Philosophers have long asked what force, cosmic or terrestrial, could lead a rational soul to the state of Delaware? In our case—though the proverbial jury on our collective rationality may be said to be, proverbially, “still out”—the irresistible lure of visiting our ancient friends, Kirk, Gretchen, and Carter Cheney, proved more than force sufficient. Wilmington’s proximity to Philadelphia, which we have never visited, was an added draw. In any case, Lia has been pining for months to see Gretchen’s iridescent face again, and since Julia had no school this past week, this weekend seemed like as good a chance as any to quench her steadfast longing.
We left Friday morning. Our first order of business was to get lost. A feeble effort to visit Independence Hall furnished a likely pretext, and when our GPS advised us to “remain left” immediately before we needed to cross seven lanes and turn right sealed the deal. In trying to rectify our error—stressed by the machine’s tetchy one-word declaration, “Recalculating”—GPS mis-recognized each of Philadelphia’s internal overpasses as streets on which we ought to turn. So amid a torrential refrain of, “In point-one miles turn left . . . Recalculating,” we made our merry way through the city of brotherly love. Being officially lost, we decided to leave the cradle of the Founding for another day (i.e. Saturday) and visit the daringly styled “Please Touch Museum.” Our girls touched with a vengeance, and their parents paid a dear price of admission for their privilege. The museum was actually more of a vast play-land, featuring, inter alia, an Alice in Wonderland playground, a puppet show about the history of Jazz (the music, alas, and not the beloved basketball team of my boyhood), a children’s grocery store, and—sum of all earthly glories—a carousel.
But the real excitement was yet to come. Around 5 we met up with the Cheneys at The City Tavern, a reconstructed 18th-century watering hole where the luminaries of the Revolution met to talk politics and, our waiter zestfully assured us, swilled prodigious quantities of ale. Kirk and Gretchen shared a tasty turkey pot pie named for Martha Washington; I wanted to order the same thing, but Lia, animated as ever by an atavistic ancestral passion for all things German, ordered the special—ominously christened the Schlachtplatte (literally, the slaughter plate). We would have done better to side with the first First Lady and leave the Wurstomania to the Bavarians. But the ambience more than made up for any culinary shortcomings. We ate by the wick of an eighteenth-century candle, and we did so in the “long assembly room” alone. The kids made all the noise they liked, and no one turned a head or raised an eyebrow. On our way out, Eli begged to smell the roses, but the waiters at the door did her one better, giving both her and the more reticent Julia a dark red rose for the road. Eli celebrated, as she always does, by plucking the petals one by one and littering with them the interior of the van.
After dinner, all the ladies and the outnumbered Carter piled in the van, giddy with the promise of a much-anticipated Girls Night. Kirk and I, on the other hand, gracefully mounted the Cheneymobile and made our way to the Wachovia Center to watch the Sixers upset the Spurs. During the game we rehearsed old times and discoursed at that philosophical register known only to the hyper-elitist tribe of the alumni of the Yale Law School. We were living large.
Our womenfolk fared less smashingly. All hopes of a cathartic Girls Night were soon dashed upon arrival at the Cheney pad when it was realized, to everyone’s chagrin, that the keys to said pad were on a keychain in Kirk’s pocket in the Wachovia Center. So they set up camp with a neighbor-friend while they waited for the maintenance man to arrive on his rescuing steed. The steed was slow in coming. By the time they were in the apartment it was time—past time, rather—for the kids to go to bed. Crushed forever were Julia’s hope of a mutual toenail-painting extravaganza followed by a smarmy chick-flick. But Kirk and I sure had fun.
The kids exacted vengeance for such treatment by waking up, en masse, at 6 the following morning. Eli exacted a further vengeance, employing tactics associated with restrooms and unsuited to the dignity of this blog.
Gretchen made us a delectable breakfast of pancakes and eggs for which, true to form, she apologized profusely. And then we were off to Philly.
We started the day by tossing pennies at Ben Franklin’s grave and observing a moment of silence to the memory of Benjamin Rush, whose earthly remains are housed in the same cemetery. Then we saw the Liberty Bell. As we walked through the display leading up to the bell proper, I paused for a moment to watch a short film clip chronicling the march of liberty through the ages and highlighting the Bell’s capacity to inspire lovers of liberty in all lands. As the film moved from clips of Martin Luther King to scenes from Tiananmen Square, I realized I was surrounded by a host of Chinese women. Then I realized they had no interest in the film, but instead were snapping away endless photos of Katharine, whom I was pushing around in our beleaguered banana stroller (it lost a wheel in New York last November). This unsolicited photo shoot went on for an awkwardly long time, but the raptures of our Asian friends remained undimmed. The crowd grew larger, and their delight in Katharine’s unspeakable cuteness knew no bounds. We escaped only with great difficulty. Julia, by the way, did her part to contribute to our celebrity by placing a sisterly arm round Katharine’s shoulders and posing adorably for more pictures. The Shanghai paparazzi next set its sights on Carter, but he proved too fast to catch on film.
