Monthly Archives: November 2012

Arepas, Truffle Oil, and Pizza: Three Places to Eat This Winter

As I wait to hear back from grad schools, I am beginning to acknowledge the possibility that I might not be living here next year. Everything is still up in the air (will it be Boston/Philly/NYC?! It’s still anyone’s game!), but I think it’s time to capture a few more of my favorite Cambridge/Boston spots before this whole year in Beantown melts away quicker than that first snowstorm.

Harvard Square, first snow. Cambridge, MA.

Harvard Square, first snow. Cambridge, MA.

Let’s start with Orinoco. I was at a friend’s party talking with a guy I just met about travel and food, and he told me I had to try this Venezuelan place. He didn’t know me well, but based on our discussion I trusted his recommendation. The moment my first arepa craving hit, I decided to give it a try. As I approached the restaurant down a small alley slightly off of the main foot traffic in Harvard Square, I already felt pleasantly surprised. The little pathway to the restaurant felt delightfully unexpected, and I was intrigued with what I might find. I got there early, perhaps 30 minutes before they’re used to getting their first customers, and merengue was blasting throughout the cozy space while a cluster of waiters chatted loudly in Spanish. Ahhh, yes!! I felt instantly at home. They seemed a little surprised to see me, but I was seated promptly at the table of my choosing where I could easily take in the candle-lit quirks of the restaurant. I had an instant crush on Orinoco and its vibe. Sadly, the music was turned down while I waited for my friend, but luckily the Latin beats continued to pulse throughout the meal (just not as aggressively as I may have secretly liked).

We began with a delicious pitcher of sangria, which was just the right amount of sweet for a cold night. As I entered a tropical daydream, our Pelua Arepa arrived (a traditional fried corn pocket with Venezuelan-style stewed shredded beef and yellow edam cheese). It was everything I hoped it would be; it was hot, the meat was tender and flavorful, and the arepa had just the right amount of crunch to it. I could have easily eaten only arepas all night, but like a good Argentinean girl, I had ordered the Parilla Caraqueña (an assortment of strip steak, chorizo, chicken, guasacaca, and fried yuca with mojo — oh how I love yuca). I was full, to say the least. But my appetite wasn’t the only thing satisfied. I loved the adorable space, which was originally built in 1900 and housed Cambridge’s first Spanish restaurant. They’ve done a wonderful job decorating it with multicolored wooden chairs and colorful painted religious figurines throughout. There is no way I am leaving this town without at least one more trip to Orinoco, preferably after winter thaws so I can enjoy the Venezuelan comida in the outdoor patio. Who will be lucky enough to join me?!

Inside Orinoco. Cambridge, MA

Inside Orinoco. Cambridge, MA

To switch things up a little, I was happy to receive an invitation to a new restaurant in the Financial District called Granary Tavern. I’d call it swanky but comfortable. I loved the atmosphere, which was sleek and modern but with rustic undertones. I’m not usually a cocktail gal, but seeing as my time in Boston has been so cocktail-infused, I had to give the Ginger Rogers a try (Absolut Vodka, ginger liquor, fresh squeezed lemon, mint, and a splash of ginger ale). And then, I had to give it a second try — you know, just to make sure that the first one wasn’t a delicious fluke. (It wasn’t.) And then I had to give it a THIRD try… Err, ok ok, just kidding. Only two (I swear!). I shared the Porcini Flatbread, which cast its spell on me as soon as I got my first whiff of truffle oil… Oh, I’m such a sucker for truffle-anything. I’d give the flatbread a high ranking. It was followed by the pan-seared scallops, which were extremely tasty as well, although a bit too buttery/creamy for my liking. I do not blame the scallops though; they did their job, I just happened to be in the mood to go slightly out of my comfort food-zone and was inspired by the predominantly seafood menu. I definitely owe Granary Tavern another visit, but with so many other places to try I am not sure how or when I will get back there. If nothing else, I hope to at least spread the word that Granary Tavern is definitely worth at least a good drink and a yummy flatbread.

Somerville sunset. Somerville, MA.

Somerville sunset. Somerville, MA.

