Philadelphia Freedom

Call it sleep deprivation or road weariness, but as we neared the end of our weekend trip to Philadelphia on Sunday, my husband and I were in stitches. I lived in Philadelphia for six years, and even after I moved south, I still trekked to the northeast on a regular basis. But that was another lifetime ago, and I’ve forgotten the highs and lows of driving the stretch of I-95 between Washington DC and the City of Brotherly Love. Even if I could remember everything from those days, I’d still be repelled/enchanted by the new urban vignettes one can spy out the window. It did my heart good to see the signs like “Elite Bail Bonds” just north of Baltimore, and “this Highway adopted by Club Risqué” as we approached Philadelphia. I credit my quirky hometown of Louisville for my wack sense of humor, but dag if the Northeast ain’t funnier than it used to be. I was plain worshipful of the Preakness billboards I saw on our return drive through Baltimore. “Get Your Preak On,” they admonished. Don’t mind if I do!

But the real punch-drunk laughter came after the three-hundredth mediation of back-seat slap-fights between our kids. All weekend we’d been maintaining the road-trip calorie drip of crackers, yogurt and trail mix to keep everyone as content as possible. A friend had advised me to select my children’s snacks based on the complexity of their packaging. That way, just opening the food would constitute a boredom buster.  But the bloom was off the rose by the time we crossed over thirteen hours of driving in three days. No tricky ziplock of dried pomegranate seeds or crafty shrink-wrapped juice box could save us from our roving cabin fever. And another thing: though I carefully assessed snacks for their antioxidant content and Houdini factor, I blindly overlooked their fiber content. By the time we rolled south onto the Capitol Beltway on Sunday, the back seat of our car nearly lifted for takeoff. As a policy, Joe and I don’t react when our kids pass gas so they won’t become self-conscious and spaz out their intestines. But that policy was temporarily lifted, too. Up to our knees in bendy straws, raisin boxes, and flung bread crusts, Joe and I started singing  “Puff the Magic Dragon” but with the words “Toot, the Rolling Dumpster…” I’m sure I swerved, tears streaming down my cheeks, as Joe spotted a Volvo wagon in an adjacent lane and said “Hey, look, another dumpster!”

There was much more to our Philadelphia trip than fart songs and ironic highway signage. We enjoyed my 20th college reunion, had wonderful visits with friends, and returned to my food Mecca: DiBruno Brothers House of Cheese in the Italian Market.  Walking around West Philadelphia, a bit of nostalgia came over me, along with a dose of there-but-for-the-grace-of-God-go-I. But the vacation part of the trip came from laughter over words–printed, spoken, or sung. It’s true that it’s not what’s on the outside that matters, but what’s on the inside.  Of the station wagon.