Traveling with the Opposite Sex, Part II

After filling ourselves up on quality hoagies, my friend and I cut through Love Park.  My friend took a picture of the LOVE sculpture as a family of strangers posed before it and the fountain behind them.  After we passed the sculpture, she said, “I feel like we should’ve gotten our picture in front of that.  I feel like it’s the thing to do in Philadelphia.” 

As a general rule, I don’t like taking pictures of myself because I prefer not to draw attention to myself.  Something about my reproduced image unnerves me as though there is a dormant vanity in the photograph that would come alive and infect the real me.  Maybe I subconsciously think that I’m ugly, or maybe I subconsciously think that I’m attractive but wish not to appear boastful.  Sometimes I tell my friends I’m better looking in motion, but, if you freeze a particular frame of my life, chances are it might not turn out well. 

My friend stood still by the fountain as I slowed my pace but continued walking nonetheless.  I didn’t say anything of merit to her wish to get her picture taken.  I mumbled a response that was borderline sarcastic but mostly hesitant: a drawn-out “yeahhhh.”  I was trying to avoid a direct confrontation.  If she asked me if we could get our picture taken in front of the sculpture, I would’ve said yes just to be polite, even though I had no interest.  But I figured if I kept on walking, she’d follow me and dispel her desire after we walked too far away to turn back.  That was precisely what happened.

“I am more interested in pictures with people in them,” my friend said. 

“I prefer to photograph empty spaces,” I responded. 

I argued that the Selfie Revolution was borne out of arrogant, forceful desires for the photographer to be remembered after death.  No matter how insignificant or mundane our lives are, we can all be minor celebrities on Facebook.  True, artists have been painting self-portraits for centuries.  Some of them may have been vain megalomaniacs, but some probably didn’t have a model and they wanted to practice illustrating certain facial features.  But I don’t think most of the modern partakers in the Selfie revolution are concerned with capturing the textures of the human visage.  

The image quality of the subject and the background are not inherently important, but the relationship between them is.  All that matters is that this face is front of this landmark as proof that a certain person inhabited a certain spot on the Earth for a brief moment in time.  

Ultimately, those who excessively indulge in the practice of taking Selfies do not take pictures for themselves, but for others to validate the relevance of their lives.  By posting pictures of oneself in front of the Eiffel Tower, one is shouting, “Look! I was here!  And here!  And here!” 

A Selfie every now and then is not toxic especially if the composition and the framing is creative.  And they are useful for parents who nervously ship their daughter off to Europe but are reassured when they see frozen frames of her vacation.  For myself, I would rather understand and appreciate the natural beauty of physical space rather than planting myself and my indulgent smile in front of it and thereby blocking the view.  I fully understand the need to preserve one’s youthful image and to capture memories before they fade from the mind’s eye, but I am firmly against the haughty practice of photographing oneself excessively.

My friend’s views were not as extreme, but she did believe that many people took Selfies to make ex-boyfriends jealous to prove they were getting along better without them.  She pulled up some pictures of a mutual friend sipping wine with her cohorts and posing together while wearing outfits designed to induce horniness in men.  As I consider myself a relatively humble human-being, I would not see fit to advertise myself in this fashion, but these women were trying to make a statement like colorful birds do when they flaunt their plumage to attract mates.

We were strolling alongside the Benjamin Franklin Parkway when we reached the Basilica of St. Peter and Paul.  Upon entering, my friend gravitated toward the confession box.  Much to my surprise, she opened the door and commented on how dark it was inside.  She opened the slate and whispered through it, “Tell me your sins.” 

Unfortunately, I did not have a comedic retort because I was flabbergasted by my friend’s boldness in poking fun of this ritual.  I nearly cringed when she opened the door because I half-expected to find a priest inside.  At the same time, I leaned into the uncomfortable nature of the moment because I knew if I were by myself that door would never have been opened.  A giddy thrill coursed through me, and I was reminded me of my rebellious childhood adventures when I would break rules simply because my friends were doing it. When culpability is spread throughout the group, the individual faces a divvied-up sense of shame.  If I were to cause mischief by myself, however, my embarrassment and guilt would be more potent.  Conversely,  enjoyment can double when one has company. It goes without saying that if you make a joke, someone has to be there to laugh at it.  For these reasons, I feel I can take more risks when traveling with a companion.  The rewards often feel greater, but happiness is more difficult to maintain when you must consider the comforts of others.  Battles are always a possibility.

