Philly, I love you.
I started the below blog post in October 2009, while living in Utrecht. I just happened to revisit the drafts tonight, and it's funny how some things never change. If Philly isn't my favorite city, it's only because I'm taking it for granted.
I will have been in Doylestown for exactly 3 years on March 1st. I loved the farmhouse and would (still) live there forever, if I had great roommates and a clean, safe place to stay. (Too bad it is infested with spider crickets and rats, and the roommates are less and less desirable each time I return for a visit.)
But since moving into my downtown Doylestown apartment, I haven't had much farm time, or enjoyed romantic idyllic scenes from my bedroom window as the sun grazed the tall billowy grass. Instead, at night I fall asleep to the pounding dance club downstairs and awake to tractor trailers chugging down Main Street (it's part of Route 611).
I can walk to work and the rent is cheap. But I still love Philly more. So, I got a job at Cohen Seglias and I'm moving to Philly finally. March 8th is my last day here. Philly, I can't wait to be reunited. Again. Why do I ever leave you....
~~~~~
(October 2009 - From Utrecht, the Netherlands)
Dear Philly,
I was thinking about you today, as I rode my bike from Central Utrecht to Overvecht, my neighborhood here in the Netherlands. I miss the buzz in the air on a Friday evening - the sound of everyone wondering what the plans are for tonight.
Yesterday, I got a Turkish sandwich, and flinched when the man squeezed sauces from a yellow and red bottle onto the lamb, before handing it to me. "Is that ketchup and mustard?" I asked, disgusted at the idea of putting those things on my tasty "doner" sandwich. As I asked, I realized that I actually do miss scrunching my nose at the guy in front of me at Wawa, who is smearing pungent yellow mustard on that pretzel with the last fat grains of salt hanging on for dear life. But it's garlic-tahini sauce and red rooster hot sauce, he says. And I'm glad for that, but I also missed you then.
Instead of wondering whether I should disembark the train at Broad Street or chance going into Center City, I just get on my bike and ride in a straight line, on streets whose names I don't even need to know because there will never be a roadblock or redirected traffic. I know it sounds nice, but I really didn't mind sitting in my car on your roads, laughing to Preston and Steve in the mornings, and dancing in my car to new music on the radio.
When I see the Dom, I know I should appreciate it for who it is, but I can't help but think of William Penn. . . .
I will have been in Doylestown for exactly 3 years on March 1st. I loved the farmhouse and would (still) live there forever, if I had great roommates and a clean, safe place to stay. (Too bad it is infested with spider crickets and rats, and the roommates are less and less desirable each time I return for a visit.)
But since moving into my downtown Doylestown apartment, I haven't had much farm time, or enjoyed romantic idyllic scenes from my bedroom window as the sun grazed the tall billowy grass. Instead, at night I fall asleep to the pounding dance club downstairs and awake to tractor trailers chugging down Main Street (it's part of Route 611).
I can walk to work and the rent is cheap. But I still love Philly more. So, I got a job at Cohen Seglias and I'm moving to Philly finally. March 8th is my last day here. Philly, I can't wait to be reunited. Again. Why do I ever leave you....
~~~~~
(October 2009 - From Utrecht, the Netherlands)
Dear Philly,
I was thinking about you today, as I rode my bike from Central Utrecht to Overvecht, my neighborhood here in the Netherlands. I miss the buzz in the air on a Friday evening - the sound of everyone wondering what the plans are for tonight.
Yesterday, I got a Turkish sandwich, and flinched when the man squeezed sauces from a yellow and red bottle onto the lamb, before handing it to me. "Is that ketchup and mustard?" I asked, disgusted at the idea of putting those things on my tasty "doner" sandwich. As I asked, I realized that I actually do miss scrunching my nose at the guy in front of me at Wawa, who is smearing pungent yellow mustard on that pretzel with the last fat grains of salt hanging on for dear life. But it's garlic-tahini sauce and red rooster hot sauce, he says. And I'm glad for that, but I also missed you then.
Instead of wondering whether I should disembark the train at Broad Street or chance going into Center City, I just get on my bike and ride in a straight line, on streets whose names I don't even need to know because there will never be a roadblock or redirected traffic. I know it sounds nice, but I really didn't mind sitting in my car on your roads, laughing to Preston and Steve in the mornings, and dancing in my car to new music on the radio.
When I see the Dom, I know I should appreciate it for who it is, but I can't help but think of William Penn. . . .
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