My first trip to Philly was two years ago. I lost in Philly in the morning one day. I walked down the streets without realizing I was lost. It was cold in the winter, and all I remember was snow. Snow by the streets, snow on the rooftops, snow in the air…and the streets are mostly narrow, and old. Buildings were in old style. Actually the city’s name “Philadelphia” sounds pretty old to me too. It sounds like a city where a lot of old politicians with beard have their debate.

Yesterday, when I stood in front of the Free Library, I looked around and got a feeling: “Oh yeah, I have been here. I am sure.” But I just cannot recognize anything, just like I know someone is speaking English, but don’t know exactly what he or she is talking about.  Philly is just way it was: it is old in a way, but by walking around I saw tall buildings, modern ones which stand in these old and narrow streets without giving me any feeling that they don’t belong to such an old style city. Then we hanged out in groups. We just walked. We passed by Sheraton where I lived two years ago, and then a Subway just jumped into my eyes and reminded me of those days when we lined up there buying lunch. It was really surprised to see these familiar things without any expect to see them.

On Saturday, September 14, the various members of the two classes of Play in the City met with Mark in the glass atrium outside of Hepburn; I was among the first people there, got my ticket, and watched as the room filled with people in waves. When most of the group had arrived, a few stragglers rushing in behind, Mark explained the details of the trip, and we split into groups; I was paired with a woman named Agatha, and we grouped with Phoenix and Marcia.

We rode the train into town; it was full but not crowded, Agatha enjoying a conversation with a friend as I read. When the train reached our station, we hurried off; the train stops were brief enough that a stumble could make you miss your stop. A short walk took us to the library, where Mark described the plan for the day; “Go play, and make sure to come back on time for your ticket.”

The trip we took this Saturday was a magical exploration.

I did not have any plan until the morning I met up with my group, we talked about the places we saw online that interested us and decided to go to an art museum when we got there.

When we arrived, I took a look around the random angle of the city, it is ----concrete and different from any city I’ve seen previously. The huge mirror buildings reflected the sky and clouds, which made them part of the blue. It’s beautiful concrete. We saw the city hall, which is a nicely preserved building, magnificent, graceful, you can see a history out of it.When we walk along the street, there are flags of different nations. I tried to find my country through the long street and found the five stars right in front of the library.

I walk downstairs to the washroom in the Free Library in Philadelphia, because I still have a few minutes before the fringe festival performance begins. The washroom is nothing spectacular. There are six or seven stalls on the left-hand side, and a few sinks installed into the wall on the right. There isn't much light because probably this is basement level so the window on the opposite end of the washroom isn't all too effective.

I go into the third stall. There is no latch on the door; instead, the hole where the latch should have been is stuffed with a thick wad of toilet paper. It holds the door closed so I don't mind.

There is a woman in the stall to my left. She is sobbing. I don't know if she is standing or sitting, but she is shuffling her feet nervously. And she is sobbing, mumbling in a panicky voice. I can't understand everything she says because it doesn't seem to all be in English. But I can hear her words – between sharp, ragged breaths – that nobody knows, don't nobody know. Nobody.

And her voice sounds like pain and fear. Airy, high and small. Choking and weary and trembling. Small.

And I can't say anything. I can't ask her what is wrong or if there is any way I can help. There is much more than just the wall of a bathroom stall between us. I leave my stall, walk to the sinks and wash my hands. The woman is still in the stall, crying, speaking to herself as I dry my hands and walk outside. And that is that. I remain simply with the voice and tearful, frightened words of a faceless woman in a stall next to mind.