After repenting for our sins, we made our way to the Rocky Steps.  Somehow, my friend managed to live a quarter-century without having seen Rocky, but she was familiar with the fictional character and the training sequence.  Many tourists were running up the stairs to the Philadelphia Museum of Art and pumping their fists in the air.  There were even hawkers selling bottled water and Gatorade next to the steps, yelling, “Ice-cold water here!  Ice cold water!” Usually these shrewd, yet leech-like businessmen bother me, but I was amazed to see how much a fictional scene in a movie made in the 1970s could imbue meaning onto these otherwise un-noteworthy staircases.  The underdog boxer captured the imagination of enough people to create a popular attraction where dehydrated runners could quench their thirst with second-hand products.  

Jogging up these stairs seems silly, especially when you consider that most people have grown accustomed to riding the elevator or standing still on escalators, yet devout fans make the pilgrimage to the shrine where they pay homage to their hero.  Despite its ridiculous nature, the fact that many visitors climb the Rocky Steps is an incredible feat of the human race.  We’ve evolved a long way from worshiping Mother Nature to gods to imaginary characters.

My friend decided to make a video of climbing the stairs, and she wished to post it on Instagram immediately after we finished.  We found a bench along a walking path next to the museum.  As I consulted my city map, my friend was busy on her phone.  I discovered the road where we needed to turn and stood up, ready to press onward.  We planned to visit Eastern State Penitentiary, the world’s first true reformative prison.  The time was nearing 3:30 P.M., and the prison closed at five.  I had no interest in dilly-dallying, but my friend was still uploading the video on the bench.  I knew she could be irritable after walking long distances under a hot sun, and I had no desire to repeat the mistake I made in New York.  I proceeded with caution, as though I had inadvertently found myself between a mother bear and her cubs.  All I wanted was to escape this unscathed.    

“We should go,” I said gingerly.

“I’m not finished,” she said, not looking up.  

I reminded her of the current time and the impending deadline to visit the prison.  I stood there wordlessly and what I hoped to be somewhat firmly, but not so firm as to be imposing or aggressive.  She reluctantly gave in, and we started walking again.  

“Did you finish whatever you were trying to do?” I asked to be polite.  I hoped that my question would evaporate the tension between us.  I could feel my heart thudding the way it had before running track events in high school.  That type of nervousness arose because I knew I was about to expend a lot of energy in a very short burst.  One minute I'm comfortable, and then the next I'm drained.  As an easy-going pacifist, I am generally too apathetic to waste energy on trivial fights, but I could feel an argument surfacing.     

“No,” she said, with a hint of bitterness.  “I didn’t have enough time.”

I decided it was not a good idea to say anything.  I especially considered it unwise to impress upon her my interpretation of her near-hissy-fit, but the urge to express my frustration leaked out.  I rarely get angry and sparingly get annoyed, but there are certain principles I stubbornly defend.  I attempted to delicately inquire why she felt the need to post the video right away.

"I'm sure your friends would be OK if they learned about your day at a later time," I began.  "They don't have to know what you're doing right this minute.  The story will be just as fresh to them in a few hours."

To avoid sounding unconcerned, I told her that I could relate to her desire to post the video right away.  There are certain tasks that I feel impelled to finish in a timely fashion simply because I have developed stubborn habits.  Once my mind wraps around a particular task, I find it difficult to drop the matter, unfinished, before moving on to another task.  The unfinished project would nag at me while I was occupied with something else, and I wouldn't be able to devote my full concentration.  

I was worried that my friend would be angry with me for rushing her personal project because I wanted to see the prison right now.  But I hoped that I managed to express the right amount of empathy and the right amount of logic so that we could reach a compromise.  We would visit the prison while it is open, and she could tinker with the video afterwards because there was no deadline for that.    

An argument in this situation could be sour enough to linger throughout the evening.  The last thing I wanted to do was dampen this vacation over a petty disagreement.  Sulking, I find, is never conducive to having fun, so I avoid it on principle. Instead of pretending nothing happened, I told her jokingly that we nearly repeated the episode that took place on the Brooklyn Bridge.  

