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.