Leave the Gun, Take the Cannoli

I remember the first thing my father said I had to do when I got to New York was go to the Feast of San Gennaro in Little Italy. I figured it would be like festivals usually are in Florida—one long row of vendors, some treats here and there, things like that. But in New York, it’s a little different. Like “Go Big or Go Home” different.

The Feast of San Gennaro runs the length of Mulberry Street, throughout all of Little Italy. It stretches from Canal Street up north to Houston Street, which is six short city blocks, and from Baxter Street to Mott Street, which is two long city blocks. In reality, this isn’t a grand space—it’s only a quarter mile long. But the streets are jam-packed with any kind of Italian food and/or novelty item you can imagine.

My mother initially laughed at me on the phone when I asked her before I went, “Oh, so there’s food there?” I thought by ‘Feast’ they meant festival, I guess.

“Uh, YEAH, ‘there’s food there.’ Are you kidding? There’s practically only food there!”

It is, literally, a feast.

 Cannolis, braciole, sausage and peppers, rice balls, gelato, lasagna—the list of foods simply goes on forever. And the vendors are thick, brawny men with dark hair and names like Vinny or Gino who all shout out at you in thick New York accents—“GETCHA CANNOLIS HERE! WHO WANTS A CANNOLI? YOU WANT A CANNOLI? COME HAVE A CANNOLI!” They smile and gesture wildly, like children on a playground trying to show their parents a really cool rock.

But it is all really cool. The Feast of San Gennaro is actually an annual celebration of the Patron Saint of Naples, started in New York by Italian immigrants carrying over the celebration from the homeland. Originally the Feast was only one day, but now in New York it’s 11 days, and draws usually around one million visitors during the entire span of the event. The Feast has now been a New York tradition for 84 years, beginning with the first saint’s day celebration on September 19, 1926.

The streets are decorated in every kind of red, green, and white decoration imaginable, from tinsel tto crepe paper streamers, cellophane fringe, and more. All of the Italian restaurants up and Mulberry Street put special tables outside and decorate with curtains of Christmas lights in the colors of the Italian flag. Restaurant entertainers play Italian-American standards while women over fifty merrily dance and spin white cloth napkins over their heads like helicopters in time with the music. There are bounce houses and carnival games for kids, Pina Colada stands for adults, and karaoke for those somewhere in between. People walk in endless streams and down the streets, carrying their street food dinner in their hands up and down the length and width of the festival.

At the southernmost end of the event is the Franciscan church, where followers can pray in front of a statue of the Virgin Mary or the Holy Cross, both twinkling with Christmas lights. The festival involves a parade and religious services at the Most Precious Blood Church on Mulberry Street, which holds the National Shrine of San Gennaro.

But even for those without religious background, the festival is a sight and an experience to behold. It’s really just another thing I love about New York—people from whatever backgrounds come together to celebrate holidays just because it’s fun. And probably also because of the cannolis.

Friends, Music, Taco Joints

“Are you in love?” Julia asks me.

Light of heart and free of spirit, this question was quintessential Julia, who always wants people to be loved. Julia Easterlin is an incredibly talented musician and dear friend who reappeared in my life on Wednesday courtesy of Facebook and the Lower East Side (again, normally I don’t use names, but I want you to know hers and listen to her music!). I hadn’t seen her in a little over five years and we were both intent on catching up on each others’ lives.

At 9:30 that morning, I checked Facebook and was delighted to see Miss Easterlin had invited me to a performance that night in my fair Manhattan. I instantly made plans to see her. “HOLY MOLY I AM SOOOOOO EXCITEEEEEEEEEEED. OMGOMGYAAAAAAA” she said.

That’s what I love about New York—everyone comes to visit. Somehow, even if it’s been years, you sit, you have a drink, you talk, and the years fall away.

Julia and I sat at a little brown table in Googie’s, a small music venue awash in blue light where she was playing a show that evening. Googie’s sits quietly atop the famed Living Room bar and concert venue on 154 Ludlow Street, and waitresses will climb 32 stairs to bring you a beverage. There are six of these little brown tables in Googie’s, with the occasional couch, bench, or futon close by. On the small stage, there is a glossy baby grand piano that must be yellow in real life because looks sea green in the blue light. Dark curtains dotted with white Christmas lights hang in the back over the windows. It is a sweet, intimate little venue.