Almost-fights are like car accidents that nearly happened.  Collisions require two neglectful drivers.  Even if one driver is paying attention, he can swerve out of the way.  In the same way, two friends can avoid arguments if they communicate freely and respond to each others' signals.  If you can't share the road, maybe you're better off traveling alone.           

Traveling with the Opposite Sex, Part I

I had lived in Pennsylvania for twenty-three years and never set foot in Philadelphia, but I know people from Australia who have.  This didn’t make much sense to me, so I booked a few nights in a hostel and bought a train ticket.  Usually I travel by myself, but this time a female friend accompanied me to the City of Brotherly Love. 

Prior to this trip, my friend and I took a bus to New York City to see the sites and walk the various neighborhoods.  The Big Apple was more inviting this time around, but we made a few mistakes this time.  First off, we booked a hotel room.  It was the cheapest rate we could find, but for the price of two nights there we could’ve stayed in a hostel for a week.  Secondly, we embarked on the trip during a particularly frigid stretch in November.  Temperatures hovered around twenty degrees Fahrenheit.  Despite wearing jeans, two pairs of socks, a few shirts, and a winter coat, the bitter winds coursed through my meager clothing.  I was naïve about traveling cheaply, and I had no way to predict the extreme weather since I booked the trip very far ahead.  However, my biggest mistake could’ve been avoided. 

After strolling around Manhattan for the day, my friend wanted to go out to a bar in Brooklyn.  As I was in charge of the directions, I led us to the subway.  We boarded a train that headed toward Brooklyn, and I decided on a whim to get off by the bridge.  I was obsessively seeking a particular vantage point from the film poster of Manhattan.  Woody Allen and Diane Keaton sit on a bench as they look at out at a bridge and the skyline.  Since Manhattan is one of my favorite movies, I wanted to recreate that image.  If that was all I did in New York City, I would be completely satisfied with the trip.  At the time, I didn’t know which bridge was in the poster.  My thinking was that if I crossed the Brooklyn Bridge on foot, I could scope out the area to see if the scenery matched.  Besides, it was the Brooklyn Bridge after all.  This piece of architecture is a tourist destination, so I thought it’d be cool to traverse it at night, but I forgot a crucial detail.  My friend was wearing high heels.

 

She had warned me that she didn’t want to walk far, even though I had warned her not to wear uncomfortable shoes that would cause her pain.  This is where our interpretations of the incident diverged. 

My Viewpoint:  I didn’t understand why anyone would knowingly and willingly wear shoes that would most likely result in irritation of the skin.  I wear shoes for two reasons: to protect my feet from broken glass and to provide comfort when I walk.  I had warned my friend that walking in New York City on a paltry budget would be inevitable, and, thus, high heels would not be suitable.  When the pain ensued, I was not surprised.  If I were in her shoes, I would’ve blamed myself.  I would have accepted my sacrifice for comfort in exchange for sleeker calves.   As a last resort, I would’ve risked pricking my soles against a used needle, and I would have crossed the bridge in my bare feet. 

Her Viewpoint:  He knew I didn’t want to walk far in these heels, but he didn’t listen.  He took us across the biggest bridge he could find, and now my feet hurt and it’s all his fault.  He apologized and said he didn’t realize the bridge was this long, but the whole evening is ruined now.  I wanted to go out and have a good time, but we always do what he wants to do.  He’s so selfish.  Now I’m upset, and I’m going to let him know how upset I am by ignoring him completely and charging up this bridge in my heels, despite the pain I feel every step of the way. 

We eventually put the high-heel-Brooklyn-Bridge fiasco behind us, but I vowed not to repeat a similar situation in Philadelphia.  To get off on the right foot, I packed two peanut butter and raspberry preserve sandwiches, one for me and one for my friend.  I even offered to eat the sandwich made of the butts of the loaf, but she politely volunteered to accept the runt of the litter.  For snacks during the trip, I bought two boxes of granola bars:  coconut and peanut butter.  Usually I would buy dark chocolate instead of peanut butter, but I made my first compromise in the grocery store.  I had to train myself to think about others before myself. 

