A Traveler's guide to Philadelphia

I often receive emails from distant acquaintances who have decided to travel to Philadelphia on vacation and have come to know, probably from another distant acquaintance, that I live there. The email will usually be very effusive. More effusive than this person ever was in real life with me. And it will usually go something like, "Hiiiiiii!!!! gawker, do you remember me, we were cellmates in prison, I was the one who snitched on you and let the warden know about your plan to escape through the washbasin. Anyways, I am traveling to Philadelphia this summer. If I were visiting you in Philadelphia, which I'm not, where in Philadelphia would you take me to?"

The problem is, it is somewhat difficult to come up with a Philly itinerary on the spur of the moment. Some have chosen the production of tourist brochures as a career choice and I am not one of them. However, since Philadelphia appears to be quite a popular destination among Indians and since I happen to live in its vicinity, I took it upon myself to compile a list of what Philadelphia has to offer. Let us begin in the suburbs.

Valley Forge Historic Park

About 10 to 15 miles north-west of Philadelphia lies Valley Forge National Historic Park. Here is where General George Washington camped out with his troops in the winter of 1777 while pondering an attack on Philadelphia, which had been captured by the British and whose residents were now being forced to "smoke fags" and spell color with a "u".

The highlight of your tour of the park will be the hundred or so revolutionary era huts scattered about the park in which the miserable continental army camped out in horrible conditions, all the while, no doubt blaming Mexican immigrants for their plight. Another feature of this park are the massive herds of free-roaming deer who, due to the no-hunting policy instituted within the park, have reciprocated by utilizing every free moment to reproduce.

Of course, the reason the good general and his army had to camp out in this hellhole, however pristine, was something that took place a couple of years before in the city of Philadelphia, specifically, in Independence Hall.

Independence Hall

If you are aware of the existence of Philadelphia without having actually lived here, then the following is probably the extent of your knowledge of this city. Here is where the declaration of Independence was signed in 1776, which propelled the American colonists into a revolutionary war against Great Britain. In this brick building, you will visit the great hall where the actual Declaration of Independence was signed. Here, you will also discover that the great hall that you are standing in might not actually have been the place where the Declaration of Independence was signed. And, the furniture on display in the hall might not have been the furniture from that time. Even the windows you see from inside cannot be seen from outside, which means that even the fucking windows are fake. And the guide providing you with all this information is probably not a guide either but just some homeless guy who wandered inside with the intention of stealing wallets, but after finding out it was full of Indians, abandoned his plan.

Basically, apart from a general GPS proximity to the area, the current Independence Hall probably has no resemblance to the original Independence Hall. Heck, who the fuck knows if there even was an Independence Hall?

But you should go there regardless, because that's Independence Hall, bitches. It's not the building but what it stands for that's important, namely, Big Macs and Walmart. Also, it's got great public restrooms which by itself makes it an excellent tourist destination in Philly. It is also very close to the Liberty Bell.

The Liberty Bell

If Philadelphia were a burger franchise, it would distribute its bell-shaped burgers in a container shaped like a bell by a person wearing a bell for a cap, ringing a bell to let you know your order's ready. So, what is this famous bell that everybody keeps talking about?

The Liberty Bell is a unique relic from the revolutionary era. Its primary claim to fame is the giant crack that festers upon one of its sides. It's secondary claim to fame is that it was rung on July 8 1776 to summon the good citizens of Philadelphia for the signing of the Declaration of Independence. Of course, like every other piece of Philadelphia history, historians doubt that this actually happened. But that doesn't matter. For this bell has The Crack.

The Liberty Bell is the proud owner of the second-most famous crack in the world, the first belonging to Jennifer Lopez. It was a product of amazing 18th century American workmanship that caused it to crack during its very first test-ringing. Even after this debacle, people kept ringing the bell on festive occasions such as George Washington's birthday, Lafayette's return to Philadelphia and Alexander Hamilton's death. Ultimately, the growth of the crack caused the bell to become unusable, after which the primary purpose it served was in drawing tourist money to Philadelphia.

While visiting the Liberty Bell, you need to make sure that you are standing on the crack side of the bell. You see, the crack is only visible from one side. This is very important. If you visit the Liberty Bell but do not get to see its famous crack, it would be akin to traveling to New York and failing to get a blow job from a crack whore under the Brooklyn Bridge. Why, if you fail to see the fucking crack, you might as well not visit the damn thing at all, and merely get drunk at the Triumph Brewery instead.

