waiting:day 2

On our last day before the surgery, we endeavored to see a bit of the city before I would be confined to my four white walls and various Apple media devices. We started the day with yogurt (which I hate)  then said our goodbyes to the wonderful Ellyn, our host mother who had been so kind to us, and jetted off in our rented Ford fiesta to find new adventures. Our first stop was Target, the world's second happiest place on earth, and if you ask me, definitely the world's most dangerous. There's never any telling what that red eye of sauron (I mean savings) might compel you to buy while you're inside and nobody ever leaves with just toilet paper. I buried myself happily in the book section and came out with an armful of winners. The pamphlet on (i kid you not) surviving 5 days of radioactive plaque therapy recommended bringing between 2 and 5 books, noting that more than 5 was optimistic. This gave me the giggles but I kept it to four and we made it out the red doors safely with my books, a rom com, a box of cheez-its, trail mix, kashi, and some almonds. Altogether the equivalent of coming out of mordor with all your limbs attached and a commemorative postcard.

From there we trekked down towards the hotel, managing to go 40 minutes out of our way to a different Hilton garden inn (this on rather far outside of town( which sent us back towards our real hotel via the scenic route through old Philadelphia. Everything was very old here, brownstones had weathered generations upon generations before being boarded up and pasted over with this weeks concert offerings. We passed chicken joints and soul clubs, mini marts and churches. Really churches upon churches upon churches before we decided on a whim to stop at the aptly named "our lady of hope", a beautiful old stone cathedral with towering stained glass and a bone white virgin in the courtyard looking over an equally weather-bleached Christ on the cross sporting a blazing red heart in the center of his chest.

We stopped in on the off chance of finding someone there on mid-Wednesday afternoon and to our surprise, were met by a short Filipino father, his moon face beaming good-will as he welcomed us into his church. We requested a sacrament of the sick and his face lit up, he explained we must be practicing catholics if we knew of such things and ushered us into a small side room stuffed with floral prints before scurrying off to gather what he needed. He returned a moment later with his scriptures and a pill box of holy oil and we bowed our heads in preparation for the sacrament. Through his accent, he had a strong sweet voice through which radiated an earnest hope and goodwill as he called for blessings, intercessions, and healing on my part. Head bowed on that overstuffed flowery love-seat I felt tears in my eyes, tears of shame that I did not live my life open to the fullness of goodwill like the little priest, tears of gratitude that he turned that goodness like a light to illuminate my life and pray on my behalf, a stranger he didn't know. We prayed together and I didn't make any promises. I didn't bargain and I didn't plead. I said the words and felt the centuries-old comfort of speaking to a consciousness outside your own, a way of elevating your wants, and desires, and fears to a faceless power that may or may not answer. The relief that never comes of that answer or answering silence but rather from having laid those burdens at the feet of an alter upon which you judge your faults and achievements. And as he marked me with the sign of the cross on the brow and my palms, I felt at peace. We spent some time in the cathedral's sanctuary then, a huge stone building half fallen into disrepair but none the less beautiful. We stood in the dark, the beautiful grotto of the virgin on one side, tarps down to catch rain from a leaky roof on the other. I thanked the stones and the statues for waiting for me, thanked the invisible presences for listening to me. Then I entered the little chapel, stood in front of the sacrament and thanked god for bringing me to that little priest, for keeping an eye on me even as I Miley-Cyrused my way through life, sticking my tongue out at the world. As we walked back to the car, I was glad we had stopped, I felt the oil on my palms and felt a little less scared.

  We finally arrived and dropping our luggage headed back to the fiesta-mobile to experience some of the city of brotherly love. We stopped first by the Barnes foundation, a private collection of impressionist artwork by the outrageous Dr. Barnes who had dared to get filthy rich and buy up European masterworks. When poo-poo'd by the creme de la societa of Philadelphia as noveau riche and generally gauche, Barnes had thumbed his nose at the lot of them by building a large geometrically confusing building a stone's throw from their classically styled art museum and filling it with an impressionist collection rivaling their hallowed galleries. We had it on good local authority that this was the place to see, so circled its perimeters a time or two trying to find its je ne sais quois entrance. It was all for naught however as the gallery had been rented for a 4 hour long private function. I was willing to give up until I heard that the function was accompanied by an equally 4 hour long open bar at which point I told the attendant very solemnly that I had cancer, was due for operation in less than 12 hours, and it was my last wish to see the dancers of Degas with a dry gin martini with a twist in hand before I left this world.

There must've been some pretty heavy hitters in for the gala because he still said no.

From there we proceeded to the Franklin institution which, for my seattleites, is much akin to the pacific science center but on east coast crack. A large banner outside advertised a visiting gallery of Pompeii artifacts and the institution was known as the countries' largest planetarium so we jay walked across the eighteen billion lanes of traffic in a philly roundabout only to find we had arrived on "community night" during which all interesting exhibits are closed and screaming children pound on the Plexiglas surrounding old space suits and leave germs everywhere.

We made a perfunctory turn of "space command center" before making our exit and heading towards the art museum. The Philadelphia art museum is quite an impressive building in that it looks like a courthouse and has much more valuable things inside that courthouses generally do. We walked through the centuries, discovered depth along with the early renaissance masters, oggled at the few francs a destitute Renoir had sold his painting of a young girl with the most expressive eyes, and found peace in a 14th century Moorish courtyard, where I used my google skills to cross reference zagat reviews and local paper write ups to find us the perfect Italian restaurant for my farewell dinner.

When we left the museum it was pouring down rain. While I had not elected to run up the famous Rocky stairs when arriving I sure cut a speedy figure running back down them museum map over my head as we raced for the car drying to dodge raindrops. When we finally found parking and set out for the restaurant I was better prepared and did the mad block and a half dash with a plastic target bag firmly anchored around my head.

The interior of Osteria, one of Philadelphia's best loved and reviewed Italian restaurants the atmosphere was warm and dry and staffed with the kind of classy people who don't comment on the fact that you look like a half-drowned rat with wet shoes that make squelching noises as you follow them to your beautiful corner table. In spite of the fact that I had left my ID and wallet in the car the dinner turned out to be absolutely fabulous. Our warm knowledgeable server walked us through a menu that was so haute cuisine I had to surreptitiously google under the table a few times and we settled on an antipasto verdure that transcended the world of pickled/roasted/grilled vegetables. Our palates were regaled with a variety of house breads from the crusty to the crunchy all to be enjoyed with salt roasted beets, pancetta grilled brussel sprouts, pickled chickpeas, oil poached cherry tomatoes, garlic roasted cabbage, and chilli pickled fennel topped with an arugula salad and pecorino. Once we had made short work of these we moved on to first a dish of transcendent goat cheese and beet plin in a light tarragon cream sauce, folded from pasta so light and thin as to make phyllo dough blush in shame, and then a rustic potato and sottocennere tartino, a haute cuisine mash of potatoes, truffle cheese, and butter, with a light crust wrapped in a radicchio leaf. We finished dinner with that glazed look of fullness and stupefaction at the sheer scrumptiousness of the plates that had been put before us. We took a stab a dessert but couldn't appreciate our respective confections on so full a stomach and so ended the night with a sprint back to the car which very nearly gave us cause to bring it all back up again.

Once back in the hotel, we had the opportunity to speak to my family over skype and it was truly comforting to see their wonderful faces, say goodnight to my husband and look into his eyes when I said I love him. The next morning came tromping on, ticking minute by minute closer, and we whispered promises of the future, thoughts of better days, memories of days we haven't made yet, and that night, two hours before my own personal little apocalypse I fell asleep, wishing I was holding his hand