Last weekend I found myself in an improbable position: on a bicycle, in Valley Forge. Biking isn’t really my thing. It was once, when I was far younger, but I’ve always preferred two legs to two wheels. Call me a naturalist.
But, I had signed on to a press trip for a gay weekend in Philadelphia. Group activities are also not something to which I’m inclined and I needed some time away from New York City, with which I was falling out of love.
So, there I was, following a guide named Graham, on a bike and hearing tales of revolutionaries in the then-heartland of the infant United States. Deer peppered the countryside, the cool wind crept into my button down shirt and, for the first time in a woefully long time, I felt young. Yes, I know, I’m only twenty-six year old, but New York City, where I live, had depleted my sense of adventure. This trip, I hoped, would help reignite my youth. Fitting that a bike tour, definitely an enjoyably childish endeavor, had been fit into our breakneck schedule.
I’d arrived to Philadelphia the following morning on Amtrak’s Acela Express, a new experience for a boy accustomed to the far less evolved Metro North line. Or the bus – I am, after all, just a journalist.
My adventure began almost immediately when David Moore, the editor of Open Congress who had been in my train car and now was now behind me in the taxi line. I try to stay familiar with my surroundings, so I definitely noticed Moore’s, but clung to my adopted New Yorker’s sense of self-reliance. Besides, one’s not supposed to talk to strangers. This then-stranger, however, apparently couldn’t help himself and swiftly predicted my destination: the Loews on Market Street, a reformed bank turned into a swanky, modern hotel. It turned out that Moore, who was in town for the Freedom of Information Summit had also been put up in the Loews and we ended up sharing a cab, something I do in New York only in the most dire of circumstances. Still, I knew my ultimate mission and decided to enjoy the ride.
We arrived safe and sound after a pleasant trip. I don’t quite recall what we chatted about, but Moore, who’s got a bit of a baby face, left me with a renewed excitement for my forthcoming whirlwind.
The room at the Loews definitely exceeded my expectations – and, I think, the size of my Brooklyn apartment. I won’t get into the details. The website can do all that, but I’ve included some pictures below of the room. These selected snaps also give you more of a look at my regained youth.
After assembling in the lobby, the press folk were led to Reading Station, one of the nation’s oldest Farmer’s Markets still in operation. We were let free to roam for about an hour and I strolled around the fresh fish, cookie stand and by what appeared to be authentic Quakers performing some sort of folk dance: a welcome change from the often lewd and/or solitary acts I see in the city.
I occupied the rest of the hour with some fried chicken and pleasant conversation with Jeff, who works for the tourism bureau part time and plans to travel to China for the Olympics this summer. He’ll be working for NBC news as a gymnastics expert, which found endless fascinating. Who knew there were gymnastics experts? Not me, a man whose interest in gymnastics is purely superficial.
Unfortunately I had a story to work on, so I spent the rest of the afternoon holed up in my room, calling sources for the gay delegate war story. My Loews phone, which I needed to record the conversations, wouldn’t dial out, so the impressively patient concierge had to connect me me, for which I am eternally grateful. I later went down to thank him in person only to be confronted by a familiar face: Jonathan Vendrick, a former New Yorker with whom I’d protested the Republican National Committee in 2004. We had a mutual friend and had only met once or twice, but I always remembered him fondly and couldn’t believe my luck in finding him once again. It turned out that he’d given up on New York to live wit his boyfriend.
Jonathan absolutely raved about the city, but I kept my objectivity in check during an evening’s stroll through Philadelphia’s Old City, one of the tourism bureau’s group efforts.
Now, I’m kind of a closet sucker for guided tours, so, without getting too much into it, I must recommend you attend the one we walked: the Tippler’s Tour which, blessedly, goes amongst the neighborhood’s pubs with a trickle of history and a gush of booze. The tourism bureau obviously knows the way to a journalist’s heart. We finished up at Triumph, a gay-owned restaurant with notable food, but a remarkable on site brewery.
