15-It Ain't All Cinnamon and Sunshine: Brotherly Love and Body Armour

With the imminent arrival of Lydia's parents, I decided to take a trip to create some space in the apartment and to allow room for some private family time too [Lydia: you didn't need to do this! We all love you!]. I would go on an adventure for two days and then stay in an Air BnB for a couple of days on my return. I had to take advantage of cheap buses to some nearby cities, so I booked a Megabus to Philadelphia,  aka "The City of Brotherly Love". How was it? After sending Konstantinus a plethora of Philadelphia photographs suggesting the trip was princess perfection, I had to confess: "It ain't all cinnamon and sunshine." Philadelphia was the place where I contemplated the need for personal fortification.

My yoga teacher talked about how he had used his 'body armour' in the morning when he was on the subway. A group of very loud men, swearing and being aggressive in conversation entered. The dynamics of the carriage immediately changed. He could visually see everyone close down, avert their eyes. Immediately lock themselves down or iron out any chinks they had in their armour they already had on. He, who had no armour, at peace on his usual quiet, early morning subway ride, coffee in hand, felt the plates spread from his feet to his head: a full suit. Our defence mechanism when we are scared, tense. When we feel peaceful, safe we are soft, open; there is no need for an exoskeleton. Finding places and people where we can be vulnerable, soft is special. Yoga is one of the havens for me. Initially while here in New York, I was quick to put myself daily in armour, a regular part of my wardrobe. (Although perhaps my poet and turtle experience may suggest otherwise!) I was becoming less reliant on it as time goes on. Sometimes our armour is important, needed and sometimes we may reach for it unnecessarily, too quickly. Philadelphia tested my need for a bodily fortress; a princess bubble of oblivion is not always a suitable mode of travel (only really if you have a travel buddy, like Jones, that has your back). Perhaps I did not march off on the best foot. I wasn't as fresh as I wanted to be for my excursion. I had slept badly, awoken by noises in the night and as Lyd was still in New England, I had to just try to be brave. (I was worried that the mouse was scratting, possibly climbing up the bed- but the mouse is a whole blog post within itself. He is the true dastardly villain, causing Lyd and I to suit and boot up both physically and spiritually in our own home!)

I fell back into my bad habits and had to haul ass across the subway and city. Megabus departs from somewhere not so obvious and I was not really prepared for that. I was sweating as I charged down the street, adhering as best as I could to a random set up and strange queueing system. I slid onto my bus, moments to spare and breathed (no nice hot drinks, but a pack up of Wholefoods salads)! Minutes before I had left, I scribbled directions to the hostel I booked on scrappy paper, recalling reviews that it was complicated to get there and right out of the city. It looked pretty though and in a wooded area. A good place for a run and I liked the look of the porch and white wood slat building. It was called Chaminoux Mansion and that made it seemed less hostel-like too. I had booked it a while ago and had not thought about it since. I am sure I would find my way, or ask once I got there.

I had to ask fellow Megabus travellers what the heck was going on, which line was which. I realised I was getting much better at asking and how helpful it is if you do ask! Lydia and I have spoke about this quite a bit: the feeling of being vaguely lost and not wanting to appear it. When I reach the end of my book, Ralph Ellison summarises this perfectly:

None of us seems to know who he is or where he is going. Which reminds me of something that occurred the other day in the subway. At first I saw only an old gentleman who for the moment was lost. I knew he was lost, for as I looked down the platform I saw him approach several people and turn away without speaking. He's lost, I thought, and he'll keep coming until he sees me, then he will ask his direction. Maybe there is an embarrassment in it if he admits he is lost to a strange white man. Perhaps to lose a sense of where you are implies the danger of losing a sense of who you are. That must be it, I thought- to lose your direction is to lose your face.

So, I have relaxed a bit more about just asking and not minding appearing lost. People do in fact want to help. I know I do if anyone asks me. The other week I stood at the Post Box. I was thrilled to have finally managed to get some stamps (Post Offices seem to be hidden here) and postcards (only found in Times Square??). I had written a ton of them and was ready to post. Though I could not work the post box. Was this one closed? Should I wait until I saw the next one? I bit the bullet and asked a girl crossing over the road. I think I may have put on more of a British accent and said something along the lines of, "I am terribly sorry. Am I being incredibly ignorant about how to post letters in the United States? This post box is unlike the ones in England and I cannot seem to work it. Is there a knack to it?" Well, apparently I made this girl's day and that was the most adorable thing she ever heard. She pulled a little handle, open sesame literally, and my letters were popped in. SIMPLE. Lyd said she had exactly the same problem when first confronted by a U.S Post Box. She is Princess Smartypants. The cleverest girl I know. Sometimes the simplest things can seem hard! There are no stupid questions, only stupid answers, I once heard. But I think the post box question qualifies as pretty stupid.

