I had chosen to visit Philadelphia on a whim just a day or so before arriving there and out of stunning coincidence and good fortune it emerged that the "Herald" photographer and his wife would be travelling down on the same day for a wedding.
Bleary eyed but eager with anticipation I snapped up their generous invitation for a ride, leaving Randolph at 5am for the 300 mile journey to my next hitching post.
It was overcast and stiflingly humid but Philadelphia instantly impressed me. Its modern skyline is far less imposing than the other great American cities but its cobbled streets and handsome terraces do more than enough to help captivate the history.
The birthplace of the American Revolution, Philadelphia, previously the nations capital, was probably the most important place in the modern inception of the United States and the words liberty and independence seem to crop up on signs and buildings everywhere.
That was with the exception of my hostel of course. Its 24-man dormitory and stringent rules gave it the feeling of a 19th century orphanage. And before you question this revelation I can assure you that my experience of 19th century orphanages are valid.
On the Sunday, the sun parted the coating of clouds and there was a more tolerable heat in the air. I saw the Liberty Bell, conveniently located down the street from the orphanage, before heading to the Philadelphia Museum of Art.
The steps that lead up to this impressive structure will for some hold more resonance than the building itself due to their appearance in the Rocky films.
A Rocky statue has also been placed at the foot of the steps and bus loads of fans apparently pay homage to the jabbering giant everyday, by-passing the art altogether.
A debate ran through the city when the statue was moved from south Philadelphia as to the merits of placing it outside the gallery.
For me, the two have their own, almost polar-opposite merits and once you've seen the breathtaking collection of modern and classical pieces you would agree that the art deserves pride of place.
Being on my own, with nobody to capture the silliness, I decided against jogging up the "Rocky steps" like so many of the films fans before me. Instead I just put on some swimming trunks and began pounding a frozen carcass.
My tour of the attractions continued with a documentary drama about the Declaration of Independence at the Independence Visitor Centre. At least it did until I fell asleep. When you explore a city on foot you can easily cover several miles in a day and the exhaustion, both mental and physical, will eventually defeat you every time.
Museums and galleries are the biggest culprits. After a few hours investigating the worlds treasures at a snails pace, Monet himself could be giving a guided tour of never before seen works and your eyes would still be drawn to your watch or an inviting bench.
With its astonishing boast of attractions, this was applied ten-fold in Washington D.C. There are more landmarks than New York City and with so much open space they are all showcased with prominence.
My visit to the White House, or as close as I could get at least, was an unfortunate testament to that. You could have lay the Washington Monument down length ways in the space between George's front gates and the barrier restricting my further entry. Not much of a welcome after I'd just bought a fridge magnet with his face on.
As I trudged away, a police officer queried how I'd gained access to the adjacent park. My attempt to jovially quiz him on the levels of security fell on deaf ears and I had conspiratory visions of the scene in Taxi Driver, were the untrusting FBI men rush to take a photographic document of their departing target.
I fully understand shielded safeguards but I still maintain that if someone was determined enough to breach that sanctuary, a couple of hundred yards wouldn't put them off.
My last day in the capital produced another brush with America's finest. At the National Archives, home to the original Bill of Rights, Declaration of Independence and American Constitution, all visitors were sternly instructed that no flash photography was allowed.
I kept having to re-set the flash function on my camera and with the sluggish mind created by hours of walking and eating my own body weight in melted cheese you can probably pre-empt what happened.
Moments before I had been tautly asked not to lean on its marble casing and inches in front of the sacred document of the Constitution I engineered a flash which illuminated the main chamber and orchestrated a communal gasp from the hundreds of onlookers.
With my faculties intact, and a quiet sense of foreboding, it was time for my 17 (yes, one - seven) hour coach journey south.
If I needed it, the progression to Nashville, Tennessee would give me an idea of the magnitude of this great land and the kind of distance I had yet to conquer.
So perhaps it was odd that during the short layover in Charlottesville, Virginia, that a sudden rush of excitement cruised through my body. That morning I had been stood inches from the Declaration of Independence (and tested the patience of the authorities) and didn't feel anything close to the pleasure as in that drab bus depot in the middle of nowhere.
As I surveyed the coin slot TV chairs lighting up rows of strange faces it felt as American as it comes. This seemingly mundane scene was something I'd daydreamed about for as long as I could remember.
Bleary eyed but eager with anticipation I snapped up their generous invitation for a ride, leaving Randolph at 5am for the 300 mile journey to my next hitching post.
It was overcast and stiflingly humid but Philadelphia instantly impressed me. Its modern skyline is far less imposing than the other great American cities but its cobbled streets and handsome terraces do more than enough to help captivate the history.