Since my trip into the city yesterday, I have slightly alerted my image of the city as a trove with treasures waiting to be discovered, to something with more of a reliable infrastructure. This view applies more to cities I am visiting for the first time or as a tourist, rather than being a resident or frequent visitor. Yesterday was my first time in Philadelphia. I have now visited New York, Paris, Salzburg, Toronto, Tokyo, and Philadelphia as a tourist. The last city I went to before Philadelphia was Tokyo. In Tokyo I got lost all the time, and held back tears on station platforms. When I was in Philadelphia I was with a group and could easily point out where we were on a map at all times. Although my Tokyo and Philadelphia experiences are a bit polar in terms of their potential unexpectedness, the mixture of the two recent experiences makes me feel city savvy. Being in Philadelphia was the first time that I was completely relaxed in a city that was not my own, even though it was my first time going there. I now feel like I have personal strategies on how to enjoy a new city. Before I go to a city I search online for things to do and learn my train stops. When I am in the city I do the things I planned and some I did not. I see the tourist sights, go down the main shopping street, I look around, ask people on the street where to go, and go down a couple streets just to see what is there. A bit of what I was expecting to be there and some left to chance.

There’s nothing quite like meandering through a city. Not knowing where you’re going to go next, or what you’re going to see. As one of my friends had said only the day before, “It’s all an adventure in guesswork.” And it is. My group wandered around, doing some shopping here, checking out the used bookstore there. Every time I turned my head I saw something different, something exciting: A dog walker, a street blocked off by police cars, an old building next to a shiny new one. A group of forty rollerbladers racing through the streets, the leader yelling “RIGHT TURN RIGHT TURN” and as one the group makes the turn, some slowing down, some going backwards, but all of them making it. Except for one, the man with his head down, the man going to fast to notice anything around him. As he skated ahead, he was being left behind.

I noticed a lot of adults walking the same way the rollerblader skated. I noticed it because I often do the same thing: head down, shoulders slightly hunched, quick steps. It means business, it means stress, it means you have a place to be and you’re going to get there on time and that means no looking around, no small smiles to passerby, no muttered hellos, no noticing anything. No time for anyone.

On saturday’s playful city adventure, my group set out with only a vague plan. We would go to the sculpture garden, then figure out from there what we wanted to do next. On the way to the art museum, we stopped at the Rodin museum’s garden, to check out the sculptures there as well. We spent a little bit of time at each, mostly quiet, pointing out expressions and abnormally large hands. We took some pictures, mine mostly of the fountain, and set off to the other sculpture garden.

Jessica Bernal

ESEM- Play in The City

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Trains were a figment of my imagination. They would only get as real as Thomas and Friends, The Polar Express and only as exciting as the Zorro movies with Antonio Banderas. And now I find myself walking back slowly step by step startled by the roaring sounds of what they call a train.

As much as I try to tell myself that the trains are real and that no, I’m not on the set for the next Back to The Future movie, my feet can’t seem to believe it. I get a little push from everyone around me making his or her way onto the monstrous silver caterpillar. The chilly wind brushes off the nerves away and I embark onto discover what Philadelphia holds.

I take each step as if I were walking in the dark yet my eyes are wide open looking at everyone and everything on the train. The young couple too busy with each other’s faces to notice we’re all staring, the woman reading her book with no attention to her surroundings, and half of the train busy on their phones texting away as if their thumbs were on a marathon. I’m trying to look for a seat but I find myself more interested in the people on the train than the actual empty seat right in front of me. I feel like a kid in the candy store for the first time and I haven’t even arrived to the city yet!

Philadelphia is quite literally larger than life.  All around us on the parkway there were huge, imposing buildings.  They were imposing, intimidating, incriminating halls not because of their size but their age.  Their echoing chambers filled with the history of centuries, telling the stories of the great heroes long past, all bear down on me.  It’s a beautiful and epic place, but the walls themselves seem to demand silence and awe, as if you could somehow destroy the integrity of the place by being anything less than amazed.  The eyes of carvings and statues follow us around the rooms and along the sidewalks.  Their exaggerated size and features look down upon us as if we must feel privileged to walk down the same paths that others once did.  And I do feel awed; I do feel a bit amazed that after all of these years I can be in the same place people once worked and lived hundreds of years ago.  But this is what I mean by larger than life.  Those giant statues?  We can never fill those shoes.