Lastly, for this entry, I feel like Cambridge 1 deserves a nod. So, I live with a pizza editor/food writer, which makes it very hard not to be critical of (or impressed with, if such is the case) the Boston pizza scene. It seems the strength is in flatbreads, not the deeper-crust or “NYC slice” styles, and I’m ok with that. One day, I met a friend for lunch at this cozy Harvard Square spot, which I hadn’t even noticed after walking by it at least 100 times. Unassuming from the outside, I was happily surprised upon entering the simple warehouse-like space. It was a dreary day, and the green of an outside pre-winter tree lit up the large back  window, illuminating the otherwise beer-hall brown benches of the restaurant. I went with the Iceberg Lettuce Wedge (drizzled generously with a shallot vinaigrette), followed by the Spinach, Artichoke Hearts, Chevre, and roasted Tomato pizza, per the waitress’ recommendation when I couldn’t decide. The pizza was fantastic — although it could have been hotter, and the salad wedge was refreshingly crunchy. I returned a separate evening to find that the place was a different scene at night. It was totally packed, and I actually had to wait 30 minutes to sit down. Ordering the Bolognese Meat Sauce pizza the second time around was a mistake, as it was a soggy experience, thus taking away the initial satisfaction I felt with my first pizza choice (Note to self: trust the waitress). Nevertheless, a great beer selection and satisfying flavors (despite lackluster texture) made Cambridge 1 a very convenient and pleasant option to keep on file.

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Leaves. Cloud forest in Mindo, Ecuador.

So there you go. Winter is all about staying warm with good food, good people, and sure, some good booze. I am feeling inspired to take on the Boston winter and take advantage of the many places that make this city so beloved by its inhabitants. I might be a New Yorker at heart, but at least for several more months, I am a Bostonian/Cantabrigian (I’m sorry, but I count both cities as my home right now). So, bring on the restaurants, the bars, the museums, and the accents because I’ve still got some serious Beantown exploring to do. (Suggestions welcome and encouraged!)

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Filed under Boston, Food, List, Massachusetts, Somerville, Winter

Grit

Well this is kind of crazy. I’ve been wanting to be right here since the day I decided to switch careers. I’m still processing the overwhelming happiness (and RELIEF) I feel now that I have officially been accepted to graduate school. I can honestly tell you that I have never worked so hard, been so humbled, been so discouraged and yet so determined to achieve something in my life. And now, after checking that email I’ve imagined and hoped to receive for years, the one that begins with:  “My warmest congratulations on your accepta…” it has all paid off. Folks, I’m doing this. It is FOR REAL now.

Pink church and limes. Salta, Argentina.

It is hard to express what this means to me but — well, obviously — I’m going to try. At 29, with my twenty-something journey coming to a perfect culmination and a new thirty-something journey beginning in a new place next fall, I can finally take that deep breath that I have wanted to take since the moment I graduated. I remember walking around the quad, sweating in the sun with my graduation gown dangling all around me. I was surrounded by best friends with the weight of that moment finally hitting me for the first time — the realization that I DID IT. I didn’t know the next time I’d feel that way, but knew it might be years — whatever those years would be. I drove away from college holding my boyfriend’s hand in the back of my parents’ minivan, trying not to get lost in a new world of unknowns, wondering where I was about to go with my life, and about to find out.

My journey to finding my career has been long, wild and challenging in every single way I can imagine and many twisted ways I could never have imagined. You all know the basic story — I graduated, got my heart broken, commenced soul-searching, listened to my gut and heart all along the way whether it led me to dark dangerous corners of third world countries or to unforgettable once-in-a-lifetime romances in the Caribbean. I almost moved to Holland. I almost moved to Chicago. I almost fell off a rocky cliff in Ecuador. I almost wrote a book. I almost went to graduate school for an MFA in creative nonfiction. I almost moved to Spain to do a Masters program through Middlebury College. I almost applied to get a MSW. I almost took a crash-course in architecture at Harvard (yeah – I bet you didn’t know that!). I almost did a lot of things. I almost didn’t take this risk… But then, I did.

Let’s backtrack.

In March 2010, I announced to the TwT world that I was going to pull a little switcheroo in the career department. (You can read the post “In Case You Were Curious…” here.) I won’t get into the whole story of why I decided to become a PT because I just wrote 13 personal statements about this subject, and frankly — I have run out of mojo. I remember writing this post, and feeling a little nervous to tell people about my decision to switch from travel writing to becoming a doctor of physical therapy, thinking people would assume I was in some sort of confused quarter-life-crisis when, really, I was finally less confused than I had ever been.