Once we reached the 30^th Street Station, we set our course toward the hostel in the historic side of town.  The trip was a straight shot, but according to Google Maps the walk would take about forty-five minutes.  My friend was more than willing to walk so we could see more of the city.  And she was wearing comfortable walking shoes. 

During the eight-hour train ride, we had many stimulating conversations of both high and low brow tastes in spite of our mild fatigue.  We tried to ascertain the allure of train culture while observing passengers hesitate near the handicapped restroom as they stood frozen in a mini moral dilemma.  Pottering down the city sidewalks, we carried on together.  She enumerated her activities during her previous spree in Philadelphia a year ago when she drove here with her mother.  I listened for potential ideas on this trip while I tried not to make a comment about every stimulus in the environment. 

My friend and I are comfortable sitting in silence together, but sometimes I have the urge to fill the air with my voice.  The easiest way to accomplish this is to remark upon something I witness.  Usually these exclamations have not stewed in my conscious long enough to be fully mature and well-researched.  Usually I avoid stating the obvious.  I rarely say things like, “It sure is hot out today,” while my companion and I are sweating while strolling down the sidewalk.  However, if I were to observe a man with a large tattoo on his Adam’s apple and surrounding neck area, I would certainly make a comment about him as soon as he was out of earshot.  I would say something like, “Usually when I see someone with a neck tattoo like that, I dismiss them.  How can you expect to get a job looking like that?”  These remarks are often shallow and judgmental, but sometimes they lead to a thorough discussion on the increasing acceptance of tattooed people in the professional sphere.

During my jaunts through the United Kingdom, I usually organized the filing cabinets in my mind while I walked the streets alone.  As I weaved my way through foreign labyrinths, I would try to discover a theme that unified my observations and synchronized with my emotional attachment to the city.  I was so immersed in the new environment that I felt completely unattached to my life at home.  Nobody knew my history, so I could be anybody I wanted to be.  To a city full of strangers, I had no past.  I could’ve invented a new personality if I wanted to, but my old one stuck and certain reticent characteristics remained.  If I saw a pub packed with people, I wouldn’t eat there.  I’d walk a little out of the way to find a quieter place to dine alone.  Although I usually pay no mind to societal pressures, I experienced a mild discomfort upon entering crowded establishments.  I wondered if other people would make comments about me, but then I realized they probably wouldn’t even pay attention to me.  Even if they did, it wouldn’t matter because I don’t know them.  Nonetheless, I was never in the mood to sidle up next to strangers in a bar and be the guy who read his book in such a social atmosphere.  By myself, I felt I could walk long distances without burden, but there were certain doors I wouldn’t open.

When traveling with my friend, however, these anxieties were non-existent.  My companion and our dialogue proved I was not alone.  I blended into the crowd of social animals.  We entered the bustling Reading Terminal Market during the lunch rush.

 

The place was so crowded we constantly avoided collisions as we craned our necks and read the myriad shop signs as we scoped out our options.  We ordered Italian roast pork sandwiches at Dinic’s and waited in a long line that wrapped around the counter in an L-shape.  

My friend was ahead of me in the line.  When it was her time to pay for her meal, she dug through her purse as the cashier stated the total.  As she plucked a few dollar bills from her purse, I wielded my credit card in my hand and noticed the man behind me held a twenty dollar bill in his hand.  During a previous experience, I told my friend that women often hold up lines because when they get to the register they act surprised that they have to fork over cash.  Men, on the other hand, usually tally up the total, account for the tax, and gather the necessary funds while they stand in line.  I read this in a book by Bill Bryson, and I’ve experienced this phenomenon several times to know there is some merit to his findings.  

“I asked my friends at work if they get their money together at the register or while they stand in line,” my friend said, while she waited to receive her change.

“And what did they say?” I asked.

“They get their money ready at the register.”

“Are they females?”

“Yes.”  

“Well, there you go,” I said.  “This place would be perfect for an experiment.  Check out the guy behind me.  See?  He’s got his cash ready, and it’s not even his turn to pay.”

