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.