my bangs in my face; the street becomes tinted orange and I shake my head to see again.
The quiet murmur of conversations, the rhurrrrr of passing cars accelerating, the bur-pur of the metal plates on the street being pushed down with each green light traffic brigade; it makes me feel at home.
Another table sits behind me, and Adam (as I learned the waiter’s name was) smiles and greets them. He seems like he would be cool to hang out with. People pass by on the sidewalk; mothers, fathers, dog-walkers. Buses drive by on Market Street, and I smile and listen to them, thinking back to my home city and the many bus adventures. I like buses. You always see interesting people. I like people.
The buildings are tall and imposing, but maybe that’s the wrong word. I feel safer in cities. I feel the most at home, surrounded by millions of people forcibly coexisting in one place. The Italian speaker still sits with his friends, and a woman walks by with a beautiful black Labrador.
Ten minutes ago, a drunk guy began harassing a waitress, and a well-put-together man in a suit came to escort him away. The mother scolded the son for laughing, but she laughed as well once the guy had been taken away.
The sandwich tastes delicious. It’s a Turkey Club with lettuce, tomatoes, apple-smoked bacon and caramelized apple mayo. It leaves a pleasant sensation at the corners of my lips; fresh and crisp and slightly tingly, like a kiss with my boyfriend, and I like it. The tea isn’t quite sweet, but it’s flavorful, and goes well with the lemon. It’s one o’clock. I still want to explore a bit, and although I’m still slightly hungry, I ask Adam to get my food to go. I’ll save it for when I’m on my break today, so that I can cherish the city a little longer.
The bill is $15.25. I take a 20 out of my wallet and tell Adam that the change is his to keep. I checked my phone’s handy-dandy tip calculator; it is about a 38% tip, well above 15%, and about all I can spare as a college student. I finish writing, pack up and my stuff, grab my to-go bag. The mother smiles and waves goodbye to me, and wishes me a good day at work. I wish her a good, fun weekend. I crouch by a building, supporting my notebook on my knees, and smile and write.
I love cities.
I’m stopped again, hunched over a ledge outside of a building four blocks later. The need to write, to give lyrical life to everything I see and hear and smell and feel; it overwhelms my senses with creativity and inspiration. On the street, a mother walks by singing the alphabet song with her son. Two men, a couple with arms linked, stroll by and speak in rapid Russian.
The city is quiet, but not silent. I hear everything; the motorcycle, the whispered conversations, the construction. And I see it; I see all of the people, the wonderful, average, crazy people; the colors of each building and car and brick on the sidewalk. I write frantically. I must record everything and keep it stored away in my back pocket, a memory most pleasant to keep with me when I work in two hours. If I were to write it all I would never leave the city. The compulsion is obsessive and strong and each word I write serves only to extend my stay, perched upon a ledge and listening, seeing, smelling, hearing, yet all I hear in my head are Alex DeLeon’s words that this city is contagious. A flute player makes cheerful music down the street.
A lady with a sharp haircut and a Starbucks cup suggests that I go to the Franklin Courtyard to write, but if I dare move I might lose the moment and more importantly, the mania. I smile and thank her and keep writing. I must write; I must constantly, unceasingly, write, if I am to survive.
Powerful Clydesdales draw carriages down 4th street, and the cars do not move; the flute player makes music, the tax protesters whistle and cheer, and I could cry from the beauty.
I have an hour left to get home. I should go.
Undoubtedly the urge to write will return, and as I stare through my orange bangs at the shoes of passersby to see if any of them are from my job—there’s one, two, maybe three—I feel whole, more whole and back in my element than I have for a long while.
The breeze sifts through my hair and brings the flute player’s music to me. I will remember this always.
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