I had been to Philadelphia a number of times for a number of reasons. I volunteer at a museum and have seen such documents as the Declaration of Independence, the Constitution, and other documents at the National Archives on more than one occasion, and, along with old documents I see regularly at the museum, because of an involvement with transcribing documents for the State of Rhode Island I have seen that state’s copies of both founding documents and the original Royal Charter that established the colony.

A number of the people with me at the reunion I was there for, most who had not been to Philadelphia before, had decided to take a Hop-On/Hop-Off bus tour to see all the historical places while others went on a directed walking tour led by one of the attendees who was very familiar with the city. Rather than go to Independence Hall while whizzing pass many unnoticeable sites on top of an open-top tour bus, or see only those things the voluntary guide was familiar with because he had been told things or had discovered some things on his own, and so, as well-intentioned as he might have been, the tour seemed too controlled so as to be unable to explore and learn according to your own interest but had to be exposed to group things in groups, I chose to walk and see what I would see along the way.

When I arrived and saw the line to get into Independence Hall and, having seen it before with less of a crowd, knowing that I could also watch that Nicholas Gage movie, I walked over to the Museum of the Constitution using my Whaling Museum volunteer ID card to get in free.

I have to be honest. While most of what was on display was new to those viewing them, I walk by a musket from the Revolutionary War anytime I go to the restroom at the Whaling Museum, so to deal with crowds to look at something I could see elsewhere did not attract my interest. The only difference between the New Bedford Musket and the one in Philadelphia is location. 

After viewing the piece of the 
“rude bridge that arched the flood,
    Their flag to April’s breeze unfurled,
Here once the embattled farmers stood,
    And fired the shot heard round the world” 

which may have been a reason for some to stick with the amoeba of tourists flowing by, but having stood on the bridge decades ago, I decided to just walk around the city and see what history I might stumble across.

Among many things, along with Ben Franklin’s printshop and post office, I came upon the marble manhole cover with the engraving noting it covered the privy pit behind the printshop, and wherein lie links to Ben Franklin and his diet.

I walked pass little side street buildings of historic architecture but not on the tourist maps, alleys that looked like sets to some period piece film, exclusive clubs housed in little 18th Century homes, spoke with anyone who spoke to me. and would offer humorous comments to total strangers if I found us both most likely thinking the same thing as we watch the same scene.

I eventually arrived at the point where I had to address two calls, that of nature and that of my thirst.

The previous evening, when looking for something out of the ordinary, one attendee had googled for bars in the area, and one had caught his attention as its name referenced Frank Sinatra and it was described as a bar with art on its walls. As I turned a corner because, judging by the position of the sun, that would most likely lead me back close to my hotel or at least the street it was on, I found myself at that bar’s door and went inside.

It was a small, neighborhood bar. Nothing pretentious about it. There was some beautiful artwork gracing its walls, but the establishment’s ambience kept things in balance so that even if a piece was an original Picasso, it was in a room with a bar in the middle and homemade paper snowflakes from some previous Christmas that one has to assume remain there for some greater reason than laziness drooping from o the ends of strings falling from the ceiling..

I took the stool at one corner of the bar with a number of empty places between myself and the group of people at the other corner both sitting and standing. As people came in those already inside greeted them like Norm just walked into Cheers, and there were various forms of good-byes as people left.

I had apparently stumbled into a corner, neighborhood bar.

I was slowly sipping my Guinness and reviewing the pictures I had taken on my phone when one of the people on the other corner who had been monopolizing the conversation in a somewhat pontificating way backed up an assertion by claiming that he knew what he was talking about because, “I am the oldest person at this corner of the bar.”

I turned toward that corner of the bar, called for his attention and said, “I want to compliment you on your discretion in referencing age,” and returned to my phone which had one of that group approach me, put out his hand to shake mine, thanking me for finally being someone who could put Allen down a peg as he needed it. I was welcomed as the mysterious stranger who appeared out of nowhere, walked in at the right time, said the right thing, and then, just short of being the Lone Ranger riding out of town, l removed myself to a quiet corner of the bar, and as this was intoned by a rather large, festively attired Drag Queen, it became instantly obvious that this was not only a neighborhood Gay bar, but one at which local Gay artists gather. I was welcomed into the group and when they found I was a cartoonist in search of an apartment because of gentrification, they let me know as the Gay artist community they were there to help if I wanted to move to Philadelphia.

I finished my beer, thanked them all for their hospitality and after I walked a few blocks further along, I found myself at a celebration of Coming Out Day in an alley lined on each side with some of the bars from back when Gay bars were in hidden places that are no longer hidden and conversing with total strangers, laughing and joking, like old friends.

I moved on to one bar that looked like it might have some sort of cover charge or exclusive membership. I was not dressed for dancing but rather for schlepping around town not afraid to sweat, and, although I do not normally wear them but did that day because they were comfortable and I had gotten them somewhere on sale for less than $10, I sported a pair of black Crocs and, for sweat, a pair of white athletic socks. The pants were long not short, so my appearance was not that offensive. I asked the bouncer if there was anything keeping me from entering like a cover charge or an exclusive, closed event, and he asked if I knew of anything that would impede my entrance. I pointed to my feet and I confessed I was wearing the offending footwear.  In spite of my being an elder Gay man dressed like my feet had retired to Florida, the bouncer made a fashion exception and let me in.

This bar, friendly like the other bars along the alley, was a respite from the crush in the alley so the conversations were fun, loud, and inclusive of whoever walked in.

Having made my way through the alley and onto the he street to the streety, I turned at the end of the alley and continued walking toward the thumping that hinted there was a dance bar somewhere ahead with its doors open to the warm temps.

One block up and a street over there was another celebration of Coming Out, this time, rather than an alley, it was a street party with the music loud and the crowd huge.

In the alley and now on the street, it was obvious that there were few older people in the alley itself or in the fenced off dance floor. Those were more readily found inside the bars in small groups or alone like me, filtering through a crowd of strangers. I spoke with a few people after finding some excuse to start a conversation, and the older Gay men and women I spoke with were freely socializing as they chose to, knowing those outside were dancing in the alley and street because they could while in our day our dancing was often a form of politics as we showed what we could do whether allowed to or not.

The general attitude as we looked out on our “legacy” was that we had fought for this, so now we could sit inside retired yet communal seeing that the younger people had moved to the next step.

I eventually had to move on and get back to the hotel to meet up with all my fellow tourists for dinner.

As a stranger in a strange city, as has happened so many times in the past, perhaps because of Gaydar, I once again found community in a strange city, and I wanted to share this side of my life with those at the reunion for whom my being Gay was mostly known for equal rights activism and perhaps sexual assumptions while it needed to be seen that no matter how bad things got, and they did once or twice, it could be offset by the community of total stranger/family on a street wide and street long dance floor even at my age.

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