1 September 09: Waymore Blues, or,
After the Storm

Well I woke up this morning, it was drizzlin' rain, around the curve come a passenger train . . . Though I grew up here in the Keystone State, the part I called home for my first 24 years was on the western end. Well, central really, but for Philadelphia's purposes, anything west of King Of Prussia is western Pennsylvania, and my hometown Tyrone is in the larger Pittsburgh-Appalachian media market, so we all grew up rooting on the Steelers and Penguins and Pirates and not caring much for the Eagles and Flyers and Phillies. Western Pennsylvanians, especially those who haven't spent much time there, grow up despising Philadelphia as a corrupt, crime ridden, state draining cesspool that may as well be in New Jersey -- just like Philadelphians grow up thinking everyone in Pennsyltucky is a fiddle playin', bible thumpin' hayseed. (This is a broad brush, obviously.) It wasn't until the summer of 2000 that Philadelphia made sense to me. I'd been here a few times before that, but nothing that would make it seem like a place I'd go for much more than a concert or laser Floyd, let alone actually moving here to live. The summer previous, '99, I rode Greyhound for 30 days, from Shippensburg to Vancouver and LA and all points between. That same winter, amidst the millennium madness, I rode Amtrak for 30 days, from Tyrone to the Everglades, out to San Antone and up to Montréal and back, by way of 30th Street Station, which impressed me as the greatest of all train stations in the US. (I still believe that.) In summer 2000, after college and trying to figure things out, I decided I'd do some more traveling. Memphis, DC, Chicago, California and the places between that Greyhound and drivers willing to pick up a hitcher would go. And for one week, Philadelphia. I've written a number of times about how Summer 2000 changed my perspective. In the course of seven days in Philly, I spent time with my unlicensed tour guide friends Bekka and Susan, Jared and Hethre, Steve and Afee, Angelia and Moira, and especially Mark and Jen, and by extension Derek and Shai and Kristy and Eve and Doug. I'm still friends with them all. I came to Philly to get out of Tyrone for a little bit, and wound up seeing three concerts at the E Centre, riding the ferry to get there . . . we visited the Philadelphia Museum of Art and the Rodin Museum and walked Kelly Drive . . . we went to Atlantic City on a whim, saw the ocean and actually won some money, which at the time I had very little of . . . we had breakfast in Chestnut Hill and hiked in the Wissahickon . . . we drank at Sugar Mom's and on South Street and went to Turkey Tuesday at Silk City . . . we got cheesesteaks at Dalessandro's . . . we blazed one and threw an aerobie on the Parkway, interrupting a Little League game in the process and laughing hysterically about it . . . and we hiked these Center City streets, from the Liberty Bell to Fitler Square, to the top of City Hall, with a respite in Rittenhouse Square and a recharge at Crimson Moon (RIP). In Summer 2000, I was in full travel mode. I'd just finished at Shippensburg, where for the last two years there I wrote a travel column. Philadelphia was one of the many places I'd hit in my travels over the course of 12 traveling months, but it was the one that stuck. I was travelin' when I met her now I'm travelin' again. (Waylon.) In summer 2009, I was in full travel mode. I'd just finished publishing a "farewell to version 2 of Philly Skyline, version 3 will launch when I return". But a funny thing happened on the way to 3.0 . . . I got bit by the bug. (Well several, if you count the fleas from a motel in Nebraska and the mosquitoes from Yellowstone and Washington state.) Not just the travel bug, but the great big Western Bug. Summer 2009 changed my perspective . . . again. I swear to Nutter, I didn't set off on my summer road trip to, as a friend called Inga suggested before I left, find a new place to lay my laptop. But that's kinda sorta really what happened. Maybe traveling is like riding a bike. The love of it comes back so fast when you're out, and though you love your home dearly, finding a new one on the way isn't such a dirty thing. When you're Out West, it's easy to fall under the spell of Out West. The longer I was there, the longer I wanted to stay and see and do and live Out West. So uh . . . I guess it's with a significant pang of sadness that I'm announcing here that the Philly Skyline Version 3.0 I'd long promised is not going to happen. My energy and focus have, unintentionally, shifted. This version of the web site will remain as an archive, and there are still a few loose ends that absolutely must be tied up before I pack my conestoga wagon and hitch up the oxen. Popkin's got something to say about The End, as well. It won't be the everyday we're used to, but there are a few more posts and features to go before I turn out the lights. Welp . . . there it is. It's not you, Philadelphia, it's me. Truly. It is what it is and we'll keep on keepin' on with memories of the good times in our back pockets until we meet again. I'm already looking forward to it. Love, Robert Bradley Maule Proud Philadelphian, 2000-2009. PS: LET'S GO PHILS!