Two girls pose for me during a walk on the beach. Cabarete, Dominican Republic.

Making the decision was half the battle, as I had secretly struggled with my seemingly out-of-nowhere interest in PT since I strained a ligament in my back during one crew practice at Bowdoin. I had to miss the last races of my college “career” (yeah — the most fun ones) and ended up in PT instead. That is when I first learned about the field. By then, I was about to graduate without having taken a single science course and 12 courses were required to apply to DPT programs. I figured it was too late, but my interest in the field haunted me for years to come — through disasters like Katrina and the earthquake in Haiti. I felt the constant tug of healthcare, of wanting to help, of wanting to have a skill to offer others, and eventually became the patient myself (that really put me over the edge). I was literally living the dream: I went on just about every travel experience I had ever wanted, and exploring foreign places (and foreign people!) became my passion. Wanderlust filled all the crevices of uncertainty in my soul, and satisfied my curiosity indirectly — albeit, not completely.

Like I said, making the decision was the hardest part, but once I decided to commit to the two years of science pre-requisites just to be able to APPLY to graduate school, I knew there was no turning back. That is, until school started.

Look, I have always been a good student. I care about school, about doing well, about learning and feeling like I gave a class my all. In the past, this had always gotten me the grades I wanted, without really caring too much what they were (I mean — not in the pre-med sense of caring). But for the first time, much of my learning was about to become about the grades: I was in these pre-med classes to get good grades so that I could get INTO grad school. This was BUSINESS. And, for the first time in my life, that had never been so hard to achieve.

New Orleans, Louisiana.

After making the decision to pursue this academic adventure, I retaught myself some Algebra, took the GREs, and began classes that May. The first two pre-requisites I took were Statistics and Developmental Psychology. Those were fine. I did well, and they were a good warm-up for my brain since they were each one semester condensed into an intensive six weeks.

Then, the real challenge began in the fall with Biology and Chemistry — two subjects I knew absolutely nothing about. I remember sitting through the first few weeks of my Principles of Biology course (considered one of the weed-out classes at NYU) surrounded by 800 eager type A pre-med undergrads ready to prove they were better than me (see: Falling Into Science). I wasn’t just a fish out of water; I felt like a hipster in a 9-5 office job: this was just NOT my scene. While my friends were all getting married, I was getting homework — and not the kind that gets you a degree. It was rough, to say the least. The intensity, the pressure, the learning environment — there was nothing familiar about any of it, and I was completely knocked down within the first round of midterms.

For the first time in my life, my grades were everything. And for the first time in my life, they were the worst numbers I had ever seen. Luckily, all my med school friends assured me this was normal, and welcomed me into the pre-med world, which felt about as good as I imagine a fraternity/sorority hazing might feel. (And they were right — the grades didn’t mean what they looked like they meant before the curve.) Getting that first biology midterm back, and seeing the lowest grade of my life felt like getting my heart broken from a new angle. (See: Humble Pie Season.) This wasn’t how it was supposed to be! This wasn’t the direction I saw my “story” going!

Street in Brussels, Belgium.

I’ll tell you all a little secret. A few weeks into my dream-plan, I met with the post-bacc pre-med advisor at NYU because, if you got below a B on the first midterm, you had to. I had never ever HAD to meet with an advisor about anything. I was not that student. I was the other kind of student… the kind that met with his/her advisor and got lots of pats on the back for doing a great job!

I’m not going to lie: when I saw my first midterm grade, after sacrificing my whole life to do well in these courses, after putting more study time into these science classes than I had ever put into any course (or any semester) in my life (and don’t get me wrong — college was hard!)… I was crushed. It was one of those times when you realize that maybe you’re not who you thought you were, and maybe your dreams weren’t going to come true afterall. Maybe they were just a little too big. Failure is not something I do, or plan to do. But That first exam made me question everything. More than anything, it made me question who I thought I was.

