Philly:

Nick and I ventured to the City of Brotherly Love for the weekend. We ate cheesesteak in Reading Market and stood in Rocky's footprints on the steps of the art museum, blah blah blah. What made the weekend truly memorable was our Sunday morning in the Italian neighborhood of South Philly.


I light up like a kid at Christmas anytime I'm around something or someone that might be Authentically Italian. Maybe it's because I grew up in the Northwest where everyone was of either German or German descent, but Italy has always fascinated me. Luckily my husband doesn't find this incredibly dorky, even when I stage whispered that the people at the next table in the coffee shop were speaking Italian!


My "amore d'Italia" notwithstanding, the scene that transpired in one of the little market shops truly made the weekend. All along the Italian Market are tiny little shops selling Italian food staples, such as olive oil, fresh pasta, cured meats and cheeses. I still can't figure out if the meat or the cheese gives the shop its distinctive funk, but smells just like every shop in Italy. Anyway, these shops are about half the size of your average Manhattan studio apartment and crammed to the rafters with jars, bottles, hams and shoppers.

While we were salivating over the 20 varieties of ravioli, the inevitable happened. One of the shoppers, a little old lady, knocked a sampling dish of tomato sauce off the counter with her purse. Yes, I am also amazed that it was her and not me. Anyway, it caused a bit of a commotion- she didn't realize what had happened, then there was all the red sauce to clean up, which a younger man helped wipe off her shoes and the floor. She got a dollar bill out of her purse and tried to tip him, which both the Good Samaritan and the woman's grown daughter found fairly embarrassing. ("Mom. Stop.")

The circus finally ended and business resumed, but somehow in the shuffle one of the regular patrons (also a little old lady) got overlooked and ended up waiting significantly past her turn. As we got up to the register, she was letting the clerks have it.

"I'm gonna blow this place up," she said. "You're lucky I like you guys, or you'd be covered in lunchmeat."

Not the kind of thing you usually hear from little old ladies, but then again this was the Italian neighborhood. Even Don Corleone has to have a grandma.

The Library of Congress.

If you ever go to the Library of Congress, be sure to take the tour. And if you ever take the tour, do your best to take it with Irwin Deutscher, a retired sociology professor from the University of Akron.

Having wasted a few unretrievable hours of my life on bad tours, I scouted the three tour guides carefully as I sat through the tour introduction. Two older ladies who looked like they came from the Don't Touch That school and Irwin, who said, "I'll take the bunch in the back of the class." Though the ladies did their best to divide us into precise thirds, I chose fun over numerical precision.

Irwin did not disappoint. The Library of Congress is an ornate, gorgeous building with an interesting history that came alive during our enthusiastically delivered tour. Anyone who describes Benjamin Franklin as the "original long-haired hippie-freak American" has the right idea for making history interesting. I unfortunately didn't take enough notes to remember most of the verbal gems, but he did describe the Three Graces, who are depicted in the ceiling frescoes, as "the party girls of the gods." Whenever the gods wanted to have a good time, the Graces were the ones who ordered the wine and set the tables.

The piece de resistance of the library is the Reading Room. Only card-carrying researchers can enter- the masses have to observe the room from the upstairs balconies and refrain from talking, photographing or otherwise disturbing the Great American Scholars. It is a beautiful room, and Irwin encouraged us to pay attention to it rather than to him, saying, "I'm done talking, except to myself, and you may eavesdrop if you wish."

I later found out that anyone can get a library card- you might have to pretend that you're studying South Dakotan Rural Dialects, but any citizen can get a card. It's not an advertised priviledge because they don't want people getting cards as souvenirs. A little ironic that the nation's library would discourage access to books, but there you have it.

Running of the Brides:

I don't think of myself as a lucky person, but every once in a while the stars align for a truly unforgettable experience. In this case, the "stars" were the recent engagement of my good friend Kelly, who happens to live in D.C., and the annual Filene's Basement "Running of the Brides" one-day gown sale.

Filene's Basement is like Nordstrom's Rack, a place to get high-end clothes, accessories and home items for less. In the case of the bridal gowns, dresses that retailed for $800 to $8,000 are on sale for $250 to $700. This creates complete pandemonium. I called the store to see what time we should arrive for the 8 a.m. door opening. The operator had never been to the sale, but she had heard that people camped out all night and suggested we get there as soon as we could, like maybe 5 a.m.

We opted for 6:45, at which point the line was halfway down one block, around the
corner, and halfway up the next block. I would guess that there were maybe 75 brides, plus entourages, ahead of us. Many were wearing matching t-shirts that said “Team Baker” or “Maid of Bridezilla.” Clearly forces to be reckoned with.

Even though we were definitely in the first half of the line, there was not a single dress left on the racks by the time we got to the sale floor. Girls completely disregarded style or size and grabbed every dress in sight. They then stripped down right in the middle of the store and started sampling dresses. The more modest ones wore shorts and tank tops; some just about bared all. I heard one bridezilla-to-be say, “I suppose you can try it on, but even if I decide I don’t want it I’m going to hang onto it for collateral. I’m going to have to ask that you not leave my sight while you try it on.”

We were completely overwhelmed. Kelly tried on a couple dresses, then we left the madness for some brunch. By the time we came back, around 10, most of the dresses were back on the racks and the atmosphere was a little more relaxed. And, much to our surprise, Kelly found the perfect dress! Best of all, we didn't have to punch anyone out to get it.

I can’t show it here on the off-chance that her fiancé visits this page; the photo at right is one of the rejects. It just didn't go with her Nikes.