It's always sunny in Philadelphia

I reach Philadelphia that, in some ways, feels more like a town than a city, compared to other big American places. The bus trip offers me a long and deserved nap, a lay over in New-York that doesn’t make me want to come back and a beautiful sunset in New Jersey. I thus arrive Saturday by night. Okay, it is not night night but it is already dark, always early like a winter evening. The bus drops me off on Market Street, clean and illuminated; yet, Philly quickly shows me its real organic face in the subway’s depth whose meanders lose me. I am exhausted despite my caught-up sleep, I feel like it is 4 a.m in neon lights. On desert quays alike a hangover night. I only want one thing: sleep forever. But I am lost in busy trains and my instinct is enabled. But I walk in the dark and cold night to 9th Street famous Cheesesteak Restaurants and the town is reborn. But I meet Stephanie and Marc, my hosts here, and my sleepy soul awakes.

This first night of encounter, this first minute of fusion, deserve a whole novel so quickly our endless friendship intertwines our life in one second; I will therefore focus on what goes next, the unexpected night waiting for us, promising I will soon share more upcoming words about Stephanie and Marc. Then, the evening I would have dreamt lazy turns into a totally amazing night. After a warm-up beer, we walk in South Philly shinny streets and end up at a restaurant with their friend Andrew. Our unpredictable evening takes an improvised stop at René’s, French expat from Nice, his chocolate shop is at the corner of the Italian Market. Incredible and corky person, he shares his own version of French culture in front of a funny audience, his idol is Lara Fabian and her « Je t’aime » song. He explains to me Nice is Toulouse’s neighbor when you ride your Harley Davidson at 100 mph on the highway. But Stephanie’s highlight of the night, ordinary for me who isn’t surprised by anything anymore, are penis and other positions chocolates that I want to rename here: ChoKamasutra, let it be known. Then, we have a rock concert in Andrew’s basement. It is already 1 am, Cinderella became a pumpkin a long time ago, I finally sink into my silver full moon night.

After a sleeping-in morning and a Hebrew breakfast, I am discovering the real Philadelphians’ city, led by Marc and their dog Lola. Life is colorful and sunny in this February Sunday. We cross dirty Italian market stalls where all fancy people spend their weekend, especially when a sunbeam surprises them.

And we detour towards the Magic Garden, eclectic and shiny, which strangely reminds me of Gaudi architecture. And we wander throughout South Street, so different from my bus arrival quiet lights. Condom Kingdom is neighbor of the best donuts in town, the street remembers discriminations against Blacks and plays violin with green dreadlocks, walls draw the racist ancient mayor’s portrait, born and raised in the district people want to remove his lying features.

I am part of the city’s daily respiration. I can feel it throbbing in my hand, I understand its real life, with no artifact nor overcrowded tourism, leading me from one shop to another, offering the cheerful spectacle of parents with their strollers, of young adults in their thirties, of cultures blending and untangling in our plates.

Then, as Marc and Stephanie go back to their own life for a while, I follow my lonely steps on the river’s shores behind the Museum of Art. The sun disappears in the suburbs and sparkles my wandering in this city that perfectly fits me. I love this kind of places where people can actually exist, they give their energy to the city instead of being eaten by it, they choose it without suffering it, they belong and can share it with no excuse. I love to discover each district’s identity, its life by night or day, its child’s or student’s activity. I love its simple and humble vibe.
My sunny Sunday ends in the dark or close, Marc and Stephanie join me, they want me to discover the horticulture park where Marc brought a giant tiny Earth. It shines blue and empty in the jungle, and changes my geography: there is so little land in the southern part of our planet, you never realize that fact on a flat map or if you are not looking the globe from down. We meditate here for a few minutes, in an atmosphere so far from Philly, bringing peace to our tired heart. We are ready to sleep.

Monday proves the TV show wrong, it is not always sunny in Philadelphia since the rain sticks to the walls and the cars. I linger for a few hours, still sleepy, in Federal Donuts, in order to finish my interstellar adventures before meeting the grey sky and its tears. All of a sudden, the city is less alive, not because of the rain but because it is turning into a museum, it becomes history; it tells me how American History becomes more real with Liberty Bell ring. The Proclamation of Independence was written and read here, in the Ancient State of Pennsylvania. Triumphal Revolution troops hammered streets here with their victorious hooves. Philadelphia was the capital of the newly free US, waiting for Washington DC Capitol to be built.

Once my history lesson is known, I linger in another time, wandering in the Old town alleys, with the most famous and favorite one, Elfreth’s Alley, so picturesque and cheerful even in between winter drops. I am so happy of this day which tells me another story, of this piece of town throbbing differently.

Then, I find shelter in the Natural History Museum where Stephanie who works there, gives me the privilege of an exceptional experience in the Academy corridors. I discover her “behind the scene” where all species -from the smallest shell to the biggest bird- forever witness of our time are preciously kept in white shelves; where her colleague shares his both smoky and clever theories about fake scientists. I love so much to hear stories, especially when they are told with passion and weirdness. As for me, multicolor birds and their forever mystery enchant me.
After so many florid tales, Stephanie and I walk home, arm in arm, glimmering with my new friend anecdotes.

The next day, I wander once more in the rain and I reach the illuminated and colorful Reading Terminal Market. I take advantage of this loud shelter to lay on my red notebook my stay in Philly, already ending tomorrow.
Then, my visit of this city ends where I left it yesterday, in between the Natural History Museum and the Museum of Art. I look at Benjamin Franklin Parkway through Love Park frame, drawing bridges in between the most beautiful buildings in Philly: from the City Hall to the Museum of Art, with a short stop in Saint Peter Basilic.
I end up at the museum, one afternoon is not enough to discover all its marvels… Art today is visible to everybody across the world thanks to internet, but when I gaze at Van Gogh’s Sunflowers, I realize what I have missed all this time. They are tangible, I would like to touch its different shades, I would like to smell it, no reproduction has ever given me that feeling. I would like more master pieces, I would like more painted and changing explorations. Here is my artistic slap in the heart!

The museum closes too early though, after a random and fleeting encounter on the baroque balcony. I can’t come back tomorrow, I am leaving tomorrow. There was so much to see…
I run down the stairs, famous thanks to Rocky and his cinematographic trainings; in fact, a statue honors him nearby. But I don’t recognize him… I have been talked about Rocky for days and I naively think I am told about the stairs leading to the museum. It is only a few days later, in NYC, that I am explained, ashamed, how wrong I am…

It is my last night with Stephanie and Marc, I share my simple cooking skills to thank them for their kind hospitality. And I complete my desperate quest for accommodations in NYC where I am going tomorrow, where my North American journey is ending. But don’t go forward…
I want to enjoy one last time Stephanie’s insolent smile, Marc’s happy indolence, Lola’s innocent quiet and this feverish life on markets’ stalls, simple, messy, loud, dirty, happy. In Philly’s streets….