After a beautiful sleep in a bed, I awoke on Friday with a pep in my step, and a hankering for my first Philly cheesesteak. After navigating our way through the (dumb) t
urnpike, and Philly suburbs, we made it in to the city well before noon. Our first stop was the Philly art museum. For art connoisseurs, I'm sure the museum is awesome. For movie aficionados, however, this place is mecca, for none other than Rocky Balboa once ran up the steps leading to the museum, where he so-famously proclaimed his love for Adriane. Standing atop these steps was like standing at the OK Corral or Pearl Harbor. Truly historic. Secretly, I wanted to run up the steps and pump my fists in the air. Unfortunately, the 
cheesy tourists who acted on their similar urge ruined it for me, and I simply soaked in the moment of cinematic history, while gawking at their Rocky impersonations. Oh, and as for the museum, we didn't go...it was too expensive. That's not to say our fruitless trip to the museum went without art, for a sculpture of the Italian Stallion himself sat outside of the museum, where fans can get up close and personal with ol' Sly for free.From the museum, we headed to the historic core of old Philadelphia. This is where Liberty Hall is, the Liberty Bell, Ben
Franklin's house, etc. In other words, a true slice of American History. After parking, we made our way to the main visitor center in old town. We were cut off, though, by a group of demonstrators who were holding a rally to stand up against the violence that has recently plagued the streets of Philly (for perspective, with an average of one murder a day, Philly will have more than 10 times the amount of homicides as Portland, OR). After watching the 
protesters and subsequent speeches in the park, we continued on our way. Before going too far, we decided to get some food. We hit up a street vendor who was selling cheesesteaks, hoagies, meatball sandwiches, and hot dogs. Not wanting to get my first cheesesteak out of a mobile cart, I opted for the meatball
sandwich. After gobbling our food, we moved on and signed up for a tour of Liberty Hall. While waiting for the tour to begin, we gave ourselves a self-guided walk of the surrounding area. Although small in area, there was a lot to take in. We saw Ben Franklin's burial place (easily seen from the sidewalk, despite coming with a $5.00 entrance fee to the gated cemetery); the Liberty Bell; old cobble-stoned streets; and the first and second banks of America.
Franklin's house, etc. In other words, a true slice of American History. After parking, we made our way to the main visitor center in old town. We were cut off, though, by a group of demonstrators who were holding a rally to stand up against the violence that has recently plagued the streets of Philly (for perspective, with an average of one murder a day, Philly will have more than 10 times the amount of homicides as Portland, OR). After watching the 
protesters and subsequent speeches in the park, we continued on our way. Before going too far, we decided to get some food. We hit up a street vendor who was selling cheesesteaks, hoagies, meatball sandwiches, and hot dogs. Not wanting to get my first cheesesteak out of a mobile cart, I opted for the meatball
sandwich. After gobbling our food, we moved on and signed up for a tour of Liberty Hall. While waiting for the tour to begin, we gave ourselves a self-guided walk of the surrounding area. Although small in area, there was a lot to take in. We saw Ben Franklin's burial place (easily seen from the sidewalk, despite coming with a $5.00 entrance fee to the gated cemetery); the Liberty Bell; old cobble-stoned streets; and the first and second banks of America. After getting our fill of history, we, upon the advice of Maggie's mom, went to the Italian Market. In its heyday, I 
can see how this would be an attraction, with local vendors selling fresh meats, fish, and produce. Now, though, there is little indication that the market is Italian, nor a busy market. While vending stations do exist, and the sidewalks are lined with brick buildings painted in the colors of the Italian flag, the only remains are storefronts selling cheap clothing, candies, and 
not so fresh fish. At the end of the worn-out strip of wooden vending stations, Pat's and Geno's beckoned with their respective claim to cheesesteak superiority. Pat's, named after Pasquale "Pat" Olivieri, is the reputed home of the original steak sandwich, first created in the 1930s. Geno's, however, lays claim to the first steak sandwich to have cheese on it, originally started by its owner, Joe Vento shortly after Pat made the steak sandwich popular. As 
they face each other on opposite corners of the same intersection, it's hard to decide which to go to. We eventually went with Pat's. As you wait in line at Pat's, there is a huge menu on the wall that has step by step instructions for ordering a steak sandwich (convenient for the apparent hordes of tourists). The first step in ordering is deciding if you want onions or not. If you do, you order a steak sandwich "wit" (not with). Then, if you want cheese, you have to specify which kind (American, provolone, cheese whiz, etc). I'm told that the most authentic cheesesteak is ordered with cheese whiz. So, when I approached the window to order, I asked for a "cheesesteak wit and wit whiz." I've since learned I could have simply said, "Whiz wit," and that would have sufficed. Aside from the joyous delightment of eating a cheesesteak, Pat's offered some entertainment as well. For example, the lady who ordered after me, apparently from out of town, approached the window without fully reading the instructions, as they clearly state that you must know exactly what you want, and how to order it, by the time you get to the front of the line. So, when she said she wanted a cheesesteak and asked the guy at the window what was good to put on it, he responded (in the best Italian, South Philly accent): "You have to tell me lady. I'm busy...you're gonna have to get to the end of the line." Wow! I simultaneously hated this guy and wanted to be him at the same time. Although very stereotypical, and not necessarily the norm, this was the type of character that I grew to admire while in Philly...straight to the point, in your face flare. While seemingly brash, it is without pretense and bullshit...awesome.