The rest of that night’s itinerary included Bearapolooza, which, I skipped to play cards with a college chum. I may have been reclaiming my youth, but the day had been long and I wanted to enjoy the accommodations. And, as you saw in the pictures above, I had a managed to reclaim some youthful sprite with a teddy bear, which had been provided by the tourism bureau. It was originally wearing a t-shirt bearing (ha!) the tourism bureau’s gay Philadelphia catch phrase – “Get Your History Straight And Your Nightlife Gay” – but I disrobed him. He’s far too sweet for branding.
[A quote attributed to George Washington, who adored his troops.]
The next morning brought the aforementioned bike ride through Valley Forge. As other journalists bitched and moaned about the physical activity, I made a conscious effort to ignore my burning legs and cranky lungs. What’s more puerile than an old ride on the bike and lessons about American revolutionaries fighting for their independence? Not much.
Well worked and slightly more informed, we headed to the weekend’s main event: the gay rodeo. Words can’t really describe the scene that unfolded at the Devon Fair Grounds, an arena more accustomed to the mint julep scene than the Coors-downing cowboys and drag queens that had descended. Those queens, like the queer cowboys, look a lot like they’ve stepped from another era. Not that they’re not all fabulous, of course. In fact, I found myself endlessly fascinated by the steer riding and crotch squeezing.
Organizers said about 600 people from across the country had come to enjoy a weekend up bull riding and watching. Though there were a few familiar faces from here in New York, I couldn’t help but be struck by the difference between this group and those whom I regularly encounter on my work-related rounds or in the few bars I frequent. It was, in a word, refreshing. Not only because of the novelty of the situation – with which I enjoyed with perhaps a perverse enjoyment of “otherness” – but because of distinctly American cowboy contest. Sure, rodeos actually originated through Spanish cattlemen and their Mexican colleagues, but it soon seeped in America and the accompanying images ingrained themselves in Americana. Like Philadelphia itself, this sport proves essential to the American experience and to see unabashed gays claim it for themselves made me, for lack of a better word, proud. Plus, cowboys are sexy, so the lassoing, bucking and such proved endlessly alluring.
The rest of the day included a tour of the city’s “gayborhood”, which, in a move I find a bit unnecessary, is demarcated by rainbow-streaked street signs. And, as one can imagine, the night involved a lot of drinking, which isn’t that exciting and should involve little explanation. There was, however, another rodeo-related dance, which I attended only briefly and witnessed an enthralling, absolutely kitschy show put on by a group called The Prairie Dogs: gay men who dress in women’s clothes, but not as women, and perform choreographed line dances One of the members happened to be an acquaintance from college, whom I will never be able to see without remembering what he looks like two-stepping in a sleeveless kimono. If that’s not adventure, I don’t know what is!
When I left for Philadelphia, I thought I wanted to move away from New York and, in addition to enjoying the rodeo; I was giving the city a dry run. Could Brotherly love seduce me into its cobble-stoned streets? Yes, it could, but it probably won’t. I realized on during this trip to a strange city with people I would not normally encounter that adventure isn’t about setting, but about a willingness to grab the proverbial bull by the horns.
So, now that I’m back in New York, on a bright Saturday, I’ve made a vow to reemploy my child’s eyes. Sure, one can get bogged down in work – which explains why it has took me a week to pen this recount – but there’s nothing older than being jaded. And all it took for me to realize was a little weekend road trip and a whole lot of zest, which came surprisingly easy once I remembered how to use it. In fact, it’s a lot like riding a bike.
BillieXX
“but there’s nothing older than being jaded.”
Hey. Hey. No need to be insulting.
Philadelphia is okay.
dvlaries
” It was once, when I was far younger, but I’ve always preferred two legs to two wheels. … for the first time in a woefully long time, I felt young. Yes, I know, I’m only twenty-six year old …”
Okay. If 26 is any way an age common to most queerty editors, and -give me a break- they’re feeling any way “old” at that age, then I think I have the clue I’ve sought as to why so many of the morning goods specimens look little older than the ‘kids’ my mate and I might hire to mow our lawn!
hells kitchen guy
I spent a week in Philadelphia one weekend.