Armed with this knowledge, at least knew that I could write and send postcards from Philadelphia with ease if I was stuck for things to do and I can also ask questions to enlist help (because surely I could rest assured that they would never be as stupid as the post box one). Great! Getting to the hostel was the next challenge. Disembarking from the Megabus, I immediately felt the different energy of this city. Calmer for sure. Skyscrapers, but not as crammed full. I wasn't so dwarfed. I realised I was right in the main historic area and it looked impressive. My scrap piece of paper with scribbled directions did not seem very helpful or clear, though. The rain that had begun had made my pen marks run. Bus 38 was a definite. Did I need to get off the bus at 20th or on it at 20th? Or what about 6th and Market Street? Fortunately I did not mind appearing like an idiot and the people of Philadelphia were very lovely. With help, I managed to find the correct bus and boarded. A beautiful city! We passed sooooo many amazing buildings and the sun began to shine.

However, my stop that I had written down and the bus driver recognised never seemed to come up. Ford and Crayston. Ford and Crayston. It was like a desperate mantra in my head. I am tense and I feel my armour creeping up my body. We went through the main streets, passed museums, over a bridge. We turned into a very tired, very poor looking neighbourhood. Soon I and one other person were the only ones on the bus and we seemed to be very far away from the city. I heard my stop called and here I was. On the street, in the middle of nowhere. I reminded myself that I had known this when I booked this place; all the reviews described how lovely the hostel was, but how out of town it was. A small cluster of houses, a small group of shops. Walk to the stop sign and turn left, then a mile down the road. The weather was muggy, I had shed my armour a while ago, partly the heat and telling myself to have faith. It was complicated but seemed right. I could see in the distance Chaminoux Mansion. Very pretty and just like the picture. Okay. Hot and bothered I made it. With relief I dropped my bags on the porch. Door locked. Hostel is closed between 11 and 4. It was 3ish and I had my book. I was here. Fine.

Two cars pulled up and a group of loud young Spanish tumbled out, stretching, talking loudly and ALL lighting up cigarettes. Trust my luck that the two nights I am dorm sleeping, I end up with smoking, youthful Uruguayans (turns out they are not Spanish). Anyway, the really kind Youth Hostel worker comes out and lets us leave our luggage. He drives me back to the bus stop, providing me with some invaluable information, maps and bus tokens. I jump out at the bus stop and am immediately engaged in conversation by an amazingly sweet elderly man. We talk for a full hour- at the stop and then on the 30 min bus ride into town. His name is Floyd and he is a gem. We talk about his daughters. His mother and how he comes from a family of 16 children. Philadelphia. Poets. Turtles. Food. Donuts. Parents. Health. Not talking to strangers. How much I would have liked his mom. He blesses me when I leave, saying he loves my cheerful face. There was no exoskeleton here, body armour not needed. I namaste him right back. (I have been blessed a few times since I have been here. Just the other day a busker in the New York subway when I dropped in some dollars and told him his voice was lovely. He was singing "My Girl" and he looked right into my eyes. He was old and the light in him was just beautiful. Normally I feel a little strange about "God Bless You"'s, but since my Wayne Dyer/ The Tao Te Ching interest has been cultivating, I accept this with grace and light reflected right back.)

I wander around the Historic Quarter. I enjoy the freedom from my armour, exchange pleasantries with museum and cafe workers. I move around the streets with the knowledge of the grid system transferable from NYC. There is so much to choose from, I am unsure what I want to visit properly. It is getting on a bit now, so I figure I scope stuff out and then fully commit tomorrow to a couple museums. I use the Starbucks wifi to work out a good vegetarian place to dine alone in. I decide to head to Hip City Veg. I set off and the light drizzle has turned to incessant rain. Cold rain. I march on. Maybe I have failed to remember one thing: 15 blocks can be longer than you think! Thank goodness for my raincoat that Mama Wolff insisted we go halves on and buy. I know she could not bear to think of me arriving in new places looking like a scruff bag; this all weather jacket, though expensive, was worth it for being transferable in all the countries and weathers I was likely to face. It proved itself to be completely waterproof. Unfortunately, it stops mid thigh. So, when I reach my destination and peel off my coat with my frozen hands, I am bone dry underneath but my tights, feet (stupid Converse) and legs are sodden. The food is lovely; preferable to the deep fried, meaty choices that I seem to be surrounded by here.