Julia spilled about her life, her music, her travels, and I was so excited to hear all of it. I was also excited to hear her sing again. When we were 15, Julia gave me her demo, a soulful collection of songs she sang accompanied by a guitar. And if she was that good when we were 15, I thought she would be even more fantastic now. I wasn’t wrong.

Julia got on stage and sang even more beautifully than I remembered in a soul-y, folk-y, jazz-y voice as rich as dark hot chocolate. This time, though, instead of accompanying herself on guitar, she accompanied herself with…herself. Julia used a looper pedal, which allows a musician to instantly record and replay parts of a song, to record her own hand claps, snaps, and vocal beats. She then replayed them and sang over them. Then she recorded that part of the song, replayed it and harmonized with herself. In the best way possible, my brain went “Whaaaaat is happening??? This bitch is fierce.” It was literally like watching (and listening to) magic happen. Listen for yourself at www.myspace.com/juliaeasterlin.

Julia was in Googie’s and in New York that night courtesy of Monkey Rock, a weekly singer-songwriter show produced by musician and Berklee grad Tommy Bohlen. Monkey Rock began in Boston as a “community comprised of artists and friends from all over the world who support each other by promoting and performing as a group.” Now, though, there’s a Monkey Rock show in New York, every Wednesday from 9-11:30pm. Talented musicians, like Julia and fellow musician Nathan Reich (www.myspace.com/nathanreich), make beautiful sounds with guitars, pianos, looper pedals and much more, so if you’re in the mood for a (free!) relaxed evening and you like good music, check out the Monkey Rock show www.monkeyrocknyc.blogspot.com/.

After a fantastic show, we were feeling snacky so we drifted a block over to a brightly colored hole-in-the-wall taco joint called Snack Dragon. Open til 4am most nights, Snack Dragon offers inexpensive Mexican-style yummies like chorizo tacos and nachos. It is also home to the delicious Slayed Dragon, which is made with shredded marinated pork and not actual dragon. We sat outside at a lovely little blue picnic table underneath a ginkgo tree wrapped in red Christmas lights and ate our inexpensive, delicious treats. Julia and I poked at our plates until every last black bean was gone and the tortillas holding them were merely a memory. Though tasty sober, I imagine it is also amazing, amazing drunk food.

I decided all Wednesdays should be filled with good friends, good music and taco joints. But then I wondered...why just Wednesdays?

In Women We Trust

There are few reasons to get out of bed before 6am: catching a plane to somewhere fabulous, a small fire in your home, a hurricane.

And Donna Karan.

At 6:45 a.m, I slid into my black trench dress, pearls and heels. I fluffed my hair and looked in the mirror. Ready? Go.

I checked in to the Women: Inspiration and Enterprise Symposium at 7:30 am. The symposium itself was created to gather creative women in hopes of letting them meet and work together to influence societal change and inspire further generations of women. The WIE Symposium was also partnered with the White Ribbon Alliance, which raises awareness of the 600,000 women who die each year due to pregnancy-related complications around the world. It was genuinely an honor just to be there among women who were really making a difference across the globe like Christy Turlington and Queen Rania of Jordan. I am so glad I was able to be there, even for a few hours.

I was there as a guest of the founders of Her Campus.com, the online college women’s magazine for which I am Style Editor. Fabulously enough, the founders of Her Campus.com had been chosen to speak on a Young Innovators panel that day, and had invited me to attend the conference with them (another major win for living in New York!).

When we were getting our tote bags filled with endless amounts of goodies, though, I saw her. She was very darkly tanned and was wearing a thick coat of foundation. Eyes were smudged black with eyeshadow and reddish-chocolate hair curled on the side of her face. She was wearing all black, black tights into black boots and a black dress with a black cardigan and a string of thick black leather beads. I had just written about how much I loved her Spring 2011 collection and there she was. Donna Karan. I knew she was going to be there because she was a host of the event, but I didn’t think I’d actually be standing there meeting her, breathing the same air as her.

But then we Her Campus girls introduced ourselves and I heard the most amazing words, delivered by Her Campus’s publisher:

“This is our Style Editor, Elyssa.”

I have heard these words before, but they have never sounded so beautiful as they did when I shook hands with Donna Karan. I, Style Editor of Her Campus.com and recent college graduate, was shaking hands with one of the great divas of American fashion. Was this my life? Was this real? Would I suddenly wake up at 6 a.m. wondering why the crap I had woken up then fall back asleep for another three hours like I normally would have? No.

