In Which I Rock It in Philly

It's been a busy 24 hours.

A mostly happy and relaxing 24 hours.

C'est moi, Cleopatra

I got to Philly in time for the noon tour of the "Cleopatra" show at the Franklin Institute. Best find? Free parking! Seriously!

The exhibit was wonderful. It features finds from the old, now-submerged port of Alexandria. Most of the statues were of pink granite. Cleopatra as 50s retro? With items of gold so beautifully and simply made, it was stunning to realize that such workmanship existing two thousand years ago.

Bonjour, Monsieur L'Envoie

The Franklin Institute is a place I'll have to visit again. I loved the four-story high dome a la Pantheon with equally huge statue of Mr. Franklin front and center.

I understand wanting to get the young 'uns interested in science, but is it at all possible to have a no-children day at a museum? Just saying. The chief product of Philadelphia seems to be screaming children.

Take Your Cabbie to Lunch

After the Franklin Institute, I checked into the hotel, unloaded my bag in my room and then headed out to the cab stand. After all, I've been to Philly three or four times already and I'd yet to have an authentic Philly cheese steak.

I got into a cab and when I told the driver the address, he said, "So you going to Pat's or Geno's?"

These are two rival cheese steak stands, catty corner from each other.

Pat's was first, so I that's where I wanted to go.

Because I figured it would be hard to get a taxi in south Philly (not a good neighborhood, as I understand it), I asked the driver if he'd had lunch yet. He said he was just about to eat and I said, "Come on, I'll treat you to a cheese steak and then you can cart me back to the hotel."

He agreed and we sat outside at a table along the curb to eat.

I am disappointed to report that the cheese steak was mostly gross.

I embrace fried onions, cheese wiz (the not-so-secret ingredient) and the dripping grease. But the steak was rubbery and gristly. In short, ugh.

The Ballad of Reading Station

Once back at the hotel, I went directly across the street to Reading Terminal, which has been turned into a huge market. It's 95% produce, sea food, and luscious-looking steaks, but I found a little stand that sold bath salts and lavender sachets. I bought a packet of lavender bath salts and some other goodies.

There's a fantastic candy/chocolate store there. I didn't try the chocolate, but I bought Turkish paste, aka Turkish Delight, and cream mints. I've been looking for a special kind of mint ever since Thalheimer's in Richmond, one of the two great department stores there, went out of business.

There's also a creperie, a stall that sells French tablecloths, and an Indian snack stand where I saw a lady behind the counter making samosas from scratch. In short, Reading Market is fun place to wander.

As I was leaving, four girls working at a cookie stall started calling out, "Cookies! One dollar a cookie! Cookies for a dollar! Sir, you look like you need a cookie! Ma'am, don't leave without your cookies! You know you want your cookies!"

One Tequila, Two Tequila

I went up to my room, flung myself on my big, fluffy bed and watched TV for awhile. TV! It hasn't changed. The room didn't have the newfangled flat screen, but hey, a TV with cable is a novelty to me.

I may have snoozed. But then I realized it was dinner time and I was ready for a treat. I took myself back down to the lobby, to the restaurant there.

I sat at the bar and ordered a margarita, rocks, salt. It was delicious. And thirst-quenching. And tasted like another, so I ordered one.

There were two women my age sitting next to me, screaming with laughter. I heard some dark sarcasm in there and thought, here I am, among my people!

I let them go for awhile and then after I'd had my fabulous and absolutely perfect filet mignon dinner, turn and asked what they did for a living. They'd talked a lot about work and dramas and people, but I didn't hear where they worked.

"We're in publishing," they said and I thought, my peeps!

"I used to work for Unnamed Co.," I said and it was like a homecoming.

We talked about how horrible publishing is now, how horrible the past couple of years have been. They asked me what I was doing now and I told them I'm a consultant at Big Finance. They screamed with laughter. "That's a change!"

"That's where the money is," I said.

They had more drinks. I sipped my 'rita. And then I handsomely tipped the handsome bartender, said my farewells and went upstairs to bed.

Where I stared at the ceiling for an hour before I hit myself over the head and went to sleep.

There's Got to be a Morning After

I woke up at 8 o'clock. Me. Sleeping until well after my usual wake-up time. And not aching all over. What exactly is it that those cats do to me every night?

I made myself some coffee, lazed on the wonderful bed a little more, then packed up all my cares and woes and candy into my backpack.

Breakfast was at the same restaurant dinner was.

And keeping in mind Queen Mediocretia's standard for hotel breakfasts, ended up having lump crab Eggs Benedict. Oh, dear heaven. What bliss! Fresh squeezed orange juice. Coffee like silk. And eggs, Hollandaise sauce, and crab cakes.

Parting is such sweet sorrow

Still, after breakfast, I was ready to come home. I see how valuable it is for me to get away every now and then. It's fabulous. I have to do this more than once every four years. Seriously.