Greenspace -- Natural Flow -- Iao Valley, Maui

Photograph by author

Bursting in with comet speed,

Tailing ethereal escapes,

Folding in and out of state,

The salacious flirt now spins retreat.

Exhales draw breath with renewed interest.

Green pastures bend to golden sandstone with a deadline footnote.

Spontaneous combustion takes the fall.

Sublime surrender in rubble razes ground.

With charming rescue, wildlife rings celestial bodies.

Coincidence swims with shouldered intent.

Accidents pour with pretext.

Either way, love now enters the equation…

Tripping skyward among insanely sunny showers,

Freefalling into a bed of mudded waters,

Eyes open!

Twisting wood and ocean hues are charging the horizon.

Smiling wildly at that spark of green before a setting sun,

Standing like a hanging man released from a parody of fate.

Is that sweat upon brow hovering over a grin?

Yes! The prism discovered its flood of light.

And so it goes, a fall trips spring…

Unearthed reflection now pitches universal color!

A couple of weeks ago, I was at Beauty Bar in Manhattan speaking with a friend and fellow writer.  As a New Yorker, he mentioned that the financial crisis seems to be leveling egos and raising existential questions amongst locals.  Substantive (ad-lib) chats with a swirl of humility are on the rise again in this financial and cultural hub, according to my friend and active Manhattanite for more than a dozen years.

As spring brings with it renewed life, perhaps ushering comfort into those extemporaneous exchanges with friends and strangers is the blessing. 

(Spring Souls)

Can a soul be saved, if another soul waits?

The door you guard grants you passage to life.
You can shake your own hand on the other side.

But what if the shadows stop dancing?
Will you stand vigil?
Or spill into the night?

Do the walls coming down make you feel tall?
Or is it just another lie you fake?

Will you be callus and delete the past?
Perhaps lose yourself in task?
After all, it’s not the end of a life, right?

Can a soul be saved, if another soul waits?

I don’t know, but I will myself to turn the knob… and seek.

Chorwad, Beach, Gujarat -- treasured land where his feet touched ground.

Photograph by author

This poem is about a man I met in a small town in Gujarat, India.  His perseverance, humanity, and faith in the face of peril continue to inspire me.  

Starry Connections

A barren star reflects his spirit,
But a flooded breath drowns his light.

As a windy town plunges the boy,
Gasping, he resurfaces a man.

A life anew tethers his own,
Another vindicates the shells of his soul.

Succumbing to her calm,
He sips the air.
Trembling, he awakes.

Her water too icy to birth life,
Vindication takes a dive,
Still, he pays homage to the roots she anchored.

A flooded breath drowned his light, 
But her gales blew him ashore. 

And as his feet connect to sand,
He is reborn.
He no longer flails in her starry springs.
He understands that her platform is meant to celebrate life.

Tactile Cents Transforming Cultural Billings

Hi, my name is Pinky — writer and photographer.

This blog focuses on sensing a place, a people, a moment. Exploration pulls us into the magic of childhood.  It reveals the beauty and luck of being an alien on a living, breathing planet.

As global personas jostle with one another, it is up to us to continue distinguishing the nuances that make us one because our future depends on secure interdependence.

Beyond that cuddly comfort zone, the exploration begins, the aperture widens, and epiphanies connect.  

Cheers!

A reminder that a fresh palette lends itself to the authenticity of color and intent in stroke…

Philadelphia, PA, November 4th, 2008: The impromptu citizen urge to parade Obama’s victory along Broad Street  –  where the architectural awe of the country’s largest city hall drops back like an anchor dressed in Victorian splendor (courtesy of Scottish architect John McArthur, Jr).

Photograph and Image by author

January 20, 2009 – Washington D.C. – Inauguration Day

A splash of ‘tongue-and-cheek’ fashion for political, tabloid, and hard news junkies.  

Washington, DC: Fashion Flirts with Political Media as the Streets Celebrate Inauguration Day.

Election Night – Philadelphia, PA 

Exhales and Elation: Moments after Obama's Victory; Broad Street, Philadelphia, PA

I remember tuning into MSNBC in my living room… a few minutes before 11 p.m., and all indicators point to another long night.   During the last presidential election in 2004, I stayed up until 6 a.m. — futilely praying that Kerry could tow-the-line all the way to the White House — before giving into sleep as commentators continued grappling with words like “to close to call” or “electoral ballots.”