I leave and sit in a coffee shop. I am near 20th where I realise I can get on my number 38 bus back to the hostel. I have a nice conversation with the man behind the counter. His dream is to go to Cornwall one day and is very pleased that I came to visit Philly, welcoming me to the "City of Brotherly Love". I blather on and realise that anyone who engages me in more than just the expected customer/server pleasantries tends to get an earful. When I return from the bathroom and gather up my belongings, he gives me the hot chocolate I ordered. Oops, he says. It is a large (I had ordered and paid for a small), he winks and he also passes me a cinnamon bun I had been eyeing up (saying they are closing now and they would just have to throw them away, he is taking some home too). It isn't sunshine but this is pretty cinnamon-y! So sweet. Or maybe I appear pathetic and in need, I realise. I walk back out in the rain. It is dusk and this is an incredibly stupid time to head back. I will arrive in the middle of nowhere in the dark. I can guarantee though, that I will be alone. No one else would be foolish to be out in this.

I don't even think I have the energy for my body armour. My bus stop has no shelter. My cinnamon bun in the paper bag is now sodden. My hot chocolate is my saviour; armour in a cup. I get on the bus. A large lady gets on and sits beside me, she says hello and smiles. I am comforted by this small act of kindness. Instead of a desperate mantra, I chant: The light that is in me, I see reflected in you. I appreciate the warmth of the bus. I run the mile in the pouring ran to the hostel. It is pretty awful. When I arrive, the owner gives me extra towels to dry off. I say I just need to shower and get into bed, she gives me earplugs. I am sharing with the Uruguay gals. It is 8:30. The communal areas are full of high school kids and a few teachers, evidently on a residential.

I head to my dorm. It isn't so bad. I just accept they are loud and I think my sheer exhaustion and relief to be back, dry and warm sends me off into a decent slumber. The sun is streaming through the window the next morning. The girls all are sound asleep and appear so different when quiet. I sneak out for a run and then get ready and leave for the day, opting out of the communal pancake making. Sunshine is deceptive. The windchill factor kills me and leads me to a lot of coffee and tea drinking in museum cafes. I do a lot of wandering. I enjoy Rocky's statue and watching runners do the steps of glory. I head to one of my museums of choice which is closed. I look at various historic points and different areas. Philadelphia has a lot to offer. I really like it. My hands are so cold. I decide to head back at a reasonable (daylight) hour.

When I return, I have a nice chat with the hostel manager. Where is everyone? I ask. He has moved the girls out of the dorm room with me. It will just be me and one other girl who has not arrived yet. The school group went this morning. Should be a lot quieter for you. I take my leftovers to the homely loving room and eat. Would you like to decorate an Easter egg? he asks. I do. He brings me coloured pens and eggs and some examples from last year. I sit and work on my design and then pop it into the basket. I notice the note on it is inviting children to take part. I must appear in need. First free buns from the cafe man and pity activities from the hostel owner.

I head to my dorm and make my bed as comfy as I can with lots of extra blankets. The girl arrives. She is from Dallas and will spend a week at the hostel while she looks for apartments. I ask her what she thought of the bus journey out here. She says she got a cab and would not want to contemplate that tricky excursion yet. She is impressed that my first journey to Chaminoux Mansion was by the number 38 and the trek. I shrug. I am glad to impart my tips though, maybe she won't have to reach for her body armour and instead enjoy the ride. It is pretty interesting. A lot to take in, and such drastic changes between city and poor suburbs and then the outskirts where we are.

I sleep. Warm. Quiet. I leave, early in the morning. The sun is streaming, rising behind Chaminoux Mansion which is nestled in trees. The breeze is gentle and air not as cold. I walk away, looking back once. I ride the number 38 for the last time. I find my Megabus and watch the city roll past as I head back to NYC.

It really isn't all princess bubbles, cinnamon and sunshine. There can be feverish feelings of isolation, albeit fleeting. Of course, this is contrasted starkly with the beauty of moments, hours, days of the bliss that liberty brings. One would not be so apparent without the other. This yin and yang concept is in everything around. When I get off the Megabus, I feel the rush of New York. In contrast to the City of Brotherly Love, this city now feels more like home than ever. I sail through new subway routes and past crowds on Columbus, finding my Mid Town Air BnB with ease. I pop my trainers on and head to Central Park for a little run. I watch the traffic and passers by from my window and prepare to head to Queens to be reunited with my New York family; not just Lyd but her mama and dad too! I decide to walk to 42nd and hit Times Square; the sun is about to set and I feel light. I know when I have to become a citadel and when not. I am happy to have hung up my body armour. I smile to myself as I walk through the crowds. The last of the sun is creeping between the skyscrapers and the energy electric. There have to be moments when it ain't all cinnamon and sunshine- they make these moments all the more sweet and perfectly bright. (And I always have my body armour to hand, should I really need it.)

The view from the subway as I headed in to Queens.