I smiled and politely said hello, though my brain was actually lodged inside a giant bounce house going “DONNA KARAN DONNA KARAN DONNA KARAN OH MY GOD” over and over again. I swear, I could have left at that instant and been happy, even though I spoke to her for all of five seconds and rode in an elevator with her for all of two minutes.

But later, inside the green room, some of the world’s most powerful women were walking past us every second as we sat and waited for the conference to begin. I realized meeting Donna Karan would not be the only highlight of the day. The three hosts of the event were Sarah Brown, wife of former UK Prime Minister Gordon Brown and the Chairwoman of the WIE Symposium; Arianna Huffington, of The Huffington Post; and the aforementioned fashion icon. The three ladies spoke about the power of women, what it means to be a female leader today, and how we as women can make a difference in the lives of other women (note: there were no men allowed at the conference except press).

One thing I distinctly remember is Pat Mitchell talking about the news world when she first started in the 1970s. There were almost no news stories about women anywhere on television. But today, stories about women are still only about 16% of everything aired. Can you imagine, still only 16% some thirty- or forty-odd years later? It’s unsettling, because usually we think we’ve come so far—but things like this remind us that there’s still a huge gender gap.

Additionally, Arianna Huffington talked about “self-expression as the new entertainment,” where we’re actually producing something and sharing it with the world instead of just sitting on our butts watching television for nine hours. It made me feel less vain for having a blog and a part of something bigger. Especially when BlogHer founder Lisa Stone said that even in areas where it’s very difficult to get internet access, women still outnumber men as bloggers. Food for thought (and food for blog).  For me, the WIE Symposium reached its goal—it was definitely inspiring. It made me think more about what I want my life to be not just as a person in the workforce, but as a woman in the workforce. What can I do to inspire generations of women, too?

And of course it was nice to see the Her Campus girls go forth and be awesome in their own panel, speaking eloquently and elegantly (in true Her Campus fashion) about what it’s like to start a magazine in the changing face of media. I was even more proud than usual to be a part of the team. It’s crazy to think that a year ago it was this tiny website, but is now gaining more and more national recognition every day. Way to go, ladies! And thank you again for an incredible day.

The Ladies

My second week in New York, a woman in a straw hat sat down next to me on the bus. Her black suit was neatly tailored and a string of pearls hung delicately around her neck. Blonde hair the color of popcorn swirled around her ears and loosely wrinkled face. She sat with her hands in her lap, on top of a black leather handbag. She chatted with me in an accent that at one time must have been distinctly Southern but had faded to a mere wisp on every other breath. She talked moving to the big city, like I told her I had just done, and I hoped on some level that I would be like her when I was her age. Elegant and poised, a well-mannered, well-dressed lady to the core.

These women are on the bus all the time. Southern women, New York women, but always ladies. These are the ladies who don their finest whenever they leave the house, whether they go to Bergdorf Goodman, one of the finest department stores in the world, or to get flowers from the local market. They wear hats, suits and pearls, or elegant little dresses or cigarette pants with delicate colorful wraps and scarves. They know what it means to go out, to leave one’s place of residence, be it mansion or studio apartment, and look like you own the world.

The ladies in New York are not like the women in South Florida. The women in South Florida get their hair backlit and updone into oblivion, with hair combed in globes so thin you can see through them to the other side. They wear polyester pantsuits with and smear their lips with hot pink lipstick, begging to pinch your cheeks with their long red fake nails.

But in New York, the ladies are so much more youthful. Secretly gray or white hair is dyed chocolate brown into smart, blunt bobs or blasted red into shoulder length curls. The ladies in New York make no case about pretending they don’t dye their hair—rather, they own it, as if to say yes, it’s dyed. And your point? Ladies in New York have hair of all different colors, not just the same thin blondish-white of the women in South Florida. Well, all the women except my grandmother Amy, may she rest in peace, whose hair was Black Cherry until the day she died. But she was from New York, too.

What’s nice, though, is that these ladies are not aging relics from a generation gone by. Yes, maybe women don’t wear suits every day anymore, but here in New York, ladies of any age get dressed when they leave their homes. None of this sweatpants business. In fact, they wouldn’t be caught dead leaving their homes in such attire. They go out every day with their list of things to do, be it the post office or the matinee of some show or lunch at Bloomingdale’s, and simply live in their world and look fabulous doing it.