I slept on it. When I woke up, I was determined. There was NO WAY I was giving up after coming this far. When I went to meet with my advisor, I was hyped up on adrenaline, determination, and confidence. I was in a hole I had never been in before, but I was going to claw my way out of it no matter what it took. I think that was the first time I really realized that there was not going to be anything easy about this journey to a new career — it was going to take more than “wanting it,” more than “working hard for it” — it was going to take blood and tears and true GRIT to get to the top of this hill (see: Hill Climb). Luckily, I had all those days of wishing I knew what I wanted, of feeling lost, of feeling driven but with nowhere to drive to help me suck it up and do this — for me, for what I had been through, for those days. I knew what I wanted now. It was hell getting here, so I was not going to turn around after one swift punch in the gut.

And the punches kept coming. I’ll never forget that meeting with the NYU pre-med advisor. I walked into her office, sat down, and couldn’t wait to tell her not to worry — that it had clicked! I had a steep learning curve, but that I learned the hard way that these classes were going to be unlike any other classes I ever took, and now I knew what I had to do in order to succeed. Before I had the chance to open my mouth, she told me she was concerned about me and that I should rethink this career change. I walked into her office oozing with optimism, and as I sat there I felt absolutely gutted. I felt worthless. I felt like the bug that thinks it’s about to get away when suddenly it gets squished under an old, ratty shoe. I didn’t tell anyone about that meeting. I didn’t want to believe it really happened.

She told me that this happens all of the time: people from other backgrounds think they can do the pre-med track later in life, and it is too hard for them or they just aren’t as smart as they thought. I’ll never forget when she said these words: “You know, maybe this just isn’t for you…I’d hate to see you waste the money. You should think long and hard about whether or not you’re cut out for this, because it’s only going to get harder.”

View from “home.” The island of Sint Maarten (Caribbean).

I looked at her in disbelief. Never, NEVER in my life, had I ever been on the receiving end of this talk. I tried to speak but she wasn’t listening to me. In that moment, I realized she didn’t know anything about me. She was wrong. The weak, scared, intimidated part of me worried she might be right, but the real me — the me I had gotten to know through ups and downs over the course of the last decade — that me knew how wrong she was. Right then and there, I decided that no matter what it took, I was going to prove her wrong. That was all that I could do.

The hits kept coming, but before I knew it, so did the achievements. It took a little bit of re-learning how to be a student, and learning for the first time how to be a pre-med student, but I figured it out. My standards changed from the humanities days, and I began to realize the beauty of a curve. As my intro science courses began weeding people out all around me, I clung like a freakin’ tick to my goal. One by one, I got through the pre-requisite courses. One by one, I improved until finally I felt like the student I had always been again. People can tell you whatever they want about who they think you are, but when you spend as much time as I had trying to figure that out, you know when a person couldn’t be more wrong.

Steps and homes. Sintra, Portugal.

By the second semester, having made the cut, I took on a different attitude (see: Bull in a Classroom). The classes got more challenging, but my fight got bigger. Just when I thought I had gotten through the hardest courses of my life, I signed up for one year of physics condensed into seven weeks at Harvard. We had three hours of lecture every single day, a midterm or final exam every Monday, long labs every Wednesday, and mandatory two-hr review sessions every Tuesday and Thursday. The nightly homework took anywhere from two to five hours, in addition to the lectures, labs and study sessions. By week three, my brain was so burnt out I didn’t know how I would make it. What I thought would be a sprint turned into a marathon in the pouring rain. I think the class average for our second midterm (two weeks into the course, mind you) was a 52. This course covered exactly the same material that a normal Harvard student would cover over 9 months, and we were doing it in 7 weeks… and it was PHYSICS, for crying out loud! (Not a cake walk, lemme tell ya…) But somehow I made it through that, too (see: Finish Line).

As you can see, this post-baccalaureate pre-med thing has sort of blown my mind. I knew it would be hard, but I never imagined it would be this hard. Luckily, I didn’t know what I was really getting myself into or it could have scared me away (maaaybe, but doubtful). With challenges this big, the joy of success is even bigger. There were many moments when I wondered how I would get here, how I would pull this off — every weekly quiz, every beast of a midterm, every humbling, soul-crushing step of the way. I took many steps backwards, but more steps forwards until ultimately, I pulled it off. I didn’t give up (I couldn’t!), I didn’t listen when someone told me I should rethink this career-change, and I didn’t let the moments of self-doubt become bigger than the overriding stop-at-nothing-to-get-where-I’m-trying-to-go determination. And I can barely believe it, but… It worked.