can see how this would be an attraction, with local vendors selling fresh meats, fish, and produce. Now, though, there is little indication that the market is Italian, nor a busy market. While vending stations do exist, and the sidewalks are lined with brick buildings painted in the colors of the Italian flag, the only remains are storefronts selling cheap clothing, candies, and 
not so fresh fish. At the end of the worn-out strip of wooden vending stations, Pat's and Geno's beckoned with their respective claim to cheesesteak superiority. Pat's, named after Pasquale "Pat" Olivieri, is the reputed home of the original steak sandwich, first created in the 1930s. Geno's, however, lays claim to the first steak sandwich to have cheese on it, originally started by its owner, Joe Vento shortly after Pat made the steak sandwich popular. As 
they face each other on opposite corners of the same intersection, it's hard to decide which to go to. We eventually went with Pat's. As you wait in line at Pat's, there is a huge menu on the wall that has step by step instructions for ordering a steak sandwich (convenient for the apparent hordes of tourists). The first step in ordering is deciding if you want onions or not. If you do, you order a steak sandwich "wit" (not with). Then, if you want cheese, you have to specify which kind (American, provolone, cheese whiz, etc). I'm told that the most authentic cheesesteak is ordered with cheese whiz. So, when I approached the window to order, I asked for a "cheesesteak wit and wit whiz." I've since learned I could have simply said, "Whiz wit," and that would have sufficed. Aside from the joyous delightment of eating a cheesesteak, Pat's offered some entertainment as well. For example, the lady who ordered after me, apparently from out of town, approached the window without fully reading the instructions, as they clearly state that you must know exactly what you want, and how to order it, by the time you get to the front of the line. So, when she said she wanted a cheesesteak and asked the guy at the window what was good to put on it, he responded (in the best Italian, South Philly accent): "You have to tell me lady. I'm busy...you're gonna have to get to the end of the line." Wow! I simultaneously hated this guy and wanted to be him at the same time. Although very stereotypical, and not necessarily the norm, this was the type of character that I grew to admire while in Philly...straight to the point, in your face flare. While seemingly brash, it is without pretense and bullshit...awesome.
Anyway, we still had more to see in Philly, so we walked back to the car to make sure we didn't have a ticket. Along the way, we went in and out of small side streets to check out murals and some street art. When we got the care, we checked the ti
res to see if parking police had marked them with chalk (for we were in two-hour parking and I thought that's how they keep track of who's been there). We would follow this routine every hour and half until we figured we were safe for the evening. We spent the afternoon and most of the early evening on South Street, a 10-15 block stretch of record stores, tattoo parlors, clothing stores, smoke shops, and bars. We met up with Gibby, my best friend since kindergarten, who flew down from Boston to hang with us for the night (he 
was originally supposed to fly in at 2pm, but got delayed til closer to 5), at the Blarney Pub. After catching up briefly, and having a few drinks, we left to find a more divey spot off of the main strip. We found a spot a few blocks away called the Friendly Lounge, which, ironically, was bar tended by a grumpy fuck. Actually the dude wasn't that grumpy, he's just not used to non-locals coming through there. As we sat there for a few drinks, we were told of how the neighborhood has changed for the worse and that we should not venture any more east than we already had. The bartender, and one of the local patrons, turned out to be cool dudes in the end, but not very welcoming, so we headed back to South Street. As we were leaving they suggested a couple bars that might be more to our liking.Back on South Street, we found Tattoo Moms (as recommended by the grumpy bartender and his friend). Not only did Tattoo Moms serve $1.00 PBRs, but they also had grilled cheese sandwiches and party favors on all the tables. Pretty good combination, if you ask me. After a few drinks, Gibby realized it was time to catch his train to New York, where he was staying for the weekend before going back to Boston. He said our goodbyes, put him in a cab, and headed back to the car. Unfortunately, our method of checking for chalk on the tires was flawed, for we had a $27.00 ticket. After bitching about the ticket, we hopped in the car and headed back to Maggie's place. Since Maggie did not come with us (she was with her family preparing for the wedding the next day), we had to do our best to follow the same directions she gave us...but backwards and in the dark. Naturally, we got lost and drove through every suburban township on our eventual return to her house. Part of the problem was that her house lies in one township, while the houses across the street from her are in another. So, with the street having two different postal jurisdictions, it also had two different sets of numbers. In other words, while we were looking for the 500 block of Welsh Road, the addresses on the other side of the street through us completely off, as they were in the 1000's. Great! We eventually figured it out, made it home, and crashed in front of the TV while watching the Departed.
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