The birthplace of the American Revolution, Philadelphia, previously the nations capital, was probably the most important place in the modern inception of the United States and the words liberty and independence seem to crop up on signs and buildings everywhere.
That was with the exception of my hostel of course. Its 24-man dormitory and stringent rules gave it the feeling of a 19th century orphanage. And before you question this revelation I can assure you that my experience of 19th century orphanages are valid.
On the Sunday, the sun parted the coating of clouds and there was a more tolerable heat in the air. I saw the Liberty Bell, conveniently located down the street from the orphanage, before heading to the Philadelphia Museum of Art.
The steps that lead up to this impressive structure will for some hold more resonance than the building itself due to their appearance in the Rocky films.
A Rocky statue has also been placed at the foot of the steps and bus loads of fans apparently pay homage to the jabbering giant everyday, by-passing the art altogether.
A debate ran through the city when the statue was moved from south Philadelphia as to the merits of placing it outside the gallery.
For me, the two have their own, almost polar-opposite merits and once you've seen the breathtaking collection of modern and classical pieces you would agree that the art deserves pride of place.
Being on my own, with nobody to capture the silliness, I decided against jogging up the "Rocky steps" like so many of the films fans before me. Instead I just put on some swimming trunks and began pounding a frozen carcass.
My tour of the attractions continued with a documentary drama about the Declaration of Independence at the Independence Visitor Centre. At least it did until I fell asleep. When you explore a city on foot you can easily cover several miles in a day and the exhaustion, both mental and physical, will eventually defeat you every time.
Museums and galleries are the biggest culprits. After a few hours investigating the worlds treasures at a snails pace, Monet himself could be giving a guided tour of never before seen works and your eyes would still be drawn to your watch or an inviting bench.
With its astonishing boast of attractions, this was applied ten-fold in Washington D.C. There are more landmarks than New York City and with so much open space they are all showcased with prominence. My visit to the White House, or as close as I could get at least, was an unfortunate testament to that. You could have lay the Washington Monument down length ways in the space between George's front gates and the barrier restricting my further entry. Not much of a welcome after I'd just bought a fridge magnet with his face on.
As I trudged away, a police officer queried how I'd gained access to the adjacent park. My attempt to jovially quiz him on the levels of security fell on deaf ears and I had conspiratory visions of the scene in Taxi Driver, were the untrusting FBI men rush to take a photographic document of their departing target.
I fully understand shielded safeguards but I still maintain that if someone was determined enough to breach that sanctuary, a couple of hundred yards wouldn't put them off.
My last day in the capital produced another brush with America's finest. At the National Archives, home to the original Bill of Rights, Declaration of Independence and American Constitution, all visitors were sternly instructed that no flash photography was allowed.
I kept having to re-set the flash function on my camera and with the sluggish mind created by hours of walking and eating my own body weight in melted cheese you can probably pre-empt what happened.
Moments before I had been tautly asked not to lean on its marble casing and inches in front of the sacred document of the Constitution I engineered a flash which illuminated the main chamber and orchestrated a communal gasp from the hundreds of onlookers.
With my faculties intact, and a quiet sense of foreboding, it was time for my 17 (yes, one - seven) hour coach journey south.
If I needed it, the progression to Nashville, Tennessee would give me an idea of the magnitude of this great land and the kind of distance I had yet to conquer.
So perhaps it was odd that during the short layover in Charlottesville, Virginia, that a sudden rush of excitement cruised through my body. That morning I had been stood inches from the Declaration of Independence (and tested the patience of the authorities) and didn't feel anything close to the pleasure as in that drab bus depot in the middle of nowhere.
As I surveyed the coin slot TV chairs lighting up rows of strange faces it felt as American as it comes. This seemingly mundane scene was something I'd daydreamed about for as long as I could remember.
4 comments:
oooooooooooo it's a good paper
that flash story and the rocky quip had me chuckling like a school girl on the last day of camp
Atlas,
enjoy your travels
let me know if you're spending anytime in SF and I'll point out some interesting places that may not have made it into the Lonely Planet guide..
All the best
Stevie Mason - (Convo super-sub!)
New York, The Declaration of ......, The White House, Sun Studio etc are all fine but ..... when are you going to Hotel California and The Depot Centre?
You may enjoy Nashville more when Hank Williams catches on in Biddulph, which he surely will - eventually!
Jonathan, you keep all the plates spinning, and still manage to leave this reader with deep insight into this quirky country. I treasure the image of TV viewers, lined up like gals getting their hair tinted. Washington's museums are free, but they are popping quarters to keep their cool fires burning. Brilliant.
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