| 30 May 2006 The Question You Ask We had been at Lincoln Field, the home of the National Football League Eagles. It is located in the sports complex that sprawls below South Philly. It was on the cusp of he season, a fine May day that preasged the heat of the summer to come. There were no beer sales at the stadium- my sons were a little bitter about that- but as we trudged away after the second game, they agreed that fueling the passion of all those Lacrosse people with a day-long orgy of suds would not be a pretty thing. We were on foot, which is a novelty for us. We had taken the Amtrak Vermonter regional train north out of Washington's Union Station, and debarked in the vaulted elegance of Philadelphia's 30th Street Station. The concourse is rich with marble and bronze, built the way public buildings used to be. It was only ten blocks to the downtown hotel, which was near the Orange Line of the Southeast Pennsylvania Transit Authority line that runs north and south under Broad Street. The conceriege recommended it as the way to get to the stadium, and after we dumped our bags in the room, we ventured west on Market Street toward the great wedding-cake edifice of City Hall. I am not easily impressed by the infrastructure of cities. I have yawned on the Ginza, been blasé at St. Basils on Red Square and fallen asleep on the Tube in London. But Philadelphia is a placed that takes your breath away. It is not so much for the grandeur, since that is present in the mighty Wannamaker Building across the street from the hotel, or the elaborate disused rail terminal next door, or the City Hall itself. They say that the tower was the tallest in the world when it was built, and the rococo touches on the mighty flanks ran the cost up to what would be (in constant dollars) six billion dollars before it was done. The city council chambers are lavish and soaring enough for any ordinary nation-state. It is humbling to question what went so wrong in this great city. The question was when, and why. The first thing the boys noted was the trash. They must read a lot of newspapers in town, and apparently then drop them on the pavement. What broke in the infrastructure? Was the sanitation system the first to go, and people got used to the messy consequences? It happens. My cousins live in Miami, growing in up in a sleepy southern town that has transformed into the Capital of Latin America. They say things changed with Hurricane Andrew. In the aftermath, the traffic lights were out of operation for so long that people got used to doing without them. When they came back, no one paid much attention. There had been a fundamental change in the public attitude. Perhaps something like that happened in Philadelphia after a long sanitation strike. Maybe it is like the “broken window” theory that was advanced in New York. Once a single window is broken, it leads to another until all are broken out. Without constant intervention and care, anarchy and madness cannot be held at bay. Perhaps it happened that way here, and that is why everyone moved away, leaving the magnificent hulk of the central city to any who would stay. There were many homeless and demented on the streets, sad, but unmolested. The city is clearly trying to come back. There are platoons of private city workers on the street to pick up litter and provide a uniformed presence, just as they are in Washington. There is much to be saved in the heroic skyline and intimate details of the architecture. One of the clues was the nature of transit. We walked through a broad passage under one of the wings of the City Hall. The stone carving was intricate, staircases and balustrades, and unlit. The entrances to the Subway were modest. The first we saw led down into the darkness and a scouting party returned, saying that a gate was padlocked across the bottom of the stairs. We went down into the next entrance we came to, and it was open. The tunnel led into a vast public area bigger than a football field, completely lifeless. Steel bars and one-way turnstiles barred access to stairways going somewhere, and we crossed the long echoed tiled space toward a distant vista where there appeared to be signs of life. As we walked, I thought this might be a remnant of the Cold War Civil Defense system, a vast bunker to accommodate the bankers and merchants from the central city above in time of crisis. It was impressive in a chilly way, as was the antique fare system for the trains. In Washington, the Metro is fairly new. It utilizes magnetic strip tickets, which meter the expense of the journey; more stations traveled mean a higher fare. It works, generally, but requires a certain level of awareness when dealing with the computers. The Philadelphia system is token-based, of any age with the system in New York City: one token for one ride, regardless of how long. We were naturally confused, and had to ask the women in the glass booth how it al worked. She was kind enough to explain it just that way. “One token, one ride.” That got us on a fast train south to the sports complex on a train that moved with industrial age authority. Coming back, we were determined to stop at Geno's, the legendary home of the Philly Cheese-steak sandwich. We asked a man in the parking lot for directions, and he referred us to a garrulous man with a peculiar accent sitting in a late model Suburban SUV. He pondered my question. “Eh, ya wanna get off at da Tasker-Morris stop, and walk around five blocks in. I tink it is five blocks. Ya can't miss it. Best damn steaks in the woild.” We thanked him for his time, and we attempted to do as he instructed. I translated “in” as East, and with that in hand we waked east from Broad Street into the gritty streets of South Philly. The row houses were both well-reserved and crumbling. Neighborhoods hanging on as best they can. After we found Geno's, and ate the best damned sandwiches in the woild, we walked back west to Broad Street and the Orange Line. We were further north than Tasker-Morris, and I recommended we walk further north, toward the skyscrapers in the distance and take the next station. Ellsworth-Federal was just a few blocks north, past the five-story portrait of Frank Sinatra on the side of a building next to the gas station and across the street from a funeral home with a spectacular copper façade. We went down the stairs to a quiet platform, well barred. We had used all our tokens, not anticipating this adventure, and I looked for a machine to purchase more. There was none. A man sat shadowed in a heavily armored booth. We walked up and down. A sign on the wall read “No Token Sales.” Another hand written sign with the same message was taped to the glass in front of the imperturbable figure in the booth. There appeared to be no way out, except back up to Broad Street and a long walk to the central city. At a loss, I approached the booth and leaned close to the microphone. “Can you tell me where I can buy a token?” “You might want to try a convenience store or someplace like that,” crackled the speaker. “They might have them.” “How does that make any sense?” I asked. “How are you supposed to ride the Subway if there is no place to buy a token?” There was a brief silence. He might have been laughing in the booth, I couldn't tell. Then the speaker cracked to life. “Well, you might give me two dollars and I will let you in.” “Oh,” I said. “I'm sorry. I'm from out of town.” Duh. I fished out a couple bills from my cargo shorts and slipped them under the glass. The turnstile clicked and I walked through. My sons followed me to the stairs that led to the platform. The station was empty and the benches deserted. I looked up and down the tracks. Nothing but silence. “Maybe the trains don't run on the weekends from here,” said my older son. “Maybe we are going to be down here until the next rush hour,” said the younger one. I had to think about that, hard. The man had been nice enough to let us in, but I hadn't asked the logical question: “Are the trains running?” He might be still up there in the booth chortling at the out-of-towners. I suppose it is all in asking the right question. Then we sat on a bench, and hoped that a train would come. Copyright 2006 Vic Socotra |