My brother-in-law is among the thousands of math teachers gathered this week at Philadelphia's Convention Center. My sister and their four kids came along and we've had a fun — if very busy — week. Having an uncle who works nights means he gets to spend all day with you — even if that means he doesn't have time for blogging (or sleeping).
They're from Vermont's Northeast Kingdom, from a lovely little town that's home to fewer people than they saw when they got off the train at 30th Street Station on Monday night.
Tuesday was a one long history lesson for the nieces (ages 3, 6 and 9). Independence Hall, the Liberty Bell and, at the new Constitution Center, their first experience with post-9/11 security screening. What's a trip to the city without learning about universal suspicion?
Wednesday was the Franklin Institute, which is a wonderful place for a bundle of bright, inquisitive kids. We played with pulleys, pumps and pendulums. We made paper. We stared at that mesmerizing Rube Goldberg machine with the multi-colored golfballs. We watched the Imax movie Bugs. (Kudos to whoever got Judi Dench to narrate that one. Hers is the perfect voice to describe how a praying mantis devours a fly headfirst, starting with "all the best bits.")
The Franklin Institute is a good reminder of what Lewis Lapham describes in the May Harper's:
The inventors of the country's liberties recognized themselves as scientists, makers of maps and collectors of beetles, who pursued their studies in as many spheres of reference as could be crowded into a Philadelphia library company or a Boston philosophical society. Together with Benjamin Franklin they delighted in the joys of discovery and understood the American democracy as an ongoing experiment with the volatile substance of freedom.
The range of Franklin's interests and accomplishments really is astonishing. My sister had the girls reading up on Ben before the trip, so they already knew about the stove, the kite, the bifocals. But they were just as surprised as I was to learn that Franklin had also invented a rudimentary set of swim fins and was responsible for bringing tofu to North America.
In the few blocks between the hotel and the institute, the nieces were full of questions I couldn't answer. Why are the fountains pink? How big is that statue of William Penn? How big is his nose? Why was the cab driver wearing a turban? Okay, then why do Sikhs wear turbans? Doesn't Atrios live around here somewhere? (Okay, that last one was a joke.)
Thursday was dedicated to another of Franklin's ideas — the Philadelphia Zoo. My nephew, Toby, is just 10 months old and much of what his sisters are learning is probably lost on him, but he still seemed to have a good time.
Toby's vocabulary so far contains only one word for any animal.
"Dog," he says, pointing to the elephants, the giraffes, the reticulated python, the spectacled langurs, the omnipresent peacocks.
"Dog," Toby says, pointing to the 500-pound Siberian tiger.
"That's a tiger," I say. "Ti-ger."
"Dog."
"Ti-ger. His name is Lantar. He's the daddy of the tiger cubs we were just looking at."
Lantar is beautiful. He looks at me, and then at the little boy in my arms. Then he looks over at the six-year-old a few feet away, small and separate from the herd. He gives her quite a look. The instincts are still intact, but so, fortunately, are the bars.
Getting back to the hotel is a bit more complicated. I realize that my plan — a cab to the zoo, a bus and cab back — is going to be a bit trickier with two adults, four kids and a stroller. The number 15 bus takes us to the corner of Broad and Girard and I begin to think that maybe North Broad Street wasn't the wisest stop on our tour of Philly. But, like the rest of the trip, it's fun and educational. The nieces' first-ever Septa bus ride is followed by their second-ever cab ride and they are safely back at the hotel by 6 p.m.
I leave the hotel and it's 6 p.m. and I'm at City Hall. Patty Griffin, the sign had said, is playing at the Border's two blocks away at 6 p.m.
My ex-girlfriend got me into Patty Griffin's music and I don't want to miss this. The problem is that this is her neighborhood (the ex-girlfriend's, not Patty's), a fact of which I've been acutely aware all week. I'm not really prepared to see her again — give me another six months — and in any case it would seem vaguely trespassive of me to show up at a concert in her neighborhood by one of her favorite singers. But the Penn Relays are in town. The ex-girlfriend works in University City, on the other side of that mess, and there is no way, I'm sure, that she could get from there to here in time.
I get there a little after six and Patty sounds great. I can't really see because there's a Tall Guy near the front who doesn't seem to appreciate the Tall Guy obligation to keep to the side so that others can see. I'd been doing that all day at the zoo.
Patty finishes "Top of the World" and she's talking in that endearingly awkward singer-songwriter way when Tall Guy shifts and I catch a glimpse in front of him of a tangle of dark hair and a slender Audrey Hepburn neck. Just a glimpse.
"Why are the fountains pink?" Patty asks the crowd.
Too many unanswerable questions. I sneak out to the street as she sings "Impossible Dream." I look up at William Penn and his nose and then I walk to one of the few places near Center City where you can park all day for free. I get in my car and drive to work.
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