So sure, I step away for a moment… just one moment. In the den my husband and friend are having a chat and enjoying the Philadelphia skyline.  All of the sudden, I hear a nonchalant announcement that Barack Obama is our president-elect.  Immediately, the cameras cut to Obama Headquarters and the crowd at Grant Park in Chicago.   It’s really happening… Shock… complete disbelief… a breathless flood of collective, connected pride… We won! We illustrated to the pundits and talking-heads our desire to take active stewardship in our future.

Humanity, reason, truth, and empowerment:  Harvest it, and we welcome democratic participation.

Push us, and we welcome democratic participation.  But, it may not be pretty, as sampled during the 2006 midterm-elections.

Our country’s indispensable ideology — many times muddled in the championed capitalism of the “American Dream” — is our Constitutional allegiance to human rights.  Perhaps the last 8 years reminded Americans of what we could lose…  Politicians, take notice and raise the bar.  Our forefathers painstakingly provided the most just and malleable blueprint to-date so that our empire does not succumb to the pages of history as another swinging pendulum.  

We are beings of instinct.  If presented with talking points that try and spin split peas into pretty-green candied yams, we’ll either push them aside or spit them up.  Why?  Not because we are fearful of the awful taste.  We just don’t like being lied to…  

    Remember that old adage:  Fool me once, shame on you, fool me twice and… uhhh… yeah that’s it!

The CLOCK STRIKES 11! Freedom Rings Steps from City Hall Philadelphia

And We Believe in Something, in Someone... Yes We Can!

The city’s independent music scene flaunts raw talent that demands notice on the streets and on stage.  In August 2008, Glasgow was designated UNESCO City of Music – making it the 3rd city in the world to covet the distinction after Seville and Bologna.

Walk into a reputable venue and experience what the buzz is about.

I decide to visit King Tut’s  Wah Wah Hut – where the band Oasis was discovered – on a Saturday night. The stage rests on the pub’s second floor in a cozy, dim-lit, space with a standing-room capacity of a few hundred people.

 In 2006, New York Magazine touted King Tut’s as the 7^th best way to “Follow Your Bliss,” in its Top 50 places to visit worldwide.  And as it is Scotland music mogul Craig McGee’s first progeny, the going-concern continues heralding quality performances.

Talent reps screen and audition bands prior to green-lighting shows, and playing a gig here lends musicians a certain amount of legitimacy. 

 “The whole ethos of this place is that this is how [live music] venues should be run,” says Laura Rooney, the on sight rep.

On Stage, a trio of boys, The Ghosties, play for an audience of 150.  Reminiscent of The Killers, the band coalesces electric and acoustic sounds that set the mood for strong vocals and pithy lyrics rendered by an animated frontman. As the lads close the set and exiting stage left, the crowd chants, “We want more!  We want more…” 

 Not bad for an unsigned band or a pub-side concert.

Bar Fly (barflyclub.com) and 13^th Note (13thnote.co.uk) also book quality talent.  Pick up The List, Glasgow’s weekly entertainment guide, for performance information.

Culture, globalization, and music:  What is the connection?

“We at UNESCO believe that culture not only makes an economic contribution, it provides meaning and a sense of identity and continuity that is integral to the life of all societies,” said the Director-General during the ceremony. “An understanding of culture helps communities grapple with the challenges of globalization, by preserving the values and practices that define their way of life, and by promoting respect for other cultural traditions and ways of life. It represents a way of engaging with cultural differences and building social harmony, of making people of all ages and origins feel involved,” Mr Matsuura added. 

Source:  Unesco Press Release

The People

My quasi Type A persona continues to thaw, and it may have something to do with Murphy’s Law, which states, “If anything can go wrong, it will.”

Around here, Murphy is considered an optimist. Not following?

Maybe a page from a life-long Glaswegian who was honored last year with the MBE (Member of the Most Excellent Order of the British Empire) medal – the first stage to knighthood, will clarify.

As we sit in his Strathclyde University office, just off of George Square – the heart of the city, Jim Wilson shares with me his encounter with a short, silver haired, homeless woman one evening on his way to the train station.

“‘Do you have any change to spare, son?’” said Wilson, relaying her words. Wilson answered, “no” and met her stare for what seemed like 10 minutes, he recalls.

With eyes dancing he continues: Then, she started to laugh and then circled around me and exclaimed, ‘No?! Neither do I!’

“You see life in all its fullness,” Wilson says. “It’s got the good, the bad, and the ugly, and that is the strength of Glasgow. Whatever your condition you will be accepted.”

Glasgow: Fashionista Heaven

Glasgow, Scotland imbues the culture and mystique of old-world Europe with a hip and unpretentious panache and serves the concoction against a backdrop of rustic and gold sandstone buildings and green space (translation: 70 city-parks, golf, and mountainside views) on an uptown happy-hour budget.

The people are friendly, unassuming and wickedly funny.  And while exploring the city in the brisk March air, conversations with friends and some interesting natives, offer up the inside-scoop on Glaswegians, speakeasies, and hot, in-the-moment music and fashion scenes that seem to be a European secret.   

The cosmopolitan’s official badges of honor include winning last year’s bid to host the 2014 Commonwealth Games and a designation as “European City of Culture” by the European Union in 1990.  But on the streets, in the pubs, and in international headlines, it is Glasgow’s music scene – launching bands like Franz Ferdinand and Snow Patrol – and fashion districts – ranking 2^nd only to London in the U.K. – that steal the spotlight.

And since it continues to be less expensive than neighbors Edinburgh, Dublin, and London, visiting Europe this summer is doable, even with an anemic dollar.

First settled in 6^th century AD, Glasgow has reinvented itself more times than Madonna.  America’s independence phased out the city’s tobacco trade and signaled a more than century-long industrial revolution prospering in textiles, cotton, steel and shipbuilding – reaching its economic zenith in 1900.

Today’s Glasgow has dusted off its industrial image and Victorian architecture and is under-going another transformation – this time as the U.K.’s down-to-earth yet urbane star. 

Fire Dance Series
Little Beach Drum Circle, Maui — A beatnik evening against the backdrop of a setting sun. (See Sunday Night Drum Circle post to learn more about this local tradition.)

Little Beach Artsy Vibe

Street Bound photograph by author

“[A book about] 2nd chances, human connection, and the power of art and music.”  – Steve Lopez, author and columnist, L.A. Times.

From NY’s Juilliard School to L.A.’s Skid Row

The Soloist, by author Steve Lopez, tells the real life story about how a relationship between a newspaper columnist and a Skid Row musician, Nathaniel Ayer, moves a city, a mayor, and this hardnosed journalist to help the homeless and mental health communities.

People responded to the daily columns about Nathaniel in unexpected numbers because Lopez broke the rules of journalism and let it get personal, Lopez told an audience of more than 150 people at Philadelphia’s Free Library last Saturday.

Lopez was candid, animated and well received. The author opted not to read from his book. Instead, he participated in a moderated Q&A before taking questions from the audience.

(The book is being made into a movie scheduled for release in theaters this November. Robert Downey, Jr. plays Lopez and Jamie Foxx plays Nathaniel. They are done filming, Lopez said.)

A main-character synopsis about how this complex and unlikely relationship unfolds and some of the more memorable quotes from the book discussion follow:

Steve Lopez

He used to be the hard-hitting columnist that kept Philadelphia’s city council in check before moving out to L.A, same job, different fodder.

This day’s prospective storyline: Rainwater stopping escalators and, in turn, repelling public commuters. L.A. tops the list for traffic congestion in U.S. cities. Locals are averse to public transportation as it is, so this escalator thing is a big deal.

While digging for the story near an underground station, Lopez hears a violin celebrating its glory. The man playing the instrument is an unlikely figure. The violin, Lopez notices, has two strings missing.

The man, he notes, is playing without a hat or an open violin case. So, why here, Lopez is compelled to ask.

There’s the Beethoven Statue. I play here for inspiration, Lopez recalls Nathaniel’s words.

For the first time in his career, Lopez abandons professional distance and surfaces in the foreign landscape of a schizophrenic savant living on Skid Row.

Nathaniel Ayer

Nathaniel studied with YoYo Ma as a fellow student at Juilliard School because of his innate confidence.

Ignoring his mentor’s advice, Nathaniel travels from Ohio to New York for the audition. Not only is he accepted, he receives a full scholarship.

Then, sometime during his junior year, elusive voices and images start toying with his reasoning. His condition deteriorating, Nathaniel finds himself out of school and in a hospital undergoing shock therapy. He eventually lands on the streets.

Decades later, in his 50’s, Nathaniel plays the violin near an underground station in Los Angeles, when a man approaches him. The musician does not know it, but his second chance just arrived.

(It was just easier, he would later say, to live on L.A’s Skid Row with thousands of homeless – heroin addicts, drug dealers, amputees, veterans – than to lose something again.)

The following are some of the more memorable excerpts (All quotes attributed to a third person are direct phrases by Mr. Lopez during his dialogue with the moderator and the audience.):

“Music is a balancing force in his life. Notes that for 200 years have not moved.”  Music his Medicine – Disney Hall his Hospital – The Orchestra his Doctors.  –Lopez

“Do musicians inspire you Mr. Lopez the way writers inspire me?” –Nathaniel (Addressing Lopez and launching into a well-versed soliloquy from Hamlet.)

“We are brothers. We are brothers in music.” –Yo Yo Mah (Addressing Nathanael backstage at Disney Hall; Nathanael, dressed in suit and tie, nervously wondered what he would say to YoYo Mah, Lopez said.)

“He has made choices in his life, and he is out there because he wants to be out there.” --Nathaniel’s Father (Addressing Lopez, when Lopez tracked him down.)

“This chance encounter, this serendipitous moment on the street, has led to a 3-year relationship.” –Lopez

photographs by author

Independence Mall, Philadelphia, PA; April 18, 2008; An observation and endorsement of “We the people…”

As the sun descends, I lay in the grass near Chestnut Street, the zenith of the long, downward-sloping expanse of Independence Mall. I can make out the prequel to a full moon under the blue sky; its depth washed out by the beach ball size, florescent flash emanating from the stage area several blocks ahead.

Meanwhile, families, students, and contented and forlorn locals of varied age and race continue converging on the green carpet separated by streets and walkways.

We wait for Barack Obama.

Imagine plays over the speakers: A performance from Live’s frontman Ed Kowalczyk. After a couple of solos, Will.I.Am, lead singer for the Black Eyed Peas, joins Kowalczyk in a rendition of Where is the Love.

As that anti-climatic moment wanes, we wait some more.

Pleasant enough, considering that Friday is enjoying its first warm spring day in Philly.

About an hour later, at 8:45 p.m., a cheer from the crowd, one of a string, but this one seems to linger. A microphone transmits Obama’s introduction. I start walking toward the stage and pass by the Liberty Bell.

Expectations are high after the speech he gave here last month, the one that now stands alongside the orations of Kennedy and M.L.K.

Absorbed by the encompassing bubble of bated hope and Obama’s words, I stop intermittently.

He speaks for 20-30 minutes.

He broaches a McCain presidency as more Bush policy, under new leadership. He addresses Clinton’s propensity to work within Washington’s fractured politics in contradiction to the new political stage he seeks to create. He cites our country’s economic, social, and military woes.

He does not say anything particularly brilliant. But it does not matter. His speech was earth shattering before he arrived.

Thirty-five thousand people, Obama’s largest audience to date, gathered on the land that birthed this country’s freedom for Friday night politics!

And in doing so, we expanded the footprint of our minds beyond our doorways.

We needn’t wait. But we did. And now our hopes and fears spill into 4 square blocks and trickle down the arteries.

Passing Through 

The Walk 

photographs by author

Tripping:  Crossing Borders and Erasing Labels

Imagine it:  A trip outside of your element…

In a liberated moment, you settle in as the curious explorer discovering indigenous culture. Meanwhile, without suspect, your mind sneaks in briefs of self-subscribed philosophy.

The new information clashes with sound bites from its memory chip: ** But the newscaster said**But my friend said**But the infamous “they” said**But the text stated**

Should you choose to engage your wit in a duel of ideas, keep one eye open that first night. Socrates may stop by with cigars in hand. No need to fret, freewill is his baby.

Note:  20-30% of U.S. citizens own passports. The numbers are disputed, but exploration does not require a flight ticket.

Trafalgar Square Christmas Cheer

Photograph by author

It is January, not the best time to take a trip to London. The cold comes and goes; and on a good day, 45 degrees is not so bad if you dress properly. Of course, the first semi-warm day and I decide to “layer.” 

It is my husband’s last night here. I have to make somewhat of an effort, don’t I? By which I mean: jeans, a hoodie, a jean jacket, and boots. But they are really cute jeans – the type that require 3-inch heels to accommodate the longer cut that impresses slendering height. And the hoodie is a purple, synthetic, snuggly fit Armani with an oversized hood and white detailing on the cuffs. I’m not a label whore, but that’s got to count for something…

After rearranging the contents of our bags, we head out around 3 pm. We begin our excursion at Trafalgar Square, all the while snapping pictures and trying to climb the lions. (Admit it – it’s sometimes fun to play the blatant tourist). Then, a quick “oohing and ahhing” at the 10 Downing Street entranceway, followed by a snack across the street.

At 5pm, we stop in for mass at St. Paul’s Cathedral.

The space feels blessed. Its cross-shaped intersection mends above the second largest freestanding dome in the world. On lookers and parishioners muse in the spirit of Christmas. Organs and reverberating hymns fill the cavity. The location has been a holy site since 604 A.D., although the edifice has been destroyed and reconstructed a handful of times; the latest design architected by Sir Christopher Wren, after the Great Fire of London.

As night falls, we go to Leicester Square. A carnival has pocketed the space for the holidays. Bumper cars, a giant rotating stick that looks like it has two spinning wheels on each end (complete with slack-jawed figurines), cotton candy, dinging bells, and popcorn air dance with our senses. Even the English have taken a break for the holidays, releasing the stick momentarily. We take a spin in the bumper cars. The cars are faster here and you can really feel the jerk upon impact, so we take another. This time, I drive.

We end the night at a cafe – a perfect day.

The Morning After

I wish I could say the same about the next morning, but I can’t. My body burned and pounded.Great – down with the flu on the first solo day of my trip. And I have to change hotels again – the downside of getting hooked up with friendly rates in decent accommodations. But I mustn’t complain. Otherwise, I would be on a plane home, with the dollar being in a more terrible way than I am at the moment.

After checking into my new accommodations, I head for the Indian restaurant across the street.

“May I please have some Dal?” I ask, as I rest my arms on the white tablecloth.

“And…” the waiter prompts.

“…and Nann, and make that a large Dal?”

He continues staring through me. “That’s it,” I squeeze out, “Look, I am sick, and I can’t eat anything else.”

“Then you’ll have to take it to go.”

“That’s fine,” I quip and shift into my chair sideways; my eyes blurring out the triptych of windows on either side of the restaurant’s facade.

“Hello,” I say instinctively to the only other customer in the room – a small, unassuming woman with silver hair and olive skin.

“Where are you from,” she asks, taking note of my accent.

“Philadelphia.”

“Why are you here – holiday?”

“No, I’m here searching out stories about South Asians in London. Their stories begin about a generation or so before that of South Asians stateside…thought it would be an interesting comparison. I am a writer,” I said in jumbled order. Hey, I am sick over here. She nods. “Actually, I would like to hear your story if that’s okay. Do you mind if I come sit with you for a moment?”

With that, my conversation with Joyce began.

Philadelphia Winter 2007 by Pinkscript

Graphics by Pinkscript

A  documentary initiated a trip to the Andy Warhol Museum in Pittsburgh, PA and provided the impetus in writing the following poem.

Tasting her wine in sweet surrender,

Sliding down her surface bender,

His upward glance tumbles down her silhouette.

Her perfect form stares him back without regret.

Stinging wounds find him lying in her salty pool,

Vaporizing before him, as time and water duel.

Suddenly it all makes sense.

Her flawless dress deems her less intense.

Dripping, he stands worrying only of the hour.

Fevering, he toils with drunken power.

Erecting glass houses, he crafts tomorrow.

His watchful eyes wet hers with all she can borrow.

Rinsing down to relief,

Her air perfumed in belief,

Hand in hand, they waltz in step out the door.

Slipping, he shrugs as she hits the floor.

She loses breath out of season,

Seeing anew the shades that colored her reason.

Kissing joy in change brought on by sorrow,

He smiles: No need to wallow.

I needed the amber in your wine to paint tomorrow.

Do you follow?

Grazing Light

photograph by author

Haleakala Crater — a spell binding drive…

The sunrise at Haleakala Crater in Maui is at the top of “must see” tourist destinations. Being so close to the equator, the daylight is a 12-hour cycle, approximately 6 a.m. to 6 p.m. Not keen on the idea of getting up at 3:30 in the morning and splinting yourself with layers of clothing in preparation for wintry 30-degree temperatures? Then opt for a day trip, and enjoy it!

As we were reminded by the hotel staff, the sun’s glows play off of the clouds — the more clouds the more colors. So if you are an early riser, make sure the weather forecasters bet on dawn paying its dues. We chose to take the trip midday (less crowded). It was December — the height of the rainy season.

Horses lounged in the lush green grass — only expending energy to refuel. Turnabouts offered glimpses of an ocean haze beyond the expanse of undulating land. As we sloped around each new ridge, yellow rays wavered in silver-grey plumes. Green pastures gave way to dry brush and rock-strewn sediment. Clouds gushed and twirled in a hurried tempo. And the blue sky consumed it all.

An approaching storm broke the enchanted Alice in Wonderland spell. And we hauled ass on our descent. We never made it to the crater — pretty close though.

Rent a convertible and the ethereal wind-up will unshackle your reality. The vastness of space alerts your senses. And, without hindrance, primary colors intersperse with their complements as the landscape cuts into the sky.

Saturday August 11^th — Curry Row, East Village, NYC

A Sensory Experience:

The evening breeze kissed my skin, and the aloof aroma of curry spices — cumin, chilies, coriander, and turmeric — tagged along to mingle with my palate in a courting ritual.

Window air-conditioning units hummed in sync with the casual swish of passing vehicles; their cadence occasionally jarred by a sudden jolt in RPM’s.

Samplings of Spanish, Chinese, and German dialects rhapsodized in the background alongside English tongues, some cloaked in European accents.

A female, rapping with alarming purpose, stole the lead. I pictured a celli smoldering her ear as her head bopped side-to-side in rhythm. Her lyrical crescendo:  Don’t fuckin’ call me again!

Inspired by the scents and sounds of Curry Row, the above vignette was experienced with eyes shut. I recorded the moment while waiting for some friends.

And now the rest of the story…

During my conversation with the guy behind the bar at Brick Lane Curry House (I am pretty sure he was more than a bartender), I learned that the row experienced a significant downturn about 6 years ago.

Curry Row continues to reinvent itself, after a New York Times article, written several years ago, echoed public sentiment: All of the food seemed to come from the same kitchen.

Numerous restaurants went belly up, surrendering to new restaurateurs with niche vision. The makeover invited ethnic variety. Everything from Ethiopian to Chinese restaurants line the street today.

Brick Lane Curry House, serves dishes inspired by restaurants housed on the famed lane in East London. Keep an eye out for a restaurant review in Time Out New York (scheduled for print in September or October). My friends and I enjoyed the extra kick of heat and spices in our meals — British Style.

True foodies — like my friend who used to be a chef on the row — will probably argue the authenticity of the eats. But prices are reasonable and metered parking plentiful by Manhattan standards.

The guy at Brick Lane mentioned that 50% of the street’s patrons are international travelers who track down Curry Row with their handy guidebooks. No wonder I heard so many dialects on a small stretch of 6th Street that I suspected would be inundated with locals. So, if you are looking to drop in on an international scene (or an exotic tryst) — in a city that is already the ultimate melting pot — while eating a decent meal, Curry Row is a flavorful option.

A look back in anticipation of the new album coming out in 2008 along with some nostalgia from seeing Bono speak at the Liberty Medal Ceremony in Philadelphia last week…

Upon arriving at Aloha Stadium in our ghetto Limo (adorned with duct tape and all), we head to the parking lot and retrieve our general admission wristbands — ensuring our spot in the coveted inner circle. We arrive at 2:00 pm, and several hundred of us swelter under blue skies until the gates opened at about 5:00 pm.

Once inside, the pre-game begins. Fans from Amsterdam, London, Italy, Australia, and yes, Philly too, exchange stories about preceding shows in the tour — playlists, performances, surprise guests.

People share food, alcohol, and contact info. etc. I end up swapping my cell battery with a guy from London. You see, his battery died, and he was waiting on an all-important text from a friend — a message that could take him backstage (and the desperate look on his face seemed genuine). How could I refuse?

