Below The Fold

It’s 9:17 pm in the City of Brotherly Love.
I’ve been here for five hours. I took the train from the airport, facing towards the back of the train, watching the burned out factories gradually give way to the inner city.
When the train let us out, we were in the Suburban St. Station. As we walked out, a trio of black men were singing doo wop, while one of them played R&B on an old Strat. They were really good. Like, REALLY good.
Philadelphia was pleasant today. It was in the low 80s. The humidity was around there, too, which is always a bit of an adjustment coming from the high desert plains. I’m staying in a hotel overlooking Broad Street. It’s a nice enough place. Every room has high speed Internet connectivity, so that’s a bonus.
We ate dinner in an Italian Bistro a block away. My traveling companion insisted on a table against the glass; the sidewalk ambled past the window. I saw a man in a white T-shirt walk up to a trash can, stop for a second, pull out a half-empty discarded Starbucks drink, and continue on his way, gulping the rest down. A moment later, another guy walked directly up to the window, hunkered towards it, and lit up a joint.
Welcome to Philly.