South Philly

Have you ever been to South Philly? It’s a small patch of land about 8 miles in diameter (I just made that up) with a phenomenal personality that may just charm the pants off of ya. This is where I’ve been residing/mooching  for the past 3 weeks and therefore can now confidently claim to have a semi-familiar relationship with this 8 mile piece of holy land (again, I have no idea if this is true).  

First of all, we have the ITALIAN MARKET which should more appropriately be renamed A-KIND-OF-SKETCHY-STREET-FILLED-WITH-NON-ENGLISH-SPEAKING-FRIENDS-THAT’S-A-LITTLE-UNHYGENIC-BUT-MOSTLY-PLEASURABLE.  This is known across Philly as the cheapest place you can buy produce. I’m talkin $1 dollar for 2 avocados  kind of cheap which I try not to question.  Then we have the famous Philly cheese steak zone on 9^th and Passyunk (pronounced Pash-yunc) where two competing restaurants literally stand face-to-face a block across from each other vying for your money and lifetime loyalty. I personally prefer another beef/liquid cