I have to admit I had a pre-conceived notion of Philadelphia before my trip there and it wasn't very good. But now, after returning from there and my son Harry's wedding, I've got to say—it was worse. There's approximately 5.6 million inhabitants in the city and I believe I saw all of them at the airport when I departed Monday on my return trip to Boise. Apparently, everyone decided to leave town at dawn. I got through it, however, because I was leaving as well. What a weekend it was.
From Friday evening searching for transportation upon my arrival until sitting in my airplane seat on the tarmac for an hour-and-a-half waiting to take off on Monday morning, I survived an Irish wedding deep in the bowels of Pennsylvania. Every event and destination on the wedding itinerary turned out to be 30 miles from the last. Towns I couldn't even read, let alone pronounce, highlighted the events, from the pre-wedding party to the wedding itself to the reception to the brunch to the motel to the airport.
Thank Jehovah, Harry used to be a taxi driver for A-1 Taxi when he lived here. He got us through the freeways, backcountry roads while negotiating the unique driving styles of the motorists of the "City of Brotherly Love." I've never seen such a display of fingers in my life as we maneuvered around 11 near misses in our travels. This was his wedding and he was entirely focused on getting through it all while smiling and nodding at every living soul we encountered on our path to the aisle—Saint Harry of Comoshohomakataka, Pennsylvania.
Power drinking, contraband cigars and the Philadelphia Phillies' three-game series with the hated New York Mets dominated the sacred ceremonial weekend attended by the largest gathering of family and friends I have ever seen since Wagon Days 2002. They accepted my non-drinking status with grace and suspicion, but it remained my only possible choice of salvation in a world gone mad.
Finally, after flight delays, baggage mishaps, surly fellow passengers and stressed-out flight attendants, we arrived back in Boise in one piece. I was never so glad to drive Highway 20 alone in my life—that is until the torrential downpour outside of Fairfield drove me to the side of the road unable to see. So what—I was home.
The words of the inscription on W.C. Fields' tombstone echoed in my ears as I crawled into bed that night: "Rather Here, Than In Philadelphia."
Nice talking to you ...