The concert: We rocked out in total Elevation (yeah, I know) — U2, Pearl Jam, and a surprise appearance by Green Day’s front man, Billie Joe. I lost my voice for the next two days.

It sounds totally impractical to fly 12 hours for a concert, but it is hands down my best concert experience (and I’ve been to my share). The camaraderie, the excitement…it was pure euphoria! By the way — Jeremy Piven stood next to me during the show…no big thing (actually, it wasn’t because I did not watch Entourage).

Summer Zen Rittenhouse Park

photograph by author

Standing at the corner of Walnut and 19th Street, I watch as a Hugo Boss suit, French cuffs, Jimmy Choos, and Burberry Bags make their way up Walnut Street from the East. A Beatles tee, vintage jeans, Cargo shorts, and flip-flops make their way down from the West. They follow the perimeter of the square’s stonewalled entrance and cross into one of the park’s more ornate passageways alongside one another.

Located between University City and the swanky shops of Rittenhouse Row, the park and the city blocks flanking its perimeter share a symbiotic relationship that embodies the revitalization of Philadelphia and its residents.

The unique sense of community and artistic vibe Rittenhouse Park expresses has not gone unnoticed. In 2005, Robert Downey Sr., the namesake of his famous son, released the documentary, Rittenhouse Square. In the film, Downey expounds on the juxtaposition of the square and its’ residents. Urbanite, Jan Jacobs, has referred to the square as the perfect American neighborhood.

Crossing the street, I angle my way into the square’s urban refuge and notice the Hugo Boss suit. The man adorning it grins as a little boy, with his curly-brown locks tousling about, runs toward him. The spiky-haired guy in his Beatles tee swaggers toward a group of friends gathered around one of the many blankets dotting the grass.

The scene would put a smile on William Penn’s face, I imagine. During the late 17th century, Penn envisioned a city plan housing 5 park-squares, urban refuges, where people could congregate and share ideas. Adorned with Victorian architecture, residential high-rises, outdoor restaurants, pubs, specialty shops, hotels, bookstores, and the world famous Curtis Institute of Music, the surrounding bounty engages and attracts eclectic new acts that play harmoniously with its center-stage performance. Like a present-day Monet painting, the grounds capture the fluidity of color in style.

It is 6:00 p.m. on Friday. My husband and I are meeting at the park before getting together with some friends for a drink at Rouge. (The outdoor seating offers a front-row view of the park.)

Shaded by a bounty of trees, my strut shifts into an amble. I take a moment and inhale the scent of spring that permeates from the well-manicured gardens.

Fashionistas loiter about. A couple of twenty-something guys toss a Frisbee. An artist sets up his easel. Two women garbed in colorful Saris pass by.

Casting my eyes down one of the webbed walkways lined with benches, I see no sign of my husband near our usual bench. A call to his cell indicates he is on the other line. Brushing past a police officer (a normal presence in the park), I spot him near the reflecting pool. His eyes catch mine. He waves and puts up an index finger, indicating that he should be available within the minute.

Not holding my breath, I set my tote down on the nearest bench.

As I crack open my newly purchased Marian Keyes novel, the scurried activity of silver-haired men catches my eye. Preparing to engage in what I can only surmise to be the ultimate chess playoff, they set up three boards on three consecutive benches. Each player straddles the end of his respective concrete slab contemplating his attack. Their friends youthfully jostle about, keeping abreast of the action on all fronts.

With the strum of a guitar, my mind segues. Sure enough, it’s the dark-haired musician clad in his signature-black tee and jeans. As he plays, he checks out the scenery from atop a slab of concrete resting on columns that surround the plaza’s interior perimeter.

Having seen one another around, we both exchange a smile. Sitting in close proximity, our eyes rest on a homeless man with one arm stretched out over the reflecting pool. After a short pause, his arm unlocks, and he tosses a coin into the fountain. Once again the guitarist and I exchange a smile.

“Ready?” my husband asks.

“Let’s roll…”

photographs by author

Local drum circle on Sunday nights: It’s not in the guidebooks, but, if you are open to spending the evening on a nude beach listening to kettle drum, bongo, and tabla beats, it’s worth checking out. After the sunset, about 100 of us exited in a ritualistic procession led by three men wielding torches and lighting our way down a windy trail of rocks. My friend summarized the evening best:

“I finally understand what this whole peace-love thing is about!”