We next crossed the street to tour Independence Hall. This was a stirring stop, especially the assembly room where the Declaration of Independence was signed and the Constitution crafted. Our tour guide was passionate, well-spoken, and, I thought, admirably unsentimental.
We then retraced our steps to the other end of the square where we bought tickets to visit the National Constitution Center and watched a brief monologue play about American constitutional history. It was a rousing paean to powers of We the People, well executed and sometimes inspiring. During a clip from Dr. King’s 1963 speech Julia, who has been experiencing Black History Month at school, excitedly called out, “That’s Martin Luther King!”
After the play we broke for lunch. This process was a happy confirmation of the old adage that calamity creates memory. We spent a long time driving around looking for parking. When we finally settled for something several blocks away both from our restaurant objective and from the Cheneys (who found a better spot), Eli had fallen asleep. Lia decided to stay with her, asking that I bring her back something authentic. So Julia, Katharine, the Cheneys, and I waited in a long line in a crowded shack to purchase Philly Steak sandwiches graced with a copious endowment of Cheese-wiz (the real key to a successful Philly sandwich) and onions. Then the Cheneys parked next to us in a little lot romantically overlooking the freeway and we had something of an urban picnic. It was heavenly. Kirk added to the splendor of the hour and the merriment of the children by making a snowman whose accessories were supplied by the surrounding litter. And Lia basked in the gastronomic glory of her “authentic” meal.
Then back to the NCC, where we toured the newly-unveiled exhibit, “Ancient Rome and America,” which delighted Lia as a classicist and me as a wannabe classicist. We also visited the life-sized models of the delegates to the Constitutional Convention. Julia proudly discovered George Washington and her middle-namesake (sort of) James Madison, and sat in Ben Franklin’s lap. Kirk stood in admiring contentment next to the solitary figure of his fiscal idol, Alexander Hamilton. Carter tugged at Gouverneur Morris’s peg-leg. From there we took the long walk around the Center’s impressive display of American constitutional history. I thought it all very well done and, in the best sense of the word, educational.
It was a great visit, marred only by its brevity. The Cheneys, as always, were peerless hosts and priceless company. Eli fell in love with Carter as a more compliant object than Katharine of her affectionate persecution. Carter responded in kind by learning Eli’s name and pronouncing it regularly in tones of solemn dread. It was all well worth the price in tolls, parking excises, and the ghoulish domain of a Saturday evening on the George Washington Bridge.
We left Friday morning. Our first order of business was to get lost. A feeble effort to visit Independence Hall furnished a likely pretext, and when our GPS advised us to “remain left” immediately before we needed to cross seven lanes and turn right sealed the deal. In trying to rectify our error—stressed by the machine’s tetchy one-word declaration, “Recalculating”—GPS mis-recognized each of Philadelphia’s internal overpasses as streets on which we ought to turn. So amid a torrential refrain of, “In point-one miles turn left . . . Recalculating,” we made our merry way through the city of brotherly love. Being officially lost, we decided to leave the cradle of the Founding for another day (i.e. Saturday) and visit the daringly styled “Please Touch Museum.” Our girls touched with a vengeance, and their parents paid a dear price of admission for their privilege. The museum was actually more of a vast play-land, featuring, inter alia, an Alice in Wonderland playground, a puppet show about the history of Jazz (the music, alas, and not the beloved basketball team of my boyhood), a children’s grocery store, and—sum of all earthly glories—a carousel.
But the real excitement was yet to come. Around 5 we met up with the Cheneys at The City Tavern, a reconstructed 18th-century watering hole where the luminaries of the Revolution met to talk politics and, our waiter zestfully assured us, swilled prodigious quantities of ale. Kirk and Gretchen shared a tasty turkey pot pie named for Martha Washington; I wanted to order the same thing, but Lia, animated as ever by an atavistic ancestral passion for all things German, ordered the special—ominously christened the Schlachtplatte (literally, the slaughter plate). We would have done better to side with the first First Lady and leave the Wurstomania to the Bavarians. But the ambience more than made up for any culinary shortcomings. We ate by the wick of an eighteenth-century candle, and we did so in the “long assembly room” alone. The kids made all the noise they liked, and no one turned a head or raised an eyebrow. On our way out, Eli begged to smell the roses, but the waiters at the door did her one better, giving both her and the more reticent Julia a dark red rose for the road. Eli celebrated, as she always does, by plucking the petals one by one and littering with them the interior of the van.
After dinner, all the ladies and the outnumbered Carter piled in the van, giddy with the promise of a much-anticipated Girls Night. Kirk and I, on the other hand, gracefully mounted the Cheneymobile and made our way to the Wachovia Center to watch the Sixers upset the Spurs. During the game we rehearsed old times and discoursed at that philosophical register known only to the hyper-elitist tribe of the alumni of the Yale Law School. We were living large.
