The Optimistic Traveller

The first time I really got a chance to check out the City of Brotherly Love was when I was working for the Joe Biden-cum-Kamala Harris for President campaign in 2024. I only mention both candidates because I was hired when Joe Biden was still running but didn’t begin working until Kamala Harris entered the race. I had email addresses with either of their names, and I was proud of each affiliation. I’ve followed Joe Biden since he ran in the 80’s when I was in elementary school and first paying attention to politics. Everything seemed to come full circle when I got the job doing advance and was eventually sent to swing states to work with surrogate campaigners like governors, actors, senators and congresspeople, and AOC (a class by herself).

In PA, I ended up staying mostly in Gayborhood, a part of central Philly near downtown and the universities that is, well, gay. And thus, happy. It remains one of my favorite parts of the world after days of exploring, making friends with the pizza guy who sold me his own wine under the table late at night, eating alone in fantastic restaurants, shopping cheaply, and enjoying all of the murals the city is known for. I wandered frequently into parks and community gardens, ostensibly to note potential rally sites. As an advance associate, you have to keep your eyes open for cool places, not only for events, but also that the candidates or surrogates might want to pop into for fun or to say hello to local folks spontaneously.

The Alexander Inn, right in the middle of all the gayness, is old, dilapidated, and wonderful.  I stayed there many nights in different rooms, enjoying the free happy hour (cheapo wine and a few celery sticks, but hey, it was free!) every evening and a continental breakfast in the mornings. October was lovely – all the stoops near the Inn had fall decorations, the un-cheesy kind. The streets are narrow, many of them cobblestone, and the parking is abysmal.

There are myriad amazing restaurants in Philly, but two I tried during those campaign days stand out. Vedge, though a bit pricey, was heavenly – a vegan paradise in its tempting offerings, chill atmosphere, and great service. The pan-seared cauliflower is to die for, but if you crave things posing as meat, they have many delicious options of those also. For a cute little spot and (affordable) authentic Italian food, I recommend Little Nonna’s. A bit further out from the center of town, where I stayed with friends on a more recent visit, Café Lift has an incredible all-day brunch with loaded banana French toast that was one of the best versions of the dish I’ve ever had. Calandrino’s, in the Old City, is a family-owned wine bar and a great spot for a quiet drink, surrounded by overly melted candles in emptied wine bottles. I loved their hospitality and their premium glassware. The bar is near the Arden Theater Company, a small community guild venue where no seat is a bad one.

Years ago, I had visited by commuter rail from Manhattan when my sister lived there, mainly getting acquainted with bars and music halls, as well as the old prison museum (Eastern State Penitentiary), and another macabre attraction, the Mütter Museum, where odd bodily mutations are preserved in formaldehyde for all to see. On one of those visits and subsequently, I developed my still-active theory that Philadelphians pee the bed. No offense intended. Just ask around. I dated a guy from West Chester who didn’t seem shocked about my theory, but since West Chester isn’t actually Philly, he never peed any bed I was in with him.

In recent visits, I’ve delighted in Philadelphia’s amazing thrift and luxury resale shopping – everything from the ubiquitous Buffalo Exchange to Philly Aids Thrift (especially the smaller @Giovanni’s Room on South 12^th down the block from the aforementioned Alexander Inn) and smaller shops like Star Sign Thrift, which used to be called something else but is still super. I found some cute, unique items on its sale rack, and a funny welcome mat they sold me even though it wasn’t for sale – it was just at their door serving its purpose. I aim to buy things that make me laugh out loud; this one says something about there being hoes in the house, but I haven’t gotten the gumption to put it out on our stoop on Long Island yet. In another tiny shop I happened into, I discovered two handmade indigenous silver cuffs for $1 each that were later complimented and coveted by a wealthy jeweler overseas. To cut down on luggage, I’ve hopped right over to Buffalo to trade in things I was bored with for cash on the spot. The city is certainly thrift-enabled.

During the campaign, I would travel to the union buildings in the city where we had events or make long trips out to the country in my rental vehicles, meeting with farmowners and outfitting barns with stages, speakers, and decorative bales of hay. By election day, my lower back was stiff from all the driving.

On one such farm in the middle of a conservative strip of PA, where in fact the theme of the event was Country Over Party, I found myself supervising the production of a stage overlooking acres of fields and miles of sky. I loved everything about that rally, particularly since I was in charge of it. It couldn’t have gone more smoothly, and the host was an older conservative lady who looked a bit like Katharine Hepburn, her grey hair tight in a bun, her attitude loose and free, inviting us into every part of her home as we needed. I had to make an announcement to the crowd before the principals (Governor Shapiro, Senator Warnock, and another guy that was nice enough but as of this moment I’ve forgotten his name, likely since he was a Republican and I had admired the other two for years) arrived. I faced the crowd, announced where they could find bottles of water (as it was getting hotter), and decided to pre-rally the rallying crowd on my own. I never miss a chance to speak or perform or take center stage. I learned my lesson after meeting Bruce Willis at the BB King Blues Bar in Times Square in early 2002. He loved my name and kept saying it, and then he invited me to sing with him on stage. I’m no singer (but then again, neither is he, really – it was all about the showmanship), so I declined. Honestly, this is one of the few regrets I’ve had in my entire life.

Therefore, I didn’t hesitate to take the mic and welcome everyone. I closed my brief statement with, “When we fight…?” And the crowd (a few hundred strong) answered, “We win!” It was positively glorious. I think Bruce Willis, the Republican and the showman, would have been proud.

One night I was between assignments back at the Inn and had some time to spare. I had been toying with the idea of a large, colorful hand tattoo to go with the simple finger tattoos I’ve gathered in my travels around the world, commemorating the experiences, and the heart “sister” tattoo on my wrist that kind of got the ball rolling with “travel tattoos” – that one from South Beach, Miami on a girls’ trip for a friend’s birthday. I had recently read a few books on octopuses, namely Sy Montgomery’s The Soul of an Octopus – freakishly good – and had seen, of course, My Octopus Teacher, the revolutionary and award-winning documentary. I looked up some examples of tattoos of octopuses, and most of them seemed angry or evil. Finally, I found a few that were wily, exotic, and kind-eyed, and had saved a conglomeration with my own ideas about colors, since a couple of species can shift to almost any color in the spectrum (and probably some humans can’t see, for that matter). That night, I went for a walk and stopped first into a tattoo parlor that didn’t have time for me. Google said there was another a few hundred feet away on the same street, so I ventured on.

Floating World Tattoos (just doors down from Star Sign Thrift and other neat resale shops) welcomed me in, I met Monique, and we hit it off. Her work on the walls alerted me to her talent. Using one of my examples and my description, she free-handed a design onto my, er, hand in blue, purple, and teal, making sure to include all eight legs. I named her Sy, and she’s gawwgeous. I’ve been back to Monique twice for an abstract poppy she drew directly onto my right hand without a visual aid, a Japanese cherry blossom branch, two eyes, and a redo of my oldest tattoo (on my ankle), long since blurred, originally designed by my mother.

My hands are covered in tattoos now. I got the balls to do this strictly from my campaign work, suddenly realizing that the coolest people were tatted but also extremely professional. There was (is) a way to be both artist and scientist, expressionist and intellectual, suit-wearing and hair-dye boasting. As a friend of mine repeats from Whitman, “I contain multitudes.” Very well then, I contradict myself. Thank you, Democratic National Committee, and Monique, and Philadelphia, for helping me evolve into the multitudinous woman I now proudly aim to be for the rest of my days.