One day I too will bury a husband, dye my hair and wear pearls on the bus. Later than sooner, if all goes as planned. Thank you to the ladies of New York for showing me how to do it in style.

Mish Mosh

I kicked off the weekend on Thursday night at the dirty glam Gershwin Hotel. A former hangout of Andy Warhol and his gang, the Gershwin is a colorful, inexpensive hotel where lots of young people stay when they are traveling to or through Manhattan. I was only up to the second floor, but the walls of it were plastered with the pages of a 1970s magazine called Night, which was really just a smattering of black and white photographs of people being fabulous in nightclubs, spandex pants, leisure suits, afros and all.

 

But the real fun was just next door in Birch Coffee, a sparsely decorated but hip coffee shop attached to the hotel. Up Birch’s stairs was The Library, where people could get lost in a big once-white couch or snag a book or two as long as they left another in its place. But I was there for Mish-Mosh, a comedy show produced and hosted by my dear friend Gaby Dunn and her friend Gonzalo Cordova (Normally I don’t use names, but I think it’s important you know theirs so you can check out their show and their comedy). Gaby and Gonzalo knew each other from their work at Comedy Central, and started the show because of a mutual love of comedy. “This is what I do,” says Gonzalo. It’s almost as if his day job is done in his spare time, and the same goes for Gaby.

In this tiny little Library area, Gaby and Gonzalo brought together what must be some of the brightest young comics today including but not limited to Saturday Night Live writer Colin Jost, star of Comedy Central’s Big Lake Chris Gethard, Last Comic Standing’s Jared Logan, and The Onion’s Dan St. Germain. And the room was absolutely packed, standing room only. I was lucky enough to snag a speaker to sit on, and it turned out to be a great seat. I was just far enough away from Chris Gethard that he couldn’t see me, so when I started sneezing my stupid little sneezes in the middle of his set, he was able to say “Most adorable sneeze ever! Did someone let a kitten in here? I can’t see you, but I hope you’re like a 250-pound man or something.”

Putting together a comedy show isn’t easy, I imagine. First, the comics must complement each other in persona and/or material. Second, the comics shouldn’t have performed too closely to the date of the show because their material won’t be fresh enough; it will be “no, too soon, too soon” as Gaby says. Eventually, though, people’s schedules work out and through Twitter, Facebook and other social media accoutrements. The show happens, people laugh, and the German metalheads with ponytails get made fun of.

Young people do amazing things all the time and nobody ever hears about it because it’s not curing cancer or something, but when I left the show that night I truly felt as if I was in the presence of greatness. Two people my age had done something really awesome with their time instead of coming home and sitting in front of the television until they pass out as young people are stereotyped to do. It was inspiring, and it restored my faith in myself a little bit; like if they can do something neat like that here in New York, then maybe, eventually, I can do something neat too.

“How long have you been here? 5 days? 5 minutes?” Gaby asks me.

“5 weeks.”

“Ohhhh. Sorry, did you say 5 seconds?” We laugh, but I know she’s right: I just need to give it time.

So, if you’re a young person or an old person or someone in the middle, check out the Mish-Mosh comedy show (on Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/home.php?#!/group.php?gid=112905265407372&ref=ts). Locations vary, but it’s now every two weeks (and free!) and you’re sure to laugh or, if you’re like me, get inspired.

The Philadelphia Story, Part 2 of 2: This Ain't No Starbucks

When I got to Philadelphia, I was dragging a little from having only 4 hours of sleep from the night before (thank you for an epic evening EJ, EW, and company!) and I needed a pick-me-up. I stopped into what I thought would be some nothing little coffee place where I’d get some rando coffee in a dumb little plastic cup with more ice than caffeinated beverage. Instead, I wound up at RIM Café, a French Chocolate and Espresso Bar in the heart of South Philly’s Italian Market. I didn’t know that when I ordered.

“Do you make iced coffees?” I asked the guy behind the counter.

“Of course!,” he smiled. “The best in the city.”

I didn’t think an iced coffee could be good or not good, but then again I was only a novice coffee drinker.

“Okay,” I said. “Sounds good!”

“Our iced cappuccinos are better, though. How ‘bout one of those?”

“Go for it,” I said. I was feeling adventurous.