After getting our food, we wandered around for a few minutes, searching for two adjacent, vacant spots.  We had to wait until someone else got up, and, when this happened, we immediately seized the empty chairs.  I bit into a hot pepper, and we proceeded to eat in relative silence, which is ironic because sometimes the silence bothered me when I ate alone because eating out is largely a social event.  Perhaps the words themselves are not as comforting as the convenient opportunity to engage in a conversation.  Although I wasn’t exercising my option to converse with a friend, at least I had the option.

The Socially-Engineered Utopia

I was on the metro in D.C. taking the green line as far north as the train would go.  I was heading for an oddity of a city called Greenbelt, Maryland.  I first learned of the town in the tiny bookshop next to the Franklin Roosevelt monument.  There were signs on the wall that described the major tenets of his long presidency.  One sign in particular offered the specifics of the New Deal, the country’s recovery plan in response to the Great Depression.  As part of this reform, Roosevelt planned to build three new green cities from scratch.  One of them was Greenbelt. 

The federal government, with the guiding hand of First Lady Eleanor Roosevelt, plotted the town on a lot that used to be a tobacco farm a few miles outside the nation’s capital.  The town was designed to be autonomous, prosperous, and safe.  Roads were laid down.  Then pathways were built to go under the roadways, so that children wouldn’t have to cross the street to get to school.  All of the major buildings, the nearby houses, and the park were connected by pedestrian-only pathways that cut through forested green space.

The goal of this experiment was to socially engineer a self-sufficient community that would provide affordable housing and provide jobs.  Aspiring occupants had to apply for residence.  Only those genuinely enthusiastic about communal activities were accepted.  This was not a city for hermits or disgruntled neighbors that stood watch on their porch, shotgun in hand, ready to fend off trespassers who dared to step on the grass.  At first, only whites were allowed to live in the community, even though many African-Americans constructed the buildings.  Greenbelt did not accept other races until the ‘60s.      

Aside from this blatant racism, Greenbelt was engineered to be neighborly.  The architects initially provided the townsfolk with all the necessities for sustaining a healthy community.  There were schools for children as well as educational programs for adults.  There was a church, a public library, a grocery store, a movie theater, a swimming pool, and outdoor spaces to exercise.  The social engineers fostered a sense of progress into the Greenbelt citizens.  Not only were they were encouraged to be both mentally and physically fit, they were first and foremost instilled with a sense of camaraderie with their neighbors.

When Greenbelt Consumer Services decided to sell the original grocery store and pharmacy, the citizens organized and decided to buy them to keep the businesses within the community.  Before the entire city was completed, a caring resident wrote a letter to Eleanor Roosevelt asking for aid to complete recreational facilities.  The First Lady talked to her husband, and Mr. President granted Greenbelt the funds to complete their utopia.

With all this presidential planning, I assumed Greenbelt and its unique story would be well-known in the D.C. area.  But that is not the case.  After disembarking from the metro, I hopped on a bus that would take me into the historic town.  I asked the driver if his route went next to the Greenbelt Museum and the New Deal Café.  There was even a blip on Google Maps that indicated the position of this eatery named after FDR’s economic recovery program.

“There’s a museum up there?” the bus driver asked. He never heard of the café either.  “What street is that on?”

I consulted my GPS.  “Crescent,” I replied. 

After confirming this street intersected his route, I took my seat and wondered how this man was ignorant to the history of the very city he drives through every day.  He didn’t even know there was a museum there that detailed Greenbelt’s story.  Once I got to the museum, I realized why.  The museum looks like it could be somebody’s house, and it probably is for six days a week.  It is only open for four hours on Sunday. 

I walked along the pathways that ducked under the road near the school.  As I trod on the pathways that I had previously read about, I noted the odd sensation of having been here before.  The feeling was similar to watching a movie based on a book I’ve read previously.  Like a faithful adaptation, the scene before my eyes matched with the image I conceived in my mind.

I continued on the path to the community center, the former elementary school.  Inside, there were two women gossiping in a positive way about the recent activities of the townsfolk.  I didn’t linger long enough to get a grip on their conversation, but based on their tones they were not bickering or criticizing.  The ladies smiled at me as I passed them.  

I was going to ask them a question, but I was not prepared with a specific agenda.  The first question to come to mind was, “What is this place?” but that seemed so incredibly vague and stupid that I was likely to walk out of there embarrassed at my elementary reporting skills.  Initially I was hesitant to enter the building at all because I thought I wouldn’t be allowed, or I’d be forced to invent a reason for my trespassing.