Gladiator. Rome, Italy.

I tell you this story because I don’t want anyone to think this has been a easy, or that they can’t do this too. During my first graduate school interview, one of the kids next to me was asked what is the greatest challenge he has faced. The boy is 20, a senior in college, and on paper, he is as qualified to become a physical therapist as I am (or more). His response: “Calculus…” And he had every right to say this, as I totally respect and understand that being a challenge when you’re graduating from a good college and you’re 20 years old. The four other applicants in my group interview cringed at the thought of calculus, and commiserated saying “Oh god, YES! Calculus was rough.” In that moment, in my suit with my twenties almost completely behind me, I just smiled. Ah yes, calculus. I took two semesters of it in 2001/2002 — and I loved it. To be honest (and I already told you how hard science was for me, so I am allowed to say this): Calculus was easy for me. EASY compared to the courses I am taking now. What they didn’t know, bless their hearts, was that life was about to get much harder than calculus.

So, here we are. The challenges are by no means behind me, in fact, now the real challenge is about to begin. But I’m going to become a Doctor of Physical therapy. I actually feel like I’m already becoming one. I am so incredibly excited about this career. I’m so incredibly proud of myself, and every single person who takes on the challenge of switching to a medical field later in life — or to any field, for that matter. This is not the easy path. This is not the instant-gratification many want. This is the biggest, baddest academic beast you will ever conquer, and it’s not dead yet for me, but I just aimed a spear at its heart.

Lava rock beach. Kona, Hawaii.

It turns out that after all that soul searching, after all those long solo flights around the world, after all the uncertainty and the cold hard desire to find what I wanted to be and who I was trying to become in my crazy twenty-something journey, this right here is where I was trying to get. This — how I feel now — was where I was trying to go the whole time.

I emailed the admissions director to thank him profusely for the opportunity. In his response, he said to please not thank him: it was my determination, my hard work and intelligence (his words!), and my “grit” that got me here, not him. Unlike the NYU advisor I spoke with, I felt like someone finally understood what it took. Someone finally gave me the pat on the back that I worked so hard for, and yes — it was all worth it.

This is just one pitstop during a long journey, but pardon me as I take a quick swig of champagne and one ENORMOUS hard-earned deep breath. Finally, I can. Then, it’s time to get back on the road because another leg of the journey awaits me.

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My Trip to Philly

It had been a while since I was in Philadelphia. I’ll start by saying that I’ve been many times before — but, never just for me. I was excited about this trip — it was a trip speckled with memories here and there, but focused on excitement about my future, which could potentially begin in yet another East Coast city.

Entering a dark NYC, 2nd Avenue. NYC, post-Sandy.

With a trip scheduled three days after Hurricane Sandy’s foray across the tristate region, I thought I’d be ok. I had found cheap Amtrak tickets from Boston South Station to Philadelphia’s 30th Street Station leaving Thursday afternoon and returning late Saturday night. The weather looked nice, and my schedule was wide-open. But, as many travels with Tavel go, it wasn’t quite that simple.

Taxi in the dark. Midtown Manhattan.

As most of you know, there was still no electricity in downtown Manhattan and most tunnels were flooded. Penn Station was closed, all Northeast Corridor Amtrak trains were shut down, and buses were not able to pass through the darkened city. It was the day before my trip, so I knew I’d have to scramble up some plan Bs. I was absolutely determined to make it down to Philadelphia, and I was not about to let a little biggest-storm-to-hit-NYC-in-100-years stop me. I had come way too far to get to this opportunity, and I’d be damned if anything got in my way now! (In my experience, it is this attitude that will get you places…)

Amtrak at 30th Street station in Philadelphia, PA. Delays, and late arrivals… Mine was the 5:19 train.

I called Amtrak on Wednesday morning with a glimmer of hope in my heart, and anticipation of complications in my gut. They told me all trains leaving Boston were not operating except for two — one of which was MINE. I asked them to double and triple check the information, and they were equally confused and excited for me when they confirmed that mine was one of two trains still scheduled to depart on time.

Bus in the dark. Manhattan.

