ElderChicks

What a beautiful day in Philadelphia on Saturday, Sept. 15th. The weather was perfect and I determined to make my way to Amtrak/30th St. Station for a performance of “flash/song” that one of my friends, Gisela, at the water aerobics class had told me about. She is connected with the Philadelphia Ballet Company and sings with a choir. She had received a telephone call about two weeks earlier asking her to participate in a flash/song performance (which she had done last year), with about some 500 participants, and suggested I might be interested. The time and date were a little vague and when I pressed her on Friday for more information, she told me to be at 30th St. Station on Saturday at l.00 sharp, and that if I were late I would miss it–it only lasts about two minutes. So I got on a bus at l2.25 and arrived with four minutes to spare. Yes, there was a ring of people, a photographer snapping the crowd, a conductor and some musicians, and voila! it came off as promised. I think they sang something from Carmina Burana. The man directly behind me had his lyrics on his phone (what a great use of that instrument), and his wife was reading them from Philadelphia Magazine. And by happenstance, I was just two or three people from Gisella. Someone called my name: another of the women in my class, who was there with her husband. A group of young women and girls were dancing to the music while waving yellow banners. It was a true happening. I was so glad I went.

While on the bus en route, I noticed that the Annual Art Show was in full swing at Rittenhouse Square and decided to stop there before going back home. When I arrived at l8th Street, I saw that in addition, a Farmers’ Market was ongoing (as they are on Saturday mornings). So that was a double bonus, and I succumbed to the apples, buying three Winesaps for an outrageous price. I then wandered among the stalls offering prints, paintings, sculpture and the like, but found most of it trite and uninteresting. In a word, nothing tempted me to buy, nor was I swept by any great admiration for the talent displayed. A mild interest was piqued by two of the vendors but it was never more than tepid, almost born out of a feeling of guilt and disloyalty for having looked but was never conquered. I made the circuit and arrived back on 18th Street, which had been blocked to traffic from Locust to Walnut. And a third event was in full swing. Just as on Broadway around 47th, there were tables in the street, but here they were dining for the three restaurants on that block: Rouge, Devon and Parc, had set up business, and every table was taken. It was such a great opportunity for them, and with the sun shining, the air just right, why not dine al fresco. This was Philadelphia’s moment to shine; here, at this place, and now. Gorgeous weather, good-looking crowds, all contributing to a great feeling of well-being.

Continuing on my way I got to the Reading Terminal Market to buy my chicken and some other things I had in mind. Another crowd, but completely different. Here were serious shoppers who were going to cook their respective meals, and, of course, many were scarfing down a late lunch in the designated spots.

And so I returned to Society Hill, which now seemed so staid and quiet after all the hoopla at the various happenings.

Eventually I got back home, feeling a little like the busy man in the book of the same title. I had certainly had a very busy day.