Beauty and Ruin: The Exquisite Tragedy of Philadelphia

The beautiful juxtaposition of Philadelphia is reminiscent of a Greek tragedy filled with love and hate, danger and safety, and beauty and ruin.

Long distance bus travel can take a lot out of a man. The inconvenient vibrations stirring up crotch-related blood-rush as you roll through the ever-possessive night. The sorrow of awakening every three minutes to the maniacal laughter of your driver each time he makes surrealistic roadkill art out of street gangs of disoriented raccoons. And what about the psychotic subhuman slouching beside you as his loused-up mullet taints your headrest? His trench coat drapes over your right knee, and no matter how often you flick it back in his direction, the heavy-set gabardine just keeps coming back for more. And it's hot, and your right knee sweats bullets under the thickness of that ridiculous get-up that has just got to be concealing something. You offer him a potato chip and he says no. What type of person refuses a potato chip?

You turn to the Israeli girl you met at the hostel back in Richmond. Now your balls are blue because she’s wearing Daisy Dukes, and the engine vibrations… oh, the engine vibrations. You peer towards the potential murderer seated beside you and he catches you staring. He spots your boner, so for some reason you throw him a wink. He winks back and that freaks you out but then you smirk at the absurdity of the situation because you're on your way to the city of brotherly love, Philadelphia.

Silhouettes of cheesesteaks and drug markets pinball your skull as your driver swings into 30th Street Station. The vibrations stop. You deflate. Subhuman asks if you have any chips remaining as he's starving and now you hope he does have something concealed under his coat so you can grab it and end the nightmare. Philly's gonna be interesting.

You've heard the stereotypes about the hard-nosed attitude of Philadelphians; angry, snarky people who occasionally drip-feed outsiders with illusions of friendliness in the pursuit of personal gain. Your taxi driver does nothing to debunk this stereotype. He seems friendly at first, without actually displaying any semblance of manners, but he has a nice smile as he stares at your companion’s arse, and if that's all it takes to not get punched in the face, then so be it.

What should be a regulation ten-minute trip down the I-95 takes twenty-five minutes as your driver, Winston, swears black and blue that the neighbourhood you're insisting on visiting doesn't exist. You try to convince him that you have seen photos of the elevated railway (El, for short) situated across the road from the house you'll be staying in, but Winston will hear none of it. When you do convince him of East Tioga's existence, he charges for the extra miles. You argue, but it's way too hot, and you're hungry, so instead, your companion open palms his windscreen because she's a fearless Israeli veteran.

Your host suggests the “great” Chinese takeout just around the corner. Your Israeli tells you that she'll come with you because she senses that the neighbourhood is crazy dangerous. The domestic violence happening next door suggests that she's probably right. But you need your alone time so you gently remind her that you're from a rough neighbourhood so how bad could it really be?

As you enter the takeout, you walk head first into the bulletproof Perspex separating you from the demure man behind the counter. Never saw that in my neighbourhood. An agitated gentleman is pacing the length of the counter. His mumbling sounds like he’s saying ”Gonna smack yo' mammy” over and over again but you don't speak crack so you can't be 100% certain.

A steady stream of crack addicts stagger in and out of the cramped takeout. You keep hearing the word nickel under various crack-head's breath so you shimmy up to get the low down. Nickel bags. The crack-heads are buying nickel bags. The Chinese takeout guy is also a drug dealer. So convenient.

Just down the road stands an infamous open-air drug market that the locals call Zombieland. You decide that you must see this for yourself. The Israeli ditches you to check out the Philadelphia Magical Gardens so you head towards Somerset and Kensington. What little you did see of the Magic Gardens was astonishing. The gardens are an ever-evolving passion project created by artist Isaiah Zagar. Swirling, labyrinthine ramps and mosaic-mirrored steps intertwine in feasts of orgy and decadence. Swathes of jagged mirrors, pinks, silvers and blues, rusted bicycle wheels, and empty beer bottles dominate the entirety of the South Street block. As for the Springer-Spaniel in a Slipknot bandana roaming the property, well that's just an unexpected treat.

You hit the drug market, a police no-go zone, with a head full of steam. You're immediately offered a syringe for a dollar by a lovely pensioner who must really be passionate in preventing the spread of Hepatitis. Locals have warned you not to enter Zombieland but you remind them that you grew up in a rough neighbourhood so how bad could it be? You soon find out when you trip over an overdosed hooker blocking the footpath. Might have seen that before once or twice.

The Somerset and Kensington intersection smells like alcohol swabs and hooker deodorant, and the litter in the gutters are juicily funkified. The streets are flat and wide and stalked by the raised blue girders of the Somerset El station. It's an industrial wasteland— condemned factories, men in trashed clothes, clapped out cars. Mad Max.

Comparing drug scenes to popular culture is exhausting and you've got a hankering for a world famous Philly cheesesteak. There's only one intersection in Philly to hit up for such a treat, Passyunk and 9th. You see that there are two choices, Pat's or Geno's. The iconic buildings sit diagonally opposed in a tense standoff, and you can't decide who to side with. You negotiate with yourself: Pat claims he is the King of Steaks, but Geno has a blue neon sign. You really like blue neon signs so you choose Geno's. You wait in line for forty-five minutes but in the end it doesn’t matter because the cheesesteak is sensational. Cheese. Steak. Bread. What a world we live in.

You decide to return to the Magic Gardens so you walk back up South Street. On your way to see the Israeli you pass through a meat market where everyone stares at you because you're wearing a T-shirt of a Ford pissing on a Chevy. But it's cool because you're in a meat market and surrounded by carcasses on hooks. You start to shadow-box a dead pig because you think you're hilarious and it reminds you of another movie. Time for a quick detour.

The Philadelphia Museum of Art is a domineering splendour. Its perfect replicae of Ancient Greek architecture, its Neo-Classic prominence, its immense symbolism of wealth and pride in an otherwise poverty stricken city, are all something worth beholding. But all of that crap is lost on you; you have the Rocky theme pinballing your skull.

You sprint across Benjamin Franklin Parkway and charge up those seventy-two famous steps. Once you reach the top you're gonna turn to face the city and raise your arms and grunt to the world. But you've just smoked a cigarette and on step forty-three you collapse in a wheezing heap on the dolomite surface. Five minutes later you reach the top, turn to face the city, shrug your shoulders and shuffle back to 30th Street Station, but it's cool, because like Rocky, you too have conquered the punishing extremes of Philadelphia.

Later, while browsing the shrunken Amazon heads at Professor Ouch's Bizarre Bazaar & Odditorium, the weird, freaky girl behind the counter asks you if you are a mountain climber because of the fifty-cent carabiner dangling from your backpack. You casually swallow your last mouthful of Hoagy, tilt your head slightly and coolly shoot back the answer freak girl has been hanging on...

Yes. Yes I am.