The guy, Spyro, disappeared into the kitchen. I waited for what I thought was going to be some plastic cup filled ice cubes and foam, but Spyro returned with a frosty silver tumbler and what might’ve been a tall beer glass.


He placed the glass in the center of a lazy susan covered in shavings of some kind, spun the susan and began pouring. A thick, creamy, foamy tan liquid spilled from the tumbler and practically danced into the glass. This ain’t no Starbucks, kiddo.

 

But it wasn’t over yet.

“How bout some chocolate?” Spyro said. “We make it ourselves.”


Truth be told, I’m not much of a chocolate person. I like a piece now and then, but too much makes me thirsty and sometimes I really just like a gummi worm if I’m going to have candy at all. The lure of homemade chocolate, however, was too strong.

“Okay, sure, go nuts.” That’s all I had to say.


With another spin of the lazy susan, peanut butter chocolate was shaved into my glass. Then truffle chocolate. Then chocolate covered parmesan cheese. Then I think three or four other chocolates I can’t remember right now. And then,“You gotta let me do this,” Spyro said.

Before I could say anything, out came a pot of chocolate caramel sauce and a spoon. The lazy susan was spinning again, making the chocolate into a beautiful pattern that rested on the foam and on the outside of the glass.

And it was all delicious. Cold because of the cappuccino, sweet but not too sweet on their own. I have never so actively chewed a beverage before, even nibbling on the outside of the glass where the chocolate sauce had solidified.


What was this place? RIM Café was opened by Rene when he moved from Nice, France to Philadelphia in 2006. The actual location used to be a butcher shop, but Rene made it into a comfy little espresso bar (LavAzza espresso only), complete with actual bar seating. Spyro is his business partner, and he makes a mean ice cappuccino.

RIM is also known for the best hot chocolate in the city and a drink called The Volcano. I don’t know what’s in it, but I know it involves creamy, foamy chocolate literally spilling out of a glass. My Aunt Adrienne is a known chocoholic, and somewhere her mouth is watering and she doesn’t know why.


I have a feeling RIM Café is the kind of place people go once by accident but come back as regulars forever. I know when I’m in Philadelphia again I’m dragging my friends there. Not that I’d have to. I’m sure The Volcano is temptation enough.

The Philadelphia Story, Part 1 of 2

I traveled through three states this past weekend en route to Philadelphia to see The Divine Sming (TDS as she will be called) and really I wouldn’t have had it any other way.

At 10 o’clock Sunday morning, I left my apartment to take the 6 train to the E train, a train I had never taken before. Catching it from the 6 involved walking two long blocks underground, a dark, terrible-smelling elevator, and what has to be the world’s longest, steepest escalator—so steep I had to actually shut my eyes at one point because it was utterly dizzying. But eventually I made it to Penn Station, purchased my tickets on the New Jersey Transit to Trenton, where I would later transfer to Philadelphia, and was on my way.

Getting to the train actually felt like the first time I went to the airport by myself when I was coming home for Thanksgiving my freshman year of college. I just kind of looked for the signs, mildly panicked when I couldn’t find them but then calmed down when I eventually did, and made my way through the train station. I hopped aboard the train and found myself a nice window seat on the upper deck of the train so I could see what this New Jersey business was really all about.

I have driven through New Jersey twice, I think. Both times were mostly only on the highway where we had to occasionally stop and have our gas pumped for us—a completely surreal experience although I do think it’s a nice way to create jobs. And of course I’ve been to Paramus when dressing Sweet Caroline in Ikea’s finest.

On the train, though, I got to see a bunch of different parts of New Jersey I hadn’t seen before. There was the murky, post-industrial Secaucus; the cleaner and classically suburban New Brunswick; and the, well, kind of nondescript Princeton and Trenton. A disclaimer: I have only seen the parts of these places surrounding the train tracks and could very well be entirely mistaken on all counts. Either way, it was nice to see places I don’t usually see, as it always is.


I didn’t realize how much I would like Philadelphia. I didn’t think I would dislike it, but it definitely made a good impression on me, like a really good interview.


“So, what’s your story, Philadelphia?” I said.

“Here, let me tell you,” the city replied.


Philadelphia’s 30th Street Station, my first view of Philadelphia, is quite beautiful in and of itself. It’s like the Grand Central of New York, but separated into two buildings—one for regional rail and one for national rail. The inside is done in a 1930s-deco style, a beige-gold color with many gold fixtures. Massive swirls of wooden bench sit, stately, in the station’s main waiting area which I couldn’t help but photograph.

