Americana trips my trigger.  From Mount Rushmore to the Grand Canyon, I love touristy crap.  I will go miles out of my way to see the world’s largest ball of twine.  Road trips are not road trips unless you get hopelessly sidetracked.   That’s why I was so excited to visit Philadelphia – a town rich in East Coast swagger and all things red, white and blue.

Philly, along with New Orleans, is the last big American city I have yet to visit.  One problem … I have an aversion going to major metropolitan areas unless I have a local tour guide to show me the ropes.  1) because I hate to get lost and 2) I hate to miss out on local flavor.

Fortunately, my old roommate Mike is a native of Philadelphia.  We’ve been talking about coming here to his old stomping grounds for over two years – and we finally picked an amicable weekend.  I was borderline giddy getting off the plane.  Since I travel for work, it’s a rarity when I can investigate a new city.

I had the entire day mapped out.  At the top of the list was the Liberty Bell.   Such a no-brainer.   The Bell is located in the middle of Independence Mall … a place that has stayed virtually untouched since the late 1700’s.  Oh sure, it got spruced up in 1976 at the height of bicentennial fever, but that was 35+ years ago.  I knew we were getting close to the Bell when I spotted EuroTrash running amuck and Asian tourists taking pictures of every cobblestone on every street corner.  Surly park rangers stood by bored as people shuffled by … and some, like me, who stopped to take my picture.  In my mind, if I don’t have a photo that documents me being there – it simply did not happen.

“Mike, hurry up and take my picture,” I pleaded.  “Quick — before that Japanese guy sets up his tripod and tries to get the entire cast of ‘Miss Saigon’ in his shot.”  Mike doesn’t like to be rushed in any way, shape or form.  He marches to the beat of his own drum and God help the person who tries to hurry him along.  Eventually, he clicked a picture that was to my liking.  I immediately turned and said, “Okay, now let’s go get a cheesesteak.”

These were words Mike understood.

Pat’s World Famous Cheesesteaks and the Liberty Bell are MILES apart.  Such a pity too.  It would have been nice to have a picture of me EATING a cheesesteak in FRONT of the bell.  Alas … no.  So we immediately started hoofing it.  42 minutes later I was ready to find some Cheese Whiz and just eat my shoe.  But then, like a mirage in the desert, I saw Pat’s (and across the street, its rival Geno’s).  I followed Mike’s lead and ordered the same thing he did.   It was bliss.  I attacked the sandwich like a python.  I unhinged my jaw and swallowed it whole.  Mike was quick to point out that in my haste, I spilled grease all the way down the front of my shirt.  (Note the picture.)  I didn’t care.  I was in greasy carb heaven.  I guzzled down two root beers to wash it down.

I needed the fuel to recharge my batteries.  Next up on the hit parade was to run up the steps of the Art Museum – a’ la Rocky Balboa.  Well, maybe not run.  My belly was extremely full.  I think a leisure stroll was more the ticket.  More on that in my next blog.

It’s been a weird couple weeks in the airline industry.  On one hand, you’ve got flight attendants hurling themselves down evacuation slides.  And, on another, you’ve got a stewardess who snatched a baby away from her abusive mother at 20,000 feet in the air.

I very rarely pay attention to my flight attendants … sad, but true.  Unless they’re really, ridiculously good-looking … or really, ridiculously obnoxious, they are nary a blip on my radar.  Airplanes are the only chance I ever get to read, it seems.  I grab a trashy novel or something similar and block out all other stimuli.   Yesterday, I read “Chelsea Chelsea Bang Bang” on my way to Philly.  I feel sorry for the person seated next to me as I constantly snorted at Chelsea Handler’s musings.   I fell asleep twice on the flight and managed to drool on my book.  (No one panic … it was hardcover.)  The only reason I woke up was when I was beaned with a bag of pretzels.

Knock wood … I’ve never been in a crisis situation on an airplane.  I’ve never had a flight attendant bellow “ASSUME CRASH POSITIONS!”  And the only time I’ve been slightly annoyed with my in-air purser is when I was denied peanuts.  Seems someone on the flight had a severe peanut allergy.  I politely offered to shove that passenger off the plane, but the flight attendant declined.

“May I eat the peanuts in the bathroom with the door closed?” I asked.

“No,” said the flight attendant.  She vaguely resembled my third grade teacher, Miss Svoboda.  I think Miss Svoboda was a man, but the “Miss” part always threw me off.

“What if I don’t open the bag of peanuts?  What if I eat the whole thing … foil wrapper included.”  (Would a clever ruse work?)

“Again, no,” she responded.

“What if I open a bag of peanuts that I brought from another plane and wolf them down in front of you?”  (I was raising the stakes and upping the ante at the same time.)

“Sir, you don’t have another bag of peanuts.  Otherwise you wouldn’t be asking me for some,” she scolded.  Stupid flight attendants and their stupid rationale.  She had called my bluff.

Yesterday during a brief pee-break, I asked the flight attendant if I could have a few more bags of peanuts to scarf on.  She handed me FIVE bags … and she winked.  Obviously we were on the same page.

I wanted to lament my tale of woe about Miss Svoboda to her, but she was busy mixing herself a Cape Cod.

Attagirl!