This trip to Pennsylvania came at a good time. The hotel's full of Argentinians, my cat's driving me up the wall, and I've just had a successful third date with a new interest. It was time to get out of the city for a week. I've long since accepted that the love of my life is Chicago and the man in my life is my cat Gucci, and there's nothing like travel to make your love seem shiny and new. If it seems like I've been closed mouthed rather than clothes mouthed lately it's because I'm in the process of courtship, and if I've learned anything in the last few years its that there are two things that will jinx any relationship early on:
1. Blogging about it
2. Telling my mother
So, I've been very hush hush on the internet about this. I can be very superstitious about dating. Never knit a sweater for the boyfriend, never talk about it before the third date, never order spaghetti until you have a ring on your finger or you're on a date with a cocker spaniel.
Planning a trip and taking time off is the easy part for me, it's packing for Pennsylvania that's the difficult part. Should I bring the gun or cannoli? The emu boa scarf or paisley muffler? Can I get away with a watch fob? Is a fuchsia velvet smoking jacket too much?
Here is my
Compressed guide to packing for Pennsylvania (2012 edition):
1. Go to the nearest salvation army and ask for the jeans that Jerry Seinfeld was wearing in 1994, wear these every day
2. Anything from L.L. Bean
3. Is there something like a dragon or skull embroidered on it?
4. Did you remember your coach wristlet and Ugg boots?
5. Sweatpants, sweatpants, sweatpants!
6. Sweatshirts
7. Remember those tee shirts with Mickey mouse on them?
8. Do you still have the Family Values 2008 hoodie?
9. Tracksuits!
10. Maybe your nana has a fanny pack you can borrow? Python embossed leather?
11. gray, dark gray, slate gray, stone gray, pebble gray, expired beef gray
12. You know that Eagles shirt with holes in it that you've been using as a washcloth for a decade?
13. XXXL
14. frozen shrimp gray, shades of gray, gray gardens, raincloud gray, Alex Trebek gray
So, clearly, nothing in my closet is suitable. Pennsylvania is very much about blending it, there is prolific camouflage to prove this. I, well, I am not exactly a wallflower. Why do you think I moved to the city? I had to go somewhere that a floral Etro three piece suit wouldn't get me lynched. I traveled to Chicago, where anything goes (except Packers fans). It is with some trepidation that I return, but if I could make it 17 years here what's another week with some sideward glances from the local village folk. I packed light, bribed my friend to watch Gucci, and grabbed an early cab to O'hare.
It was about six in the morning so I was running on auto pilot; in the security line I was following behind the guy in front of me up to the TSA desk.
"Excuse me," the TSA lady said, "Are you with this man," she said indicating the business man in front of me.
"I don't know, is he cute?" I asked, he turned around curtly. He looked vaguely like Hugh Laurie if Hugh Laurie got thrashed with rosebushes and sand for about twenty years. "Yeah, I'm not with him."
"Stand behind the line then sir."
"Ooh, yes maim!"
When it was finally my turn she grabbed the drivers license out of my hand and said,
"Happy Birthday, your license is expired."
"Well, that's the worst birthday greeting I've ever heard." And there came the look, the Connecticut glare I'll call it (this nomenclature comes from the WASPish tendency to express emotion with light variances of the facial muscles). These TSA people are like the queen's guard, they're trained to not show emotion, and have characteristically lackluster hair. This would be the first of many of this look. My usual chauffeur (my mother) met me at the Philadelphia airport and decided to promptly renew my license so as not to hinder any drinking while I was here.
Now a trip to the Bucks County DMV, also known as the cramped constipated anus of the slowest moving snail on the planet, requires three things: two forms of ID and one double grande nonfat dirty chai with no water. One of the wonderful things about the suburbs is that you never have to get out of your car for anything. There is so much useless space here that everything can be converted to a drive thru. The downfall of this is that you must order everything from a scratchy amplified speaker box with graffiti on it. We pulled up to the drive through Starbucks and my mother shot me a look.
"Just order it! C'mon, say it, I'm serious," I said to her. My mother looked agitated.
"Hi, can I have a double grande nonfat dirty chai with no water and a medium pumpkin latte." She looked back at me an shrugged. The machine crackled for a second. We were unsure if the voice at the other end registered the order.
"shhhhhh...I got the pumpkin..shhh..latte..shh..but can you repeat that other one...shhhhhhhh." I hopped up and tried to lean over to order it myself but my mother pushed me back. She swatted me back.
"Two pumpkin lattes," My mother said and drove through before I could correct him. She regarded me, "You're not in Chicago anymore!"
I got the look again when I asked the woman at the DMV if she could photoshop out the stray hair and if she could facebook it to me. I mean how was I supposed to know they don't do that there. The people in there looked at me like I was the fool. I mean I know how to behave in restaurants, I know how to behave in job interviews, I know how to address important people, how was I to know there was an etiquette guide to the DMV, and that somewhere in that guide is: don't tell the woman next to you her weave is crooked.
People who come here from Chicago encounter several differences in culture. For example, in the midwest you can walk into a 7-11 and pick up a bottle of wine for dinner. In Pennsylvania you have to take two busses, a cab and a camel to get to some state-run liquor store that closes in time for the clerk to get home to prime time TV. And sometimes you'll get a beer depot that can't sell wine and spirits because the alcohol content is just TOO high. The only place that you can buy any alcohol is at these sparsely located stores, and god help you if you ask for green chartreuse. I settled for a bottle of St. Germaine and a fifth of Ketel 1. I made up a special Pennsylvania cocktail that I like to call a
Lemon Drop-off-the-face-of-the-earth
2 oz. Vodka
1 oz. St. Germaine
zest and juice of half a lemon
shaken and served up
drink until you're back in Chicago
(to be continued...)
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