I have stories to tell about my trip to Philadelphia last weekend. Stories of walking with saints. Stories of Matisse and graffiti taggers painting murals in the same city. Stories of finding an unexpected flea market where, had I chosen to, I could have purchased vintage test tubes and a pair of handmade chartreuse leather slippers. Stories of wandering without a destination and eating when it seemed like the right thing to do (can you tell that there were no children involved in these stories?).
Oh, and do I ever have a story about the vacation rental I stayed in with a group of fellow travel bloggers, colleagues now friends. There is an alligator-skin rug in that one, and a dusty mattress, and a lot of laughter.
But I want to make sure I tell the stories well, that I inhabit them fully. I’m done with sharing the half-baked and the hastily patched together. The internet makes this possible, but this is false possibility.
So today, when I am pressed for time, I share only this snippet, not really a story. It is me, happy, on a spring Sunday morning, a festival morning in Philadelphia’s Italian Market. I am eating a cannoli for breakfast. The wax paper it is wrapped in says “Termini Bros: Gold Medal Pastry.” A priest has just proclaimed a blessing over the crowd that invites us to love the place as guests and for it to love us back. His beneficent words, the sunshine, the fading strains of Ave Maria: The sweet pastry tastes of all these things.
For Friday Postcards at Walking On Travels, where I’ve already spied gorgeous photos of Leeds Castle (also taken on a trip without children – perhaps that’s the theme for the week?) and where there are sure to be other tales that inspire me equally.
Photo by Elena Sonnino of LiveDoGrow.
P.S. I do have lots of Philadelphia stories that include my entire family.