I just wanted to wander around the place and learn about the community.  I knew I wanted to write a piece about Greenbelt, so my desire to accumulate enough knowledge motivated me to step through the doors.  I thought to myself, if I really want to be a writer, or break into journalism, I should start asking people questions to get the scoop.  I considered the tactics of various travel writers.  Bill Bryson usually potters about and describes what he sees as though he’s a fly on the wall.  Others, like Paul Theroux, get directly involved with the locals.  I enjoy writing dialogue when the situation calls for a natural exchange, but, without a professional assignment, an interview seemed silly to me, so I smiled at the ladies and entered a room filled with poster-boards that detailed the history of Greenbelt by each decade from the 1930s to the present day.  There was even a small TV in the corner of the room that was placed there so visitors could watch a VHS tape of the 1939 documentary The City, which I’m sure would reiterate the info found on the poster-boards. 

After conducting my research, I passed the ladies once more who were then engaged in idle conversation with a bald man.  I’m not sure what job these ladies were performing.  Perhaps they were the town heralds who spread the local scuttlebutt, or maybe they were Secret Service guards responsible for protecting the nuclear warheads stashed under the gymnasium.  If I should ever return to Greenbelt, I will know which question to ask: “So what exactly do you do here?”

I exited the community center and headed toward the main attractions.  A retro movie theater was closed for renovation.  

To make up for this delay, the theater was screening free movies in the park once a week.  Even the business owners are friendly and not driven by greed. 

The co-op supermarket was still in business.  I snapped a photo of it, and a man wearing a green apron on his smoke break gave me a quizzical look.

I just wanted to solidify its existence, because, prior to this trip, the grocery store had only been printed words.  Everything seemed so perfect in this town I had to question how a place like this could exist.  For a second, I considered that this friendliness was a façade that concealed a dark secret.  The townspeople were really cannibals who lure in unsuspecting victims to save money on groceries.  Although Greenbelt would provide a great location for an episode of The Walking Dead, I dismissed these thoughts that tainted my view of Greenbelt.     

 

Apparently it was open mic night at the New Deal Café.  A couple emerged from the café contemplating the morality of leaving during someone’s act.  The woman was worried the singer would assume they were leaving to escape his voice.  The man reassured her.  The singer probably thinks they’re dipping out for a quick smoke break and that their exit is totally unrelated to his musical talents or lack thereof.  On the other side of the café, three middle-aged ladies and a man with a gray ponytail discussed life’s treasures over cups of coffee.  I actually have no idea what they were talking about, but they all seemed so comfortable in each other’s company.  The sense of togetherness seemed breathe-able as though camaraderie were a gas that was pumped into the atmosphere.

Each citizen seems to care a great deal for the general welfare of the town.  Everyone I passed said hello to me.  I even witnessed a pedestrian smile and wave to the Korean man who ran the local mini mart.  During my first visit to New York City, I bought a magnet at a souvenir shop, and I was shocked that the cashier didn’t say a word to me.  During a gondola ride in Venice, the gondolier didn’t even acknowledge me.  Instead, he spoke in Italian to his fellow gondoliers, who were probably complaining about their wives.  When you see people going out of their way to be friendly with mini-mart cashiers, you know you’re in a welcoming town.  In the movies, these guys always have a shotgun under the register, but I doubt I’d find one in the Greenbelt mini-mart.  These people probably never killed each other.  A zero percent murder rate is the pinnacle of neighborliness.          

While I was inside the community center, I found a written note under the heading “Share a Greenbelt Memory.”  This person wrote, “Growing up in Greenbelt taught me my most important life lessons:  how to live cooperatively with my friends, family, and co-workers.” As I contemplated that note and the entire history of Greenbelt, I observed the group of friends sitting together outside the New Deal Cafe during this lazy evening.  I thought of the hostellers back in D.C. who avoided eye contact with each other, who preferred their phones over company.  There was none of that here.  The social engineers of Greenbelt were successful in their experiment. Nearly eighty years after the town was planned, this cooperative utopia continues to thrive.