Our womenfolk fared less smashingly. All hopes of a cathartic Girls Night were soon dashed upon arrival at the Cheney pad when it was realized, to everyone’s chagrin, that the keys to said pad were on a keychain in Kirk’s pocket in the Wachovia Center. So they set up camp with a neighbor-friend while they waited for the maintenance man to arrive on his rescuing steed. The steed was slow in coming. By the time they were in the apartment it was time—past time, rather—for the kids to go to bed. Crushed forever were Julia’s hope of a mutual toenail-painting extravaganza followed by a smarmy chick-flick. But Kirk and I sure had fun.
The kids exacted vengeance for such treatment by waking up, en masse, at 6 the following morning. Eli exacted a further vengeance, employing tactics associated with restrooms and unsuited to the dignity of this blog.
Gretchen made us a delectable breakfast of pancakes and eggs for which, true to form, she apologized profusely. And then we were off to Philly.
We started the day by tossing pennies at Ben Franklin’s grave and observing a moment of silence to the memory of Benjamin Rush, whose earthly remains are housed in the same cemetery. Then we saw the Liberty Bell. As we walked through the display leading up to the bell proper, I paused for a moment to watch a short film clip chronicling the march of liberty through the ages and highlighting the Bell’s capacity to inspire lovers of liberty in all lands. As the film moved from clips of Martin Luther King to scenes from Tiananmen Square, I realized I was surrounded by a host of Chinese women. Then I realized they had no interest in the film, but instead were snapping away endless photos of Katharine, whom I was pushing around in our beleaguered banana stroller (it lost a wheel in New York last November). This unsolicited photo shoot went on for an awkwardly long time, but the raptures of our Asian friends remained undimmed. The crowd grew larger, and their delight in Katharine’s unspeakable cuteness knew no bounds. We escaped only with great difficulty. Julia, by the way, did her part to contribute to our celebrity by placing a sisterly arm round Katharine’s shoulders and posing adorably for more pictures. The Shanghai paparazzi next set its sights on Carter, but he proved too fast to catch on film.
We next crossed the street to tour Independence Hall. This was a stirring stop, especially the assembly room where the Declaration of Independence was signed and the Constitution crafted. Our tour guide was passionate, well-spoken, and, I thought, admirably unsentimental.
We then retraced our steps to the other end of the square where we bought tickets to visit the National Constitution Center and watched a brief monologue play about American constitutional history. It was a rousing paean to powers of We the People, well executed and sometimes inspiring. During a clip from Dr. King’s 1963 speech Julia, who has been experiencing Black History Month at school, excitedly called out, “That’s Martin Luther King!”
After the play we broke for lunch. This process was a happy confirmation of the old adage that calamity creates memory. We spent a long time driving around looking for parking. When we finally settled for something several blocks away both from our restaurant objective and from the Cheneys (who found a better spot), Eli had fallen asleep. Lia decided to stay with her, asking that I bring her back something authentic. So Julia, Katharine, the Cheneys, and I waited in a long line in a crowded shack to purchase Philly Steak sandwiches graced with a copious endowment of Cheese-wiz (the real key to a successful Philly sandwich) and onions. Then the Cheneys parked next to us in a little lot romantically overlooking the freeway and we had something of an urban picnic. It was heavenly. Kirk added to the splendor of the hour and the merriment of the children by making a snowman whose accessories were supplied by the surrounding litter. And Lia basked in the gastronomic glory of her “authentic” meal.
Then back to the NCC, where we toured the newly-unveiled exhibit, “Ancient Rome and America,” which delighted Lia as a classicist and me as a wannabe classicist. We also visited the life-sized models of the delegates to the Constitutional Convention. Julia proudly discovered George Washington and her middle-namesake (sort of) James Madison, and sat in Ben Franklin’s lap. Kirk stood in admiring contentment next to the solitary figure of his fiscal idol, Alexander Hamilton. Carter tugged at Gouverneur Morris’s peg-leg. From there we took the long walk around the Center’s impressive display of American constitutional history. I thought it all very well done and, in the best sense of the word, educational.
It was a great visit, marred only by its brevity. The Cheneys, as always, were peerless hosts and priceless company. Eli fell in love with Carter as a more compliant object than Katharine of her affectionate persecution. Carter responded in kind by learning Eli’s name and pronouncing it regularly in tones of solemn dread. It was all well worth the price in tolls, parking excises, and the ghoulish domain of a Saturday evening on the George Washington Bridge.
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6 comments:
You know, I lived near Philly for four years and never had a cheese steak (thank heaven) nor saw I the liberty bell (this I regret). I'll remedy some of my lapses this June.
Every outing seems epic on your blog. Eli, you are larger than life.
Justin, I love the way you captured the events in words! I felt like I was re-living our adventures. We had SO much fun with you. Come back again any time.
Cheese + steak. What could be bad about that?
Nothing like watching hoops and talking Lochner.
I laughed at the part about making you breakfast and apologizing profusely. That's so true.
That second one was Kirk
Being from Philadelphia, I am so pleased that you understand the art of the Philly Cheesesteak.
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