a love letter to the city

We went to our first Phillies game of the year on Tuesday night, after my less-blind boyfriend had the good sense to pick up two last-minute tickets. They were some of the worst seats in the house, but it couldn’t have mattered less, as it turns out I’m an unbelievably cheap date. Who knew? Give me a warm evening and a Coors Light and a hot dog with mustard – plus a few bites of your hot dog too – and I’m a happy camper.

This time of year, the magic doesn’t even stop at Citizens Bank Park or South Philadelphia. The whole city is like that for me: lovely, mesmerizing, energizing.


Yes, I know the subway stations still smell like piss and the subway itself doesn’t even go anywhere and the sports fans are so insane as to be downright scary sometimes (also, dumb: who the f storms the field with weed in their pocket? but I digress.)

But, the thing is, I like the fact that Market Street is grimy and that we eat food out of carts parked on the street and overturn cars when we win baseball games. This city may not be classy or upscale, but it’s real – it has depth and history and personality.

DC, in comparison, was where my friends and my age demographic resided; it had the benefit of free museums and tall monuments. But it always felt so flat to me, as a city. I would get on the metro and look around and realize that I was the weirdest person on the car, simply because I was wearing a sparkly top or something not purchasable at J. Crew. Those hill staffers, they like their button-downs.

So I’m happy to finally be in a city that’s a little…well, weird. One  that embraces its quirks and its shortcomings and continues to offer you steaks drenched in cheese anyway.

Between the springtime and the sports victories and the greasy sandwiches, it’s starting to feel a lot like home.

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One Response

  1. You owe me half of a hot dog

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