on the streets of philadephia

The lovely Amy from Vermilion just finished her semester abroad at Penn State in Philadelphia. Her posts about the city made me miss my dear Philly even more than I already did, and the past months, I was reminicing more and more about the moments passed there. They're nothing more than snippets and scribbled words in old diaries in a handwriting I barely recognize as my own anymore, but they're still as clear and vivid as they were the very second I made those memories.

Stepping out of the airport terminal into a hall with a glass wall looking out on the highway and feeling such a sense of "I'm home" that I almost cried.

Me and a friend eating poptarts on a bench in Chestnut Hill, having just spent 2.95$ on giant erasors, enjoying the sun and fantasizing about opening our own bookshop/library/coffee shop somewhere on Germantown Ave. We'd definitely have a cat or two and a map on the wall where people could pin the place they're from.
Standing in Hideaway Music looking through the CDs and vinyls and soaking up the years and years of music embodied by all those plasic covers that went through so many people's hands.

Philly's lights at night as one of those yellow busses drove us back to a small church a few smalltowns over, the street lamps and windows and their reflections on Schuykill river, tears in my eyes caused by words about a god I didn't believe in spoken in the one church that makes me shiver more than any other, the aftertaste of spirituals sung between those wooden benches and stained glass windows, the black woman with the beautiful voice, the man who didn't stop playing the piano during the whole sermon, the 20-something year old almost-still-a-boy that was in charge of the churches choir with a voice range of at least eight octaves (he could sing everything from soprano to bass flawlessly).

Walking across JFK Plaza feeling so at home in a city I've never been to before, feeling so connected to every person passing, to every voice and every laughter I've heard, snapping a photo of the LOVE Sculpture I'd seen in so many Cold Case Episodes.

Stepping out of Reading Terminal Market just to hear an old man playing a guitar and his smile when he tells me "Thank you. You're gorgeous, princess." after putting a bit of money into his hat. (Thank you, dear old man, you have no idea how happy that memory still makes me feel.)

Street art next to churches on huge buildings and a woman telling us it's part of a project to keep the youth from the streets and from spraying senseless stuff on walls, Liberty Bell and Independence Hall and Washington Square, buying a way too expensive for it's condition second hand copy of Emily Dickinsons complete poems (it took me half a year but I read them all), two guys breakdancing in the middle of the street.

And above all, above every moment, every step, every conversation: the feeling of finally coming home after being away for too long. I don't know how my beloved Philadelphia did it, but the city that loves you back had me at hello, and it hasn't let go of my heart ever since, and it's been over three years now. So if you ever get the chance: go to Philly. Fall in love with it like Amy and I and probably everbody else who's ever been there did.

cathedrals

I'm not religious, wasn't raised that way, never believed in a god and probably never will. I sometimes envy the people that are capable of believing with all their heart. I'm pretty sure I've read somewhere religious people are happier than non-believers. I have a thing about churches; the atmosphere, the quiet inside of them calms me down no matter how excited or giddy or upset I was beforehand. I don't know whether it's the architecture, the stained glass windows, the smell of cold, old stone and wooden benches or how everyone else is behaving in a church that makes me feel the way I do. Maybe it's a bit of all of these things.

I have a thing about saints, too. Well, about one saint. I'm madly in love with Jeanne d'Arc. That might be because I carry her name, too - well, at least the German version. I remember when I was in first or second grade we had a box of little things in our classroom and when it was someone's birthday, that kid was allowed to pick a thing from that box. There was a lot of stuff in there, small books, boxes of coloured pencils, spinning tops, little toy cars and probably heaps of things I can't remember. One of the books was a square little paperback with a pretty cover called "Johanna von Orléans" - Jeanne d'Arc. Tiny me saw that book the first time it was someone's birthday and wanted to read it. I wanted to know the story of the girl in the armour, I wanted to know why she was kneeling on the floor with a sword in her hand, I wanted to know why the back of the book showed her tied to a pole, flames leaking from the pile of wood beneath her. I was intrigued by that book, by that girl that had my name. 

Now, here's the catch: my birtday is at the very end of the school year. Every time the box was taken out of the drawer I hoped that the kid who's birtday it was wouldn't choose that book. Every time they choose something else my hope grew. At the end of the school year the box was almost empty, and when it finally finally was my turn I didn't have to contemplate at all. I knew what I wanted. I'm not too sure now that so many years have passed but I think I've read it within a few days. I cried when Jeanne d'Arc was sentenced to death and I made place in my tiny heart for the girl who gave everything for what she believed in. In eigth grade we had to choose a région of France for a presentation we had to do in French class. I chose Centre-Val de Loire - capital of that région is Orléans.

When we went to France last October, we stopped in Reims to see the Cathédrale Notre-Dame de Reims. We had been in the bus for at least 12 hours at that point, all of us tired and grumpy. The second I stepped into Notre-Dame de Reims, my mind was still. The windows at the other side of the nave were beautiful and while I tried getting a good picture of them I got closer and closer to them. Right beneath the window was a statue of Jeanne d'Arc. One of the heros of my childhood. The girl who fought. In my mind, I started a conversation with her. I told her about how she inspired me, about how she fascinated me ever since I was a tiny six- or seven-year-old. I stood there long enough for the others to catch up and then a bit.

We visited Cathédrale Notre Dame de Paris too. Again, I was in awe - the stained glass windows, the atmosphere, the weight of history on every stone, every arch ... we wandered around, looked at the statues, at the ornaments, at a kind of beauty that was older than we could imagine. When we got to Jeanne d'Arc, I couldn't go another step. In my head, I thanked her for everything she'd meant to me. I lit a candle for her and stood infront of the statue long enough to get parted from the group. I was lost for a few minutes but eventually found the others again. In my thoughts, I was still talking to Jeanne.