Onto the cab, where the driver took me on the highway around the city (Benjamin Franklin Parkway, I think it was?) and I saw that fantastic blue bridge I also don’t know the name of. It was a thick pastel and it just emerged out of the blue sky and took me by surprise. I have a feeling I simultaneously said, “Oh, hello!” and “Wowwwwww.” But it wouldn’t be the last time I said this on my trip.

Part of my visit to see TDS was to see her perform that weekend in the Philly Fringe Festival. The Fringe Festival seeks to “provide an opportunity and a platform for Philadelphia-based artists to produce their work.” I was there not only to see TDS but to photograph the performance “Picking Up Pieces,” a dance piece choreographed by Philly native Abby Shunskis. The piece was so thoughtful in idea and choreography, as well lighting, casting, and costume. It was also so beautiful I cried when I saw the tech rehearsal and had to excuse myself. Art of any kind does not usually move me to tears, but I openly wept, nay, bawled. I don’t want to tell you what the piece is about because part of the beauty of the piece is finding out the story for yourself and I want you to actually see it yourself, but I will tell you that it put not only life’s journey in context for me, but the journey through life as a woman. You can read some more about the piece here at http://www.livearts-fringe.org/details.cfm?id=14121 and please go see it on September 25 at the CHI Movement Arts Center. You will not be disappointed.


Before I photographed the performance, though, I wandered along S. 9th Street and was happy to see two of the most famous Philly Cheesesteak joints around—Pat’s and Geno’s. I wasn’t able to go to either of them, though, because the lines wrapped around each building twice. All the same, I was just as happy to take some pictures of the rival cheesesteak joints. I felt like I was suddenly inside one of those tall tales—legendary cheesesteak joints perpetually battling it out for Philadelphia’s crown. Meanwhile, TDS doesn’t even eat cheesesteaks and DJ YS prefers a place called Ishkabbible’s. Go figure.

Later, though, after the performance, I was in for some more treats. TDS and her dad were kind enough to host me for the evening in their home, just outside of Center City and offered me a most divine (in true Divine Sming fashion) automotive tour of the city. A brisk, end-of-summer cool swept the city as we climbed into the minivan. Soon, though, we were driving down the Avenue of the Arts and my head was out the window and my camera was in front of my face as I snapped pictures like a madwoman.

The night was black but cloudless as the Avenue of the Arts sprung from the darkness in radiant color—theatres lit in yellows, streets designated with shimmering gold As, green lights reflecting off of museum walls. And in the center of it all sat the noble city hall, illuminated in white light. Driving toward it on the Avenue of the Arts reminded me of walking toward the Grand Opera on the Avenue L’Opera in Paris.


It turns out the entire city was modeled after the setup of Paris, which really isn’t too surprising if you consider the impact French thought had on our own government in its nascency. I see this a couple more times as we drive through the city, especially as we pass the art museum (the one with the Rocky Steps) since the street in front of it looks just like the Champs Elysses.


The entire time in the car, I am a hot touristy mess. “OH IT’S SO BEAUTIFUL! WOW! OH MY GOD! PHILADELPHIA IS AMAZING!” TDS and her dad laugh, but it’s all real. Every little tidbit of Philadelphia info they throw at me is interesting and helps me understand their city a little bit more.


As we leave the main part of the city behind, though, TDS asks her dad if he can drive by the boathouses. I figure they were just literally old boathouses, but I was completely wrong. The boathouses might be just old boathouses by day, used by local crew teams, but by night, they are as black as the night itself and only visible because of the edging of tiny gold lights around each and every building. It created a Christmas-like effect right then at the beginning of September, and it stretched probably for a good mile. I’m guessing each boathouse was different because they were all edged in different lights, like a life-size golden line drawing on black paper.


It reminded me of South Florida’s Intercoastal in December, where all the magnificent homes are lit up with Christmas lights and you take the Jungle Queen like a huge tourist to see them all. I suppose if you’re wowed by little tiny lightbulbs, though, you must be a tourist of some kind whether you’re in Philly or SoFla.


After the boathouses, I knew Philadelphia and I would be great friends. Maybe not lovers like New York and I, but definitely friends. The kind that might live far away but are always there to share something beautiful with you when you need them to.