Leaving Philadelphia
Leaving Philadelphia
A meditation on time and place in Enzo's favorite city
In Boston they ask, how much does he know? In New York, how much is he worth? In Philadelphia, who were his parents?
—Mark Twain
Every year for as long as I can remember, my boys and I have taken a trip to Philadelphia. Sometimes my wife joined us but more often than not, it was Enzo, Dino, and I who made the trip — a time for father and sons to slip away to our beloved Philly. I don’t know when or how Philadelphia became our favorite place to go, but we loved it more with each visit. We always traveled by train — it seemed somehow wrong to drive there — and I remember how excited the boys were each time we walked onto the platform at Union Station and looked up at the gleaming silver rail cars that would carry us north.
We always stayed in the same place, across the street from the Terminal Market in Center City, ate at the same restaurants, and visited the same museums. Our routine rarely varied and that made each event special somehow: eating cannoli from Termini Brothers, walking up Benjamin Franklin Parkway as we said out loud the names of the national flags that hang above the sidewalks, looking at the Egyptian exhibits at the Penn Museum, enjoying a loud dinner at El Vez on 12th Street, and always marveling that we never walked the streets without finding at least one person singing or playing a musical instrument of some kind somewhere along our way.
I think the people who love Philadelphia, like us, do so because it strikes them as an honest place: a city that knows what it is and does not want to be anything else. Coarse but educated, famous but humble, cynical but compassionate, Philadelphia is unlike anywhere else in America, we always said, and it never failed to fascinate two boys who routinely traveled to exotic locations from an early age. The essence of the city is captured succinctly in the short play, “The Philadelphia,” in which a man named Mark tells his friend Al about the very strange day he’s having:
AL: Don’t panic. You’re in a Philadelphia.
MARK: I’m in a what?
AL: You’re in a Philadelphia. That’s all.
MARK: But I’m in—
AL: Yes, physically you’re in New York. But, metaphysically, you’re in a Philadelphia.
MARK: I’ve never heard of this!
AL: You see, inside of what we know as reality there are these pockets, these black holes called Philadelphias. If you fall into one, you run up against exactly the kinda stuff that’s been happening to you all day.
MARK: Why?
AL: Because in a Philadelphia, no matter what you ask for, you can’t get it. You ask for something, they’re not going to have it. You want to do something, it ain’t gonna get done. You want to go somewhere, you can’t get there from here.
MARK: Good God. So this is very serious.
AL: Just remember, Marcus, this is a condition named for the town that invented the Cheese Steak. Something that nobody in his right mind would willingly ask for.
MARK: And I thought I was just having a very bad day…
Enzo, especially, loved the city. It was he who introduced me to “It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia,” and I will never forget how much I laughed when he sent me the story about the Canadian robot that had circled the world as a symbol of peace until it reached Philly — where it was promptly beaten up by the locals.
This past week was Dino’s spring break, so he and I headed back to Philly — the first time without Enzo. I did not have the heart to stay at the same hotel as in the past, so we went someplace different — a shiny new space around the corner from our old haunt. I was unsure what to expect on the trip or how Dino (or I ) would cope without Enzo. In retrospect, I guess I should have known that each step through the city would be a melancholy journey through a place that once meant so much to us and which would never be the same in our minds. Every street we walked held some memory of a moment with Enzo. Every place we visited reminded us of a past day we had once shared. There was no part of the city we could turn to where we would not feel Enzo’s presence, and, paradoxically, his absence. It is a strange phenomenon that those gone can exert their force on our minds, giving our memories of them enough power to make their presence come to life. The more we moved through the city, the more I felt that combination of opposite sensations, and I was amazed at how powerful they were in me, even as we near the first anniversary of Enzo’s death.
In some unforeseen way, I soon realized, it was easier to be in Bethesda, around the corner from where Enzo died, than it was to be in Philadelphia. At first, I did not understand why, but then it dawned on me that home was an ordinary place, filled with the normal rhythms of everyday life. Philadelphia, however, was special to the three of us: it was a place of laughter, music, history, and of days spent together talking about past, present, and future. Philly had no bad memories for us, no days of sadness or anger or disappointment. Though only two hours from home, it was another world for us, in its own way exotic and full of surprises.
On this trip, however, the echoes of our missing son and brother reverberated through the city’s narrow alleys. I heard his voice speaking to me each time we entered some place we had once been together. So strong were my memories of Enzo by the end of each day that I could barely sleep at night, and I lay awake recalling all those shared moments from the past. As I did so, I realized that it was too painful to come to Philadelphia without Enzo and that this would probably be our last trip here. The pleasure of discovery that had once defined our time there was gone, and both Dino and I sensed it. Though we enjoyed being together, I understood that in the future we would have to find a new place for our father-and-son trips — someplace where a different shared emotional experience would be forged. Philly’s time had come and gone. We would be okay, Dino and I, but our future adventures would be found somewhere else in the world.
With the trip complete, as we left the city it struck me that I may never return to Philadelphia. It is lost to me now, gone with Enzo into the realm of memory. It is strange that such an ordinary place could have such a special hold on my mind, but it does, and the pain of being there is one I do not wish to relive. I commend it to the past, therefore — to the same corner of my mind in which so many other things that died with Enzo now lie.
Looking at the city’s crystal buildings and iron bridges as we left, I recalled Jonathan Demme’s film named after the city. A song on the soundtrack came into my mind, and I listened to it as we sped away. It is the music played over the closing scenes as family and friends gather to mourn a young life lost. It is a song of sorrow and regret but also of acceptance and hope. It seemed to me the right music to hear as I looked away from Philadelphia for perhaps the last time and left another part of my life with Enzo behind me in the distance.
Sometimes I think that I know
What love’s all about
And when I see the light
I know I’ll be all right
I’ve got my friends in the world
I had my friends
When we were boys and girls
And the secrets came unfurled
City of brotherly love
Place I call home
Don’t turn your back on me
I don’t want to be alone
Someone is talking to me
Calling my name
Tell me I’m not to blame
I won’t be ashamed of love
Sometimes I think that I know
What love’s all about
And when I see the light
I know I’ll be all right
—“Philadelphia” by Neil Young
Hat tip to my friend, Jason Steinhauer, for recommending the play to me after reading the first version of this essay.