I felt pretty awesome, but decided to check back in the afternoon because something didn’t feel right. They confirmed that my train was still scheduled to depart on time from Boston to Philly… I still didn’t believe them. I called again, Wednesday night, at which point they told me the train was now going to be leaving Boston with a final destination of New Haven, CT. This made more sense, unfortunately. NJ Transit was not running, and trains couldn’t get past Connecticut, so my problem had not been solved: it was time to explore other options.

Street view. Philadelphia, PA.

I looked up flights, which were either booked or in the $300-$450 dollar range (and apparently the closest I could get was Newark, not Philadelphia). That was way too much money, and still didn’t solve the problem of how to get to Philadelphia. I quickly checked out bus schedules — and all buses were labeled as “Canceled.” By now, it was around 4pm. Finally, I got an email (and a series of phone calls) from Amtrak telling me that my train had been officially cancelled. I had an appointment in Philadelphia at noon on Friday — that was my goal. I began to get tunnel vision (har har, no pun intended) for success… My heart started racing a little and I think I accidentally skipped dinner as I frantically began calling bus companies and looking up mass-transit news stories for the area. It became very clear that any train or bus service going through NYC (which is what I needed) was completely shut-off the day before I had to leave, and I wouldn’t know if anything was running until the next morning.

Philadelphia, PA.

I bought back-up bus tickets for Thursday, which were being sold with the promise that if the buses didn’t run I would get a full refund. At this point, the earliest bus ticket I could find was a 2:30pm bus out of South Station, arriving in NYC at 6:15pm. There was a 7:15pm bus from 34th Street (NYC) to Philadelphia, but I worried that would be too risky, so I booked the 8:15pm bus from NYC to Philly in hopes that this would help me avoid any missing-of-the-bus stress. I HATE missing-a-transfer stress. Mind you, this bus was supposed to arrive at 34th Street and 7th Avenue, in the heart of the power outage zone… But BoltBus confirmed in the morning that all buses were running (and on time!), so I had no choice but to trust them and see what happens…

In these situations, you have to think positive travel thoughts. I can’t tell you how many times I have gotten on buses or airplanes knowing that my destination might be completely out of my control. I’ve learned that sometimes you’ve just got to trust the travel fairies that you are going to make it wherever you are trying to go — and trust your gut.

Philadelphia, PA.

I actually got to South Station 45 min early and managed to get off of standby for the 2pm bus. With an extra 30 minutes of wiggle room, I felt some good travel-mojo. I began to relax a little. The bus ride was perfectly smooth, with surprisingly few delays. It only got weird when we slowly crossed a bridge into NYC, and I could see — for the first time — the darkened skyline from the bus window. As we drove past the cops, who were checking to make sure there were at least 3 people in every vehicle entering the city, the whole bus took on a hushed tone. Suddenly, we were in the city — but it was a ghost city. As the bus drove down Second Avenue, I couldn’t believe what I saw (or, what I couldn’t see). It was pitch black. The only lights were the occasional cop car, street sign or taxi cab. I looked up at black buildings, and down at quiet restaurants. Every now and then, we’d pass a series of lit up blocks. When we entered midtown, it was one of the weirdest NYC moments I have ever had: The city that never sleeps was being forced to take a nap. And like a cranky child, NYC does not do nap-time well.

Finally, the bus pulled into 34th Street at 6:35pm. I was determined to get on standby for the 7:15 bus, and sprinted off Bus #1 to get in a huge line of people on standby. I pushed to the front and asked if this was the bus to Philadelphia. It was. They were boarding, and obviously there was a little tension in the air, so the guy was pushy and said “Yeah yeah, just get on, hurry, come on…” And within 1 minute I was on another bus (total time on the ground in NYC: 5 minutes). So much for my plan to grab dinner!

Philly Street. Philadelphia. PA.

When the bus began pulling away at 6:40pm, I was a little confused (the buses to Philly left hourly at 6:15, 7:15, 8:15…). Concerned that I had taken a wrong turn, I asked the girl next to me “Is this the 7:15 bus to Philly?!” She said “No…” (Me: GULP.) Her: “…It’s the 6:15.” Ahhh! A smile spread across my face when I realized, finally, that not only was I going to get to Philadelphia after all this chaos — but I was going to get there even earlier than I had planned! It was one of the most satisfying travel moments that I’ve had in a while. I was anticipating the opposite kind of moment, so it felt that much sweeter. As the bus journeyed through the darkness, I settled in, blasting happy music, and six hours after leaving Boston, I had arrived in Philly.

