This one time...

So I was in Philadelphia for most of the week, on a job, but also with a ton of free time. A beautiful week, the weather was amazing, the city is much more beautiful than I remember and I visited with a long lost friend. It's kind of funny how the mind works, or better, my mind works.

So, Philadelphia is one of those cities that is historically important. There is always a sense when you walk down a street that something important happened on, you can feel the history. Maybe you can't, but you can sense something, that history happened here. For so many people, we read about these events, but we do not imagine real people doing real things.

There is power in superstition. I am never quite sure if places hold memories, or we just give them that power. When I first saw the site of the World Trade Center a few months after 9-11, I could feel something. I wanted to feel something. I do believe that in places of great tragedy, where life has ended, there remains a residue of that moment.

Philadelphia has a lot of ghosts, although I am not one to give much thought to ghosts. You can, however, read into events that happened on those streets, and notice the buildings that still stand today, that stood then, and wonder if those doorways were the ones where conversations led to unrest, which led to talk of a new country.

I also think of these sacred icons that litter the city. My personal favorite is the liberty bell, and not for any obvious reasons. I have children, I have had them for almost two decades, but quite a few years ago, when I was still encumbered by marriage, we all ventured to Philadelphia and my two youngest crawled under the ropes that block most responsible people from getting too close the the actual bell. They slithered under it, like rascals checking under an old womans dress. It was both frightening and kind of inspiring.

There they were, under the bell, looking up at the ringer, or whatever it is that hangs under a bell. I thought they would get arrested, in fact, I kind of hoped they would. But as fast as they crawled under, they crawled back. There are pictures of this event somewhere, but not somewhere that I know of. It is adorable.

So, one day, when I was free this week, I walked around the city. I did not see the Bell, or Betsy Ross's house. I did not see any of the sights. I mostly just walked. Old cities have a certain charm, like some older people, worldly and lived in.

I am starting to appreciate survival. I like old buildings that remain where they belong. Some cities are so quick to remake themselves that all their collected architectural history disappears in favor of box-like condo projects.

I once interviewed the artist Mark diSuvero and he railed against the boxes people call home, with no style and four simple walls. He did not mention old buildings, with their strange angles and off kilter floors. These old cities are a lot like many of the old people I have been interviewing lately, aging, fragile and in so many ways, beautiful.