Johnny J.
Try playing lacrosse. I’m sure Evans, Finnerty, and Seligmann would love for you to join them. And they can afford Manhattan apartments big enough to play it in now.
M Shane
NYC is where I first discovered that life was worth living, that there were intelligent friendly people who love to talk. And endless, exciting pursuits. Endless beautiful men.
If you think Phily is great , you’re just not digging what you’ve got. Stay there for a while or come to the midwest. & see the cows.
hughman
yeah, you’re 26 honey but you look like you’ve suffered.
kevin
take a friggin basic composition class. Being 26 alone is not enough to make you interesting. zzzzzzz…..
hells kitchen guy
^^^ Oh, come on, this isn’t the worth-written thing I’ve ever read.Close, but not the worst. OK, very close.
The Milkman
There’s something weirdly insulting about a 26 year old feigning a sense of Weltschmerz.
That said, y’all are some harsh bitches.
John Santos
Fucking hell 8^(
This is the second time Andrew has opened up and you’ve jumped down his throat. At least this time you’re not trashing his father.
Andrew, you’re not jaded–your readers are.
Stop acting like little faggots.
kevin
You know I really don’t think decent grammar and sentences that have at least some relation to those that preceded them is really too much to ask. Even on-line publishing should be able to accompish that! If that makes me a “faggot” well……count me queer. I read the article twice, to make sure I was being fair. I still don’t have a clue what the article was about. Rodeo? Bike riding? Teddy bears? Maybe the author has a good meth connection and so the editor is trying to flatter him?
M Shane
Ditto: the impact of authentic experience is a perogative that journalists need to exercise, so that we can know them; it’s terrific that Andrew trusts us to talk about something that is significant to him. I suppose that coming to NYC was at least as important to me as getting away can be to someone who is gets away.
Why be such bitches, don’t we live in a creepy uncivil enough world as it is?
James
I’m willing to bet Andrew is big enough not to take the comments here too seriously.
hisurfer
With all due respect, Andrew, you really do need to get the fuck out of New York for a bit if a trip to Philadelphia is such an adventure, or this eye-opening for you. You didn’t even make it out of your own metro area.
Get out. Travel. It might give you some added perspective that could only help your writing.
At the very least, it should stop you from writing embarassing things about how old and jaded and experienced you are at 26.
kevin
I am not interested in getting to know a journalist. A journalist’s job is to report on events, issues, cultures, politics etc. If he wants to write a memoir that is his “perogative” but call it what it is. I don’t publish my adolescent diary entries and call it “journalism”.
Kid A
Sometimes a firsthand account like this tells more of the story than a dry factual article. To a young, isolated queer kid like I was, this means more than endless articles about some pride parade somewhere that I could never visit. And this is a blog, not the New York Times.
Andrew, I had fun.
Charley
As a gay journalist ask questions like:
“Do bull riders wear athletic plastic cups, or are they all hung like mules with bulges sticking out of their leather chaps ?”
Alexa
Kid A, very good points. This is a blog not the NYT, plus it would have been edited to death there and much of the charm and enthusiasm removed from it. I’ve always found that getting away for a couple of days, even if I’m working, is so helpful – there’s real truth behind the phrase “a change is as good as a rest.”
Tom
Wow! a lot of pent-up frustration and personal animosity expressed agaist Andrew. I would be embarassed to write such insulting comments in public. But it takes all types.
I am glad Andrew opened up and let his hair down, so to speak. And even though I don’t agree with every editorial posted, I am also thankful for this site. So keep it up and especially keep the pictures of the hot guys coming.
steve
good read ab 🙂
hisurfer
We’re gay. ‘Bitchy’ fits us better than ‘patronizing.’ And pretending that a poorly written article about a press junket is inspiring is patronizing.
Mr C
Girls he was in town for the Gay Rodeo in Devon, Bearapalooza concert at The Lowes Hotel, and The Liberty Bears of Philadelphia Annual Bear Run.
She’s a cub!