City Hall. Philadelphia. PA.

Ah, Philadelphia. I’ve always really liked Philly, despite bittersweet memories of many heartfelt hellos and goodbyes out of that 30th Street train station (the lasting imprint of a long distance relationship). The city has always given me a good vibe. It comes across as a mixture of New York and New Orleans, with a smaller dose of lights and energy than Manhattan (in a good way), coupled with the bruised and impoverished outskirts of the city that seem completely disconnected yet immediately accessible from the Philadelphia most people imagine (like New Orleans). I love that it is a foodie city, even if it doesn’t come off that way at first. Because it’s definitely a little more rough around the edges than Boston, I might actually feel more at home in Philly than in New England. I was excited to be there, and to really look at it with the eyes of someone who might call it home.

Philly homes. Philadelphia, PA.

Everything I did during my quick trip, I would do again. On Saturday night, a small group of us kicked things off with unbelievably delicious cocktails at The Franklin Mortgage & Investment Co., a speakeasy-style lounge in the Rittenhouse Square area that I would have never noticed if my friend A hadn’t picked it. With a seven-page cocktail menu ranging from what I’d call a category 1 storm (listed as “Easy Going” drinks, such as the Apocalypstick — Rittenhouse Rye Whiskey, Yellow Chartreuse, Maurin Quina, Cynar, fresh lemon juice, house blackberry) to a category 5 storm (listed as “I Asked for Water, She Brought Me Gasoline” drinks, which includes the Art School Timeline — Lairds Bonded Apple Brandy, Buffalo Trace Bourbon, New York Madeira Wine, Rothman Winter Apricot Liquer, cane syrup, hopped grapefruit and mole bitters served on a rock). I could have spent many, many hours exploring the cocktail menu (and many, many dollars), but we had dinner to attend to afterwards, so my ginger-infused play on a Dark and Stormy (recommended to me by the waiter when I couldn’t decide) would have to do. Oh, and it DID.

Clothing Pin. Philadelphia, PA.

With a strong cocktail in our systems, we headed to First Friday — where we could stroll the streets of Philadelphia at night, going from art gallery to art gallery, and enjoying the quirky and sometimes odd street performers/artists along the sidewalks. After working up an appetite, we found ourselves devouring melt-in-your-mouth gnocchi with a couple bottles of our own wine (apparently PA has strange liquor laws and wine/beer-serving restaurants are hard to come by) at Giorgio’s. Giorgio himself was there, and from the moment a bowl of roasted garlic soaked in olive oil arrived at the table, I knew that if I do in fact end up in Philadelphia — Giorgio and I will meet again.

Sidewalk, homes. Philadelphia, PA.

It would be a quick trip. After a majorly satisfying and exhausting Saturday (I had a 4.5 hour interview with no lunch… oy), I was able to enjoy a light brunch and visit the perfectly relevant-to-my-trip Mutter Museum (this had been on my Philly to-do list for YEARS). This museum is a must for anyone who likes anatomical oddities or random small but packed museums. It is a pre-Doctor of Physical Therapy student’s perfect museum, and since I am currently taking Anatomy and Physiology, my visit couldn’t have been more appropriately timed, nor more appreciated. The brisk walk back to my home base through Rittenhouse Square’s cheery farmer’s market to the slightly quieter South Philadelphia ‘hood made it very easy for me to see myself living there.

Rittenhouse Square. Philadelphia, PA.

I got back to Boston at 1am last night. Luckily, my return train was fully functional, although 1.5 hours late (making it a 7.5 hour journey… oooof). I’m back now, after passing from a potential future home (Philadelphia), through my real home (NYC), to my current home, in Boston. I have a happy tummy and a happy, hopeful heart. I’ll have to be patient as I figure out where I might be able to live next year (it’s not totally up to me).

For now, I can confidently say that if it is Philadelphia, I’d be absolutely thrilled. Sometimes it’s all about where we’ve been. But right now — for me — life’s much more about where I’m going.

On my way home, the lights were back on in NYC. Amtrak view of NYC skyline.

As always, I guess we’ll just have to wait and see what happens.

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