After packing my suitcase and checking out of the hotel I handed my luggage to the bell hop or the porters or the guys on the concierge desk, whatever you want to call them, and then headed out. My plan was to visit the Mutter Museum – a place where you'll find skulls and embryos and damaged limbs and all sorts of horrible things, but you know what? It wasn't horrible enough for me. I was expecting a much bigger building with much more horrific exhibits, but no, it was a little tame. Even the bit where you could see what it was like to have your arm amputated was, well, it was tame. I left $18 worse off and then walked a long way down 22nd Street before realising I was travelling in the wrong direction. I retraced my steps until I found Locust and headed towards the centre of town and, of course, Bellini.
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| Tiramisu, home-made, at Bellini, Philadelphia – yummy! |
The restaurant was empty bar a small party of people celebrating their daughter's graduation. I ordered potato and leek soup followed by tortellini with mushroom sauce and shrimp and then I fell victim to temptation. All week I had avoided desserts and rightly so, but a home-made tiramisu was not to be missed so I ordered one followed by a peppermint tea. After paying the bill I hobbled out on to the street and headed back to the Doubletree and then to the Good Karma Café next door for an orange blossom tea and a read of my book, Unknown Pleasures by Peter Hook. Soon, however, it was time to pick up my cases from the hotel and take the shuttle to the airport. And then, of course, all the travel hassles start, not that there were many of them. The main grief is always security and I'm amazed how the procedure changes. Why did I have to take my shoes off on the return flight when I didn't have to take them off coming out? Annoying. Once through I just sat at the gate (A16). Normally I'd go and find some kind of burger or chicken joint and order a glass of cabernet and get chatting with somebody, but this time I just sat there waiting to board.
I tried to upgrade myself by explaining my back issue in the hope I'd get sent to business class, but no, they weren't interested unless I paid the best part of $500. Sod that. So I sat in seat 44C, an aisle seat, on the 747 that would be taking me across the Atlantic. During the flight I mixed watching the map – I'm intrigued about something known as the Charlie-Gibbs Fracture Zone, which is in the middle of the Atlantic. What is it? There's stuff online about it, but I've not had time to sit and read it. Anyway, it exists and that's all that matters. Or does it matter? Probably not. When I wasn't watching the map I was reading or looking at my watch, which was set to Philadelphia time.
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| Inside Bellini, Friday around 1pm... |
The flight was smooth and soon it landed (at 0636hrs). I hobbled off the plane, picked up my case from the baggage reclaim and then went in search of my Albanian taxi driver. He was a nice guy, but for some reason took me home via central London, along the West Way, Hammersmith, Chelsea, across Wandsworth Bridge, through Streatham and Croydon and eventually home. I went straight to bed and slept for six hours solid, waking around 1530hrs. And now I'm just chilling, the Eurovision Song Contest is on and spaghetti bolognaise is cooking in the kitchen. What more could I ask for?
I liked Philadelphia, it was good city, an established city, like New York and Chicago and I hope I'll go back there again soon. My pal Martin lives there and I'm hoping to return soon.