The Triumph Brewery

Regardless of whether you visit the Liberty Bell or not, you should still visit the Triumph Brewery in Old City. Here, on the banks of the Delaware river (which you cannot see from the brewery per se) you will be able to sample the best of Philadelphia's microbrews. However, if you are planning to eat here, it would help if you are a person of small appetite. While I would not say that the portions have been specifically designed to fit comfortably inside a 5 year old's belly, well, why not, I would indeed say that. But the good news is, this area is well-endowed with other eating joints that are sure to satisfy the palate of every ethnicity. So drink your fill here and for lunch, go someplace else, say, the Reading Terminal Market.

The Reading Terminal Market

If the city of Philadelphia were a brothel, the Reading Terminal Market would be its flagship whore. The Reading Terminal Market is located right next door to the Market East train station in Central Philly.The history of this market can be traced back to mid-19th century Philadelphia when there used to be a number of open-air markets serving the city. After these open-air markets became dirty and unhygienic, city officials decided to bring all that dirt and lack of hygiene indoors and that is how the Reading Terminal Market came into existence.

The market has a number of shops selling all kinds of stuff, from produce to books to hippy alternative medicine to pigs feet to bluefish collars and parrotfish cheeks. While browsing through the market, the slightly depressing thought might pass through your mind that somewhere in the ocean, collarless bluefish are pointing and laughing at cheekless parrotfish. Dismiss it. Remind yourself of all those brainless humans who have it worse. The market is also chock-full of eating joints that offer the cuisine of a multitude of nationalities and ethnicities. Be aware that being violently hungry is a necessary condition for visiting the Reading Terminal Market. Going there on a full stomach would be akin to watching a pornographic movie after masturbating twice in rapid succession. It simply serves no purpose.

Since this place is usually packed to the brim, following a few simple rules of navigation would make your life a lot easier. Most importantly, if you're in a crowd of people that appears not to have moved at all within the last ten minutes, it is highly likely that you're standing in a line of some sort. It is then time to gently start nudging people aside, accompanied, if necessary with the threat of physical violence and move along.

Also, when you are moving from point A to point B, forget about the crow and how it prefers to fly in a straight line. A crow faces very little traffic in the air. You, on the other hand, will. So another rule of navigation in Reading Market is, always travel the perimeter route, which is usually less trafficked. The reason for that being the occasional garbage piles and the stink of death. But if you are from India, you should have little trouble dealing with it.

There are a number of such pockets of death scattered about the market where you might suddenly experience an overwhelming desire to faint. Just keep moving, and it will be replaced by pleasanter smells. The key is to keep moving.

Now, since I am a paranoid Indian from a country where being paranoid is necessary for staying alive and in good financial health, every time I am in a crowd, I keep checking my wallet. In Reading Terminal Market, despite the crowd, there is very little need to do so. Most of the people here are hungry and are searching for food. They have no use for wallets. However, if you are carrying a sandwich in your pocket, it might be worthwhile to check up on it periodically.

And as far as possible, try not to carry a frying pan with you. The temptation to hit people with it will be too strong to overcome.

Although the Reading Market gives you a large number of eating options, one of the best ones is the Rib Stand that sells fully cooked baby back and beef short ribs. Here, you will find heaven in the short term. And for adult beverages, you may check out the beer garden in the center of the market.

Note : The Rib stand does not have a place to sit and eat. Therefore, you will have to hijack the seating space of some other eating establishment. To avoid finding yourself in an awkward situation with the management of said establishment, make sure that it has a sufficiently eclectic menu so that your foreign foodstuffs may blend in.

In the unlikely event that nothing in Reading Terminal Market appeals to the gourmet in you, you have a final option to fall back on. The mighty South Philly cheesesteak.

The Mighty South Philly Cheesesteak

The mighty South Philly Cheesesteak inhabits the southern end of the city of Philadelphia. It may also be found hanging around in various other pockets of the city, but in order to experience the racially pure version, you will have to travel to South Philly.

You have a couple of choices : Pat's King of Steaks or Geno's steaks. These two restaurants are located on the same street, facing each other. Rumor is, they have a long history of rivalry that includes steak fights where foot-soldiers from each establishment battle each other with hunks of raw rib-eye and survivors feast on the spoils of victory all night until the breaking light of dawn.

I recommend you try both. Like this guy did.

The fact of the matter is, until you've tasted a Philly cheesesteak, you haven't really experienced Philadelphia. Or a clogged artery.

The Green Ribbon Trail 1

The first time I became aware of the existence of the mighty Wissahickon was during a massive rainstorm in the winter of 2003. It had snowed heavily a few days ago and it was now raining heavily and as I stood on my apartment balcony contemplating the overabundance of water in this country, I noticed something curious. A pool of water was slowly creeping towards me. Some indeterminate body of water that had previously occupied the space at the end of the parking lot was now advancing towards my building at the speed of, say, a frightened turtle. Holy fuck, I said to myself, what is this indeterminate body of water that threatens to engulf me and my rental property on this sad morning? It turned out that this water body was the Wissahickon Creek, in a state of flood due to the lethal combination of snow-melt and rainfall. It appeared that all this time, I had been dwelling on the banks of the famous Wissahickon Creek of Southeastern Pennsylvania.

The Wissahickon is legendary. It is lusciously pretty and an aquatic heavyweight in these parts. Before it enters the city of Philadelphia through the steep ravines of Fairmount Park, it meanders along the rural countryside of Montgomery county, forming a ribbon of green running through Philadelphia's northern suburbs. Poets have admired it, authors have written about it and old colonialists from the 1700s and post-revolutionaries from the 1800s have forged iron by harnessing its hydro power. Native Indians, impressed with the yellowish tinge of its water, named it "stream of yellowish color", or "Wissahickon". That was before they stopped urinating in it.

When we purchased a home in this area last year, we did so after being hugely impressed by its natural beauty. Also, the close proximity of an Indian grocery store. And, a beer distribution outlet. Plus, a Burger King. A mall. And an Indian restaurant. But mostly its natural beauty. And little did I know at that time that this place had an additional treat in store for me. A treat in the form of the Green Ribbon Trail.

The Green Ribbon Trail is a hiking path that follows the wooded banks of the Wissahickon Creek for twenty miles as it commutes through the suburbs, originating in the burrough of North Wales and forging right into the city of Philadelphia. Imagine, a trail with historic implications beginning virtually in our own backyard. Well, I don't really have to imagine it, do I?

After a year of being aware of this trail's existence, I finally decided to hike it this summer. I realized that I would have to do it in sections because of all the sore feet involved. I began my hike in the North Wales burrough park where the trail starts, armed with a water bottle and legs of steel.

The trail began quite innocuously, with a paved, tarred path, running beside a residential neighborhood. Notice the chimney in the distance.

The trail then turned left into a powerline right-of way. So far, so good. The trail was marked with green blazes throughout, so it was quite easy to follow.

To the right was the immense industrial complex of the Merck pharmaceutical company, to which the aforementioned chimney belonged. I could feel my arteries being drained of cholesterol and my prostate reducing in size, just by breathing in that lovely fresh Mercky air.

The trail then turned left and took its leave from the powerline right-of-way. It turned into a tunnel through the bushes. Things began to get interesting.

Here's where the trail actually came in contact with the Wissahickon creek for the very first time.

Soon, I came to my first wet stream crossing. The Green Ribbon Trail is liberally endowed with these. Either due to a lack of funds or a desire to keep the trail environmentally as less intrusive as possible, there are no pure pedestrian bridges on the trail. Whenever the Green Ribbon, for no rhyme or reason, decides to leap to the opposite bank of the creek, the hiker needs to either wade through the water, or as in this case, walk over some very unstable-looking stepping stones.

After crossing the creek, I paused to take a picture of some strange but pretty flowers that begged me to. I heard them sing. And so will you, if you stop texting and twittering for a moment.

I had barely overcome the trauma of my first wet stream crossing when, after crossing North Wales Road, another, wetter crossing presented itself to me. Here, not only was the stream wider, but the stones were also farther apart and partially submerged in water. Additionally, the creek appeared to be swift and I could also see faces of dead people on its bottom.

Then, I came across something strange. A random concrete bridge across the creek. No road, just a bridge. A bridge to nowhere. I crossed the bridge to see what nowhere looked like in order to describe it to my grandchildren.

Tiny blue wildflowers on the side of a wooden boardwalk on the trail. Somebody had thrown a plastic bottle onto them. You will die, son. And you'll come back as a tunafish in your next life, swallow a plastic bottle and die again. You'll keep dying through various plastic bottle-related mishaps and keep coming back. And I would feel sorry for you, were it not for the fact that you threw a plastic bottle into the woods.

Soon, I came to a crossroads. Apparently, the trail had decided to turn right. I followed it without questioning its motives. The trail knows best.

Here, I came across my first fellow hiker, a running woman. I wondered why she was running. But once the undergrowth began closing in on my feet and nipping at my knees, I began to run too.

After outrunning the shrubbery, I came to the third wet stream crossing on the trail. Pthooey. I did this one with my eyes closed.

I finally opened them after falling into the water for the third time.

Much of the Wissahickon's passage through Philadelphia city is through a deep narrow gorge. Here's where it gives you just a slight hint of what it will be doing to the landscape later on in its route.

As I was walking through a section of the path enclosed on all sides by high bushes, one of them suddenly groaned. It sounded like a cow that would really have liked to moo, but was just too tired.

"Groan", said the bush.

After I had descended back to mother earth, I addressed the situation. I peered into the bush.

"What?" I said.

"Groan", the bush replied.

"I'm sorry, I did not wish to disturb you, I shall be on my way soon", I said to the bush.

"Groan", said the bush, apparently satisfied with my explanation.

I fled. I did not wish to partake of groaning bushes.

But then, I crossed a sweet idyllic meadow and all my fears soon left me.

Here's where somebody had planted trees on the trail and encircled them with wire so they would be protected from the deer (I assume). I don't know any hikers who like to gnaw on trees.

Here is where my other great fear, that of snakes left me. I saw this small dead mouse lying on the ground. If a dead mouse could lie unclaimed on the trail, it meant that there were no mouse-eating predators around. No snakes. Alright, high five.

A great blue heron roosting in the creek flapped its wings mightily and flew away.

Here's where the heron was. Right there. It was right there, I tell ya.

Finally, I emerged from the wilderness onto Swedesford Road. An elderly couple in an SUV gave me a puzzled look as I emerged from the bushes and drove away.

After inspecting the Satan's maw-like entrance of the trail on the other side of Swedesford road and inspecting my watch, I decided to turn back for now and come back another day.

The groaning bush awaited me. I wanted to tackle it before nightfall.

Fix his car

Fix his car, Philly. You flipped it over. Remember, every flipped car you fix today will allow you to guiltlessly flip another car tomorrow. Think of the future of car-flipping.

Book Shelf

Yesterday, at the Berwyn train station, I saw an empty shelf on the wall with a sign saying, "Take a book, Keep a book".

When I see a book on it, I will let you know.

Since I have been asked to furnish a story about the Liberty Bell, here it is.

We went to visit the Liberty Bell in his / her / its home in Old City Philadelphia. So as we were standing in front of it along with fifty other Liberty Bell admirers, one Taco Bell admirer who was kind of lost and one KFC admirer who was completely lost, I heard the guide say, "So here is the famous crack in the Liberty Bell which is", and he paused dramatically, "pretty hard to find". And the crowd around me roared in laughter. I also roared somewhat but after roaring for a couple of seconds, I stopped roaring and said to my wife, "I don't get the joke. The crack is really hard to find. In fact, to be honest, I can't see a single crack anywhere on the bell". Here is what the Liberty Bell looked like :

(via)

Then, after trying hard to find a crack on the Liberty Bell for some more time, I gave it up. I then probed the guide's comment for any hidden humorous connotations but all I could come up with were a number of connotations which, due to their vulgar implication, couldn't possibly be what he was referring to. So basically I gave up and then we left and went to do something else.

Now it appears that the Liberty Bell actually looked like this from the side opposite from where I was standing.

(via)

I get the joke now.

An account

Here is the account of last weekend's biking trip down the Schuylkill Trail as seen from zambezi's eyes. It was pretty much the same as seen from my eyes, except our eyes were on different bicycles and his were behind Govinda shades which he had mistakenly purchased thinking they were biking goggles whereas mine were behind spectacles worn by normal people who are not Govinda.

So it happened that after an entire summer of lethargy, apple-picking and meadow-strolling, zambezi finally managed to get convinced to go biking with me. Actually, to be fair, he was the one who approached me because his wife was out of town and he wanted to deal with the loss through physical exertion. As expected, he got lost on the way from New Jersey to Pennsylvania and would have made his way to Pittsburgh if I hadn't called him up and asked him to get off the next exit on the turnpike. I was not sure if zambezi would last through the bike ride so I administered a dose of creatine to him before we started.

He did good. We did good. The weather was mild and cloudy and it had just rained before we started. We made it to Manayunk in just under an hour where we had a couple of beers at the Manayunk Brewery on the bank of the Schuylkill. And then we continued on to the Museum of Art. Because the Independence Brew Pub has closed down, to partake of our celebratory brews, we had to do a west to east traversal of the entire Center City of Philadelphia in order to reach the Triumph Brewing Company on the Delaware River side. I ordered the fish and chips which they served in a conical contraption like the one in which they serve bhelpuri on Chowpatty beach. Zambezi ordered the chicken but unfortunately it was one that had been stunted from birth. Don't order the chicken if you are there. And if you do, ask them to bring it out to you before they cook it so you can give it a complete medical checkup. I had the scotch ale after a long time, one of my favorite beers with 7% ABV.

After the food and the beer, we biked back to Market East station where we caught the train to Norristown. Zambezi stretched out on the seat and fell fast asleep. During the ride, I checked his breathing once or twice just to make sure. Back in Manayunk, zambezi had commented to me that he didn't feel fatigued at all and in most countries, that would be an acceptable testament to his awesome physical shape. And I repeat what I told him then, that it is the final two or three miles that are the hardest, when the only thing that keeps you from admitting your leg muscles into the emergency room is sheer willpower and an overwhelming fear of being ridiculed on your friend's blog.

All in all, a commendable feat (33 miles) by a first time biker such as zambezi. Since then, zambezi has been calling me up once every two days and insisting that I compile a celebratory post about our outing and his accomplishment, making his case by declaring that if he had failed in the endeavor, I would probably have started typing even before we reached home. Which is probably true but only because of our warped media culture which tends to revel more in the story of an athlete's downfall rather than his glory.

Independence Brew Pub

Good Bye Independence Brew Pub. It was nice to have known you.

It used to be there right next to the Market East Station in Philadelphia, a convenient venue that gave every visitor to Philadelphia a last-minute opportunity to dull the pain of their impending return back to the suburbs through a pint of fine microbrew. For me, it used to be the high point and the culmination of my weekly excursion on the Schuylkill Trail.

It was a religious pilgrimage. Bike the 21 miles from Valley Forge to the Museum of Art, continue on to Philadelphia Center City, look for its tiny entrance off Market Street, secure the bike to a parking meter, tell the woman who'd just approached you for directions that you didn't know where Filbert Street was, a moment later realize that this was Filbert street, feel ashamed for letting a fellow human down, go on in, wash the salt formations off the face and finally settle down to a glass of beer. Yes, it was a wonderful ritual.

Apparently the owner of the brewpub was kicked out for not paying his rent. I'm not totally surprised though. If I owned all that beer, I would also probably go through life unaware of what day it was or the month or the year. And the fact that he was evicted while he was in the middle of a beer only serves to support my theory.

Anyways, word on the street is that some other brewery will be taking over the lease so all might not be lost. It will be interesting to see who it is.

30

I kicked off biking season on saturday with the Schuylkill Trail. The day was bright and sunny and mild. I was a bit apprehensive of starting out the season with a 30 mile trail but I threw caution to the wind and the wind threw it back at me. But it turned out that it wasn't that bad really. At least the first 25 miles to Center City.

At Conshohocken, which is about halfway along the trail, I stumbled across a newly constructed branch of the Cross-County Trail. I asked a guy with a bike standing in front of a sign saying "Cross County Trail to Plymouth Meeting - 3 miles" the question, "Do you know where this trail goes to and how far"? To be fair to me, I hadn't seen the sign when I asked him, but let's not be fair to me. To be fair to him, he probably thought I was an idiot and let's not be fair to him either. So we jawed back and forth about the trail, speculating on its length and if it was beautiful in a strictly platonic way till we both realized that if information had been paint, our faces would have been covered with the stuff due to all the signpost drippings. And then we laughed heartily in the manner of people glad to be in the presence of someone stupider than themselves.

Someday I should do the Cross County Trail. But not today. On to Philly. Philly was nice and bright and sunny and very crowded. A book fair was happening downtown. The book lover in me wanted to jump into the crowd and browse some french fries in a food stand I could vaguely see through all that mess. But the beer lover in me wanted to get to the Independence Brew Pub, my destination for the day.

Independence Brew Pub next to the Market East Station. They have a great oatmeal stout. One might say what is the point of biking all this way, burning up all these calories and then replenishing those same calories through beer? But if one were to ask such a question, one would be an idiot.

So after drinking a couple of beers and dining on fish and chips, I took the train back to Norristown, which is on the trail about five miles from the trail head. An Indian couple sat in the seat opposite to me. I wish I had more to say about the couple but I don't. They were just a normal couple. My bike fell on them twice.

The final five miles from Norristown to Valley Forge were excruciating. To demonstrate just how excruciating, just say the word excruciating and stretch the "cru" part for about a minute. Usually I love to push my body to the limit and usually it doesn't fight back but that day it did. The final mile was agony. But all good things have to end and finally, I was left with a raw behind and screaming legs. Not a bad season-opener, all in all.

Next week it'll either be the Conewago Trail, deep in the PA Christian belt or the D&R Trail, deep in the badlands of Princeton, New Jersey.

Face Off

So me and the wife were standing on the 11th Street Subway Station in Philadelphia, waiting for the Market-Frankford Line to take us to to 2nd Street, where the angels lay in waiting with food and drink (the Spice Cafe and the Triumph Brewing Company ). I was standing as close to the yellow line as I could, looking out for the train, as close to the subway tracks as was possible, without being one with them.

The Market Frankford line is the second seediest subway line in Philadelphia, the first being the Broad Street Line, there being only two Subway lines in the Philadelphia subway system. So as we were standing there in broad daylight, the daylight being obscured by the roof over our heads, us being below ground, two black punks entered the station from the left wing of the stage.

There was happiness all around as these two punks entered, them being happy and cracking jokes and laughing and all. And as we stood there, waiting for our transportation to appear, they started a-rappin', rap-a-tap-a-tappin', gettin' down wit' it dawg, crackin' out those rhymes with the world a-watchin'.

And I was watching and enjoying the rapping and they were going "wit an empty pocket" as the chorus to their rap song, and they were laughing and rapping and I was enjoying with them and then they called out, hey you, with the empty pocket.

And the station contained only four people out of which I was the only one with the empty pocket, but it couldn't be me because my pocket was full of my wallet and it was a big huge wallet and it was so big that it was showing through my pants and it couldn't possibly be an empty pocket, but wait a minute, maybe those punks were being satirical and making fun of my full pocket by calling it an empty pocket.

So the black punk called out, yes, you there with the empty pocket, do you have change for a 100 dollars?

I had 20 dollars in my full pocket but that was not the point, so I looked at the punk, and it seemed like he was, in fact, looking at me, and although I still had not come to terms with the fact that I had a satirically empty pocket, I knew he was talking to me.

Hey man, do you have change for a fifty dollars?

Ok, I get it, I have a fat wallet, but trust me, it is mostly full of health insurance cards and stamps and Indian driving licenses and no, I do not have change for fifty dollars, that wallet-fatness, that is but an illusion, and I wish I could have slipped an arm over his shoulder and walked with him to a park bench to explain that to him but he was with punk accompaniment and I was with wife so I had very little recourse.

And because he was black and I was brown and I was with wife and with very little humanity on the station, I pretended that he was speaking to someone else on the other platform, on the other side of the tracks, directly collinear with me. I smiled at him because he was not speaking to me. He was speaking to the guy on the other platform collinear with me.

Mrs Gawker said to me, let us go stand with the rest of the civilized world to our left. The civilized world consisted of a woman speaking on a cellphone. But I was defiant. I had worked out in the fucking gym for the past three months and in the absence of a pistol-shaped bulge in those pants, I was going to defend my turf. No, I said, If we move, they win. And fuck it, I do not have an empty pocket or a full pocket.

I kept my ground. With my empty / fat wallet. And soon, the punks quit making fun of my pocket and moved on. And there was a lesson there for all you punks. Do not mess with a married Indian. He will beat your ass. He will beat your ass with his Indian driving license if need be. Do not mess with him. And please forgive his massive wallet. It is an Indian thing. Where else can he keep his Indian driving license?

Friday Photo Blogging : The Schuylkill River Trail

Don't look now and correct me if I'm wrong, but I think spring is here. Okay what the heck, go on, look. Too late, it's back to freezing again. Look again tomorrow. It's expected to be nice and sunny and warm. But don't look on sunday because it's supposed to be cold and rainy. Monday is expected to be like saturday, tuesday like monday and fuck wednesday because no one cares about wednesday. So coming back to spring, I expect cycling activities to commence this weekend. Luckily, Philly, if not the biking capital of the US, is at least the biking capital of Philly with a number of decent biking trails within stone-throwing distance, although if you are going to throw a stone, make sure you aim for the speed-cyclists and not the leisure bikers. The biking trail that I patronize the most out of sheer laziness due to its close proximity to me is the Schuylkill River Trail from Valley Forge to the Philadelphia Art Museum along the banks of the Schuylkill River, a distance of about 25 miles.

The trail begins in Valley Forge Historic Park where George Washington amassed his troops during the revolutionary war while preparing to attack Philadelphia, which had been captured by the British and whose residents were now being forced to spell color with a "u".

On its way to Philly, the trail passes through Manayunk, a semi-pretentious neighbourhood which apparently is the place to be in if you're a young puppy, or, as it's known nowadays, a yuppy.

People travel to Manayunk to bike on a very small section of the trail along the Manayunk canal which makes perfect sense because that section of the trail is generously endowed with crumbling factory buildings like this one which makes for a very scenic ride.

But to be fair, the trail also has sections like this one where the buildings get momentarily obscured by foliage.

Finally, the trail breaks out onto Kelly Drive, where the beautiful people of the city hang out to showcase their beauty and also to stay beautiful by engaging in various activities of physical exertion such as roller blading, biking and canoing. The following is the spot on the trail where the highly anticipated Philadelphia skyline makes its first appearance.

Further along the way, you pass this sculpture of a man shielding his eyes from the sun while humping an eagle, a testament to willpower and physical exertion.

Finally, the trail ends at the Philadelphia Art Museum which is a great place to spend a day in. One of the best exhibits in the museum is an entire authentic South Indian temple which was moved here and reconstructed one naked sculptured breast at a time.

Of course, you don't have to stop biking once you are at the Museum of Art. You could continue on into downtown Philly along this avenue lined with the flags of all countries except India, which the New Jerseyites keep stealing come every Independence Day to hang outside their own homes.

On the way, you pass City Hall with the statue of William Penn on top, who is famous for having his statue on top of City Hall.

Just behind this marvellous No Stopping sign which I really did mean to include in the picture, you can see a flock of people who've just exited a theater on Broad Street after watching a play.

This is the Kimmel Center, cultural center of the city. I am not sure what happens in there but some day I mean to find out. Maybe this guy knows, in fact, I am pretty sure that he does, so why don't you just ask him instead.

As for me, my ultimate destination is almost always South Philly, Heavenly Abode of the Cheesesteak Deity.

I hope this travelogue will inspire some of you to travel to Philadelphia for taking its sights and sounds in and Mayor John Street out with you when you leave. If so, may the spirit of the Lizard riding a Chicken aid and abet you in your endeavours.

Related post : The Delaware Canal Biking Trail.

Bad Idea

The road to the Subway is horrible. Apart from all the 90 degree turns, it is ridden with potholes. Especially one particular spot where the car's left wheels go into a pothole, and then the right wheels, then the steering wheel comes off and you have to guide the car using brain waves. They haven't fixed this road up for the past year. This is what I think happened, and it is an educated guess on my part, that the PennDot, the Pennsylvania department of transportation, dug up the road while constructing a highway bridge over it and then did a sad job of filling it back up. And then the local township said to itself, hell, the potholes weren't our doing, so why in the name of sweet Jesus should we rebuild it? At least, this is the conversation I would have had with myself if I had been a government employee.

So no one filled up those potholes for a year and in the meantime the pile of steering wheels on the pavement grew and grew. And it was especially hard on me because as you know the Subway is the only eating joint in the vicinity and so I have to navigate this road every single day. Finally, one day, I decided that I had had enough of coffee cups falling off the roof of my car. So I went on the internet and looked for the website of this township and found that their website actually had a pothole reporting form on it, how about that? So I filled up this form and added my own biting invective in the text box where it said "Other Comments". I love it when websites have an "Other Comments" box because that is like the owner bending over, unbuttoning his pants, handing you a wooden rod and asking you to whack away. And so I did, and it unburdened my heart and it felt like an elephant had just removed his foot from the wooden chest of my happiness and walked away.

And it worked man, it worked. A week later, there were repair crews all over, whistling at women and shoveling gravel into those potholes. And although I felt a bit sad while saying goodbye, I knew that filling those babies up was the right thing to do.

Soon, cars, which previously had to slow down to navigate that section of the road were racing past and breaking the speed limit. And now, everyday, I have to spend hours on end waiting for a break in the speeding traffic that could allow me to get the hell out of the Subway parking lot and back onto the street. So all in all, sending that email appears to have been a mediocre idea. The only glimmer of hope in all this is the near-certainty that Penndot will be along soon to dig up the road again. After all, Pennsylvania IS the state having the worst roads in the USA.

Update : Apparently PA only has the 2nd worst roads in the country.

Messy Eaters

There is a bar in downtown Philly I visited last Sunday, called "Chickie's and Pete's", that boasts of having "a washbasin in the center of the room for messy eaters". I don't see any benefit in having such a washbasin for messy eaters. And my opinion on this topic was vindicated by the fact that during my entire time there, I did not see a single messy eater avail himself of this opportunity to wash himself up at this basin. After all, if someone were a messy eater, would this person actually get up from his table and use that washbasin, in the process, broadcasting to the world his inability to transfer food safely from the plate to the mouth? I think not.

Or for that matter, if a bar proudly advertised itself as having "special window seats for people with a flatulence problem", would you openly patronize these flatulent-friendly seats?

Actually I'm not so sure, knowing you, you probably would, if you were really gassy.

In remembrance

Today is a sad day, a day of sorrow, a day of mourning. Today is the day we eulogize the passing of Harry Olivieri, the inventor of the Philadelphia cheesesteak.

Philadelphia is a grand old city. It is chock full of history. History with a big crack down its middle. History that can be viewed in art form and misunderstood. History full of rolling hills and lazy arthritic deer. Black history. White history. But there is only one kind of history in Philadelphia that can be smothered with onions and cheese and devoured to the accompaniment of beer. That is the Philadelphia cheesesteak.

I remember the first time I had a Philadelphia cheesesteak. It was four years ago and I had just arrived in this city, hungry, scared, broke and with a car full of plastic rectangles I had purchased in Walmart and didn't want to throw away when I moved. I had been unemployed for four months and had forgotten what meat looked like. Or cheese.

That is why when the city embraced me with open arms and handed me a big cheesesteak, I did not know what to do with it. I held it against the light and it was beautiful. I sniffed it and it smelt of happiness. I grazed my lips against it and it tasted of sunshine. I placed it on the carpet and knelt in reverence. I kept it on paper and traced its outline. I sang to it. I fixed it a bubble bath and lowered it into the bathtub. It sank to the bottom. That was not a smart thing to do. I went and bought another.

I ate this one. Anyone who's ever eaten a Philly cheesesteak can never have amorous relations with an ordinary sandwich with the same passion again. The combination of thinly sliced ribeye steak, cheese, onions and sometimes mushrooms, depending on whether you are gay or not, on a long roll is something every person on this planet needs to experience at least once during his lifetime.

This is historic Pat's King of Steaks, the place in South Philadelphia where the first ever cheesesteak was invented by Mr Harry Olivieri and his brother, Pat. I once biked 30 miles from Valley Forge to Pat's Steaks and back. It was my pilgrimage, my homage to this extraordinary sandwich that is virtually a food group for most Philadelphians, along with pizza, beer and hookers.

Rest in peace Mr Olivieri. Thinly sliced. Smothered in onions. And drizzled with cheese, of course.

The Great Flood of June 2006

This is a picture I snapped from my helicopter as I was flying to work today. As is obvious from the picture, due to all that water surrounding my office building, which happens to be the one at seven o' clock, there was no space for me to land. So I had to fly back home without doing a single minute of work. Oh, the horror.

They say all the rivers in this area are gonna continue to rise through tonight and tomorrow. Let us hope Noah didn't forget to pack the camels. We will be needing them once all this is over. Camel meat is delicious or so they say.

Three Days in the Life of the PA Turnpike

Day 1

Day 2









Day 3

I was gonna add a couple more pictures where George W. Bush comes up to me and gives me a tax cut and I use those wads of cash to fill up the pothole, but I didn't because Christianity recently came out with a law forbidding the depiction of its prophets on paper and I didn't want Pat Robertson issuing a fatwa on my head.