“Welcome to Philadelphia! The City of Brotherly Love, City of Sisterly Affection, Home of the World Champion Philadelphia Phillies, Home of the Soon to be World Champion Philadelphia Flyers, Home of the Philadelphia 76ers—what are you gonna do?”
All of this with 3 cars behind me at the Avis Car Rental exit gate, and all before the attendant even glanced at my license, which I hold expectantly out the window as I drove up.
“Washington? I’ve been to Washington. Man it’s cold there—I’ve never been that cold before. Bet you can guess why I was there, huh?”
Um, nope.
“The Inauguration!”
Ah. I’m from Washington state actually, not Washington D.C.
“Washington state! Well, I think we drove through it on the way to the inauguration, so that still counts, right?”
Sure…
“Man, what a cold day that was!” (still holding my license)
I bet… must have been pretty cool to see history being made though.
(Horns honking behind me)
“Oh yeah…. oh yeah. Wouldn’t a missed it. Cold though. Let’s hope he does a good job—lotta work to do.”
Yep. I should let you get back to your work in fact.
“Gonna watch the game today?”
What game?
“The Flyers—big game! Gotta watch the game.”
(Horns insistent now, while the attendant tells me a bunch of stuff I can’t remember about the current state of a sport I don’t follow)
I don’t really follow sports, sorry. Hey, can I have my license back?
“Why is everyone in a hurry all the time? Yeah, here you go. Shouldn’t be in a hurry all the time.”
Thanks, I’ll try to slow down—enjoy your weekend!
Left turn out of the gate, and a glance in the rear mirror just in time to see the car behind me speed past the attendant, fishtail into the road, then blow past me (and two stop signs) in a race to get to wherever—probably New Jersey, since he showed me the state bird as he passed.
Turn on the Sirius radio in the car, and Bruce is singing “My Lucky Day,” E Street Radio left programmed on the preset from whoever had the car last.
Those were my first few minutes back home in Philadelphia—and they were about as epitomic as can be.
I’m spending a few days here doing final preparations for our bus tour (and okay, maybe I’m here to see a couple of Springsteen shows, too), and I’m surprised by how much I miss the local attytood.
Didn’t keep me from having a “When Worlds Collide” moment though:
Drove 25 minutes from my mom’s house to the closest Starbucks (a shocking enough statement by itself for a nor’wester) and ordered my usual double-tall 120-degree cappuccino.
“I don’t think we can do that,” said the guy behind the counter (I’m not sure what they call them here, but there’s no way anyone in Philly has a job title of “barista”).
What? Yes you can. I order that all the time.
“Not here you don’t. I don’t think we’re allowed to make it at that temperature. That’s below the kids’ drinks temperature.”
Look—I’m at Starbucks multiple times a day, every day, and I’m telling you: you can make your drinks at 120 degrees.
“Why do you want it that cold anyway? That’s just wrong.”
(Impatient people behind me. Probably the same ones from the Avis rental.)
Not in Italy—espresso is served warm there so you can drink it quickly.
“Why do you want to drink it quickly?”
I don’t—I’m just saying!
“So why do you want it at 120 degrees.”
Dude. Make my drink. The way I ordered it. Please.
“I’m pretty sure I’m not allowed to—I think it has something to do with the milk being pasteurized. Or not pasteurized. I forget. But it’s a safety thing. I know somebody just asked for a drink at 180, 190 degrees and we couldn’t do that either. Safety thing.”
That’s a heat thing—you can burn yourself with hot coffee. I’m not going to freeze if I spill 120-degree coffee on me. Make the drink, please.
Chorus of voices behind me: “Make the drink!”
Lady Barista at the end of the bar yells out with exasperation, “I have a double-tall 120-degree cappuccino on the bar.”
I look smugly at my opponent, who says not a word other than the total, which I pay.
I add some honey, walk out of Starbucks, get in the car, take a sip—and it can’t possibly be more than 110 degrees.
But I take my share of victory, and leave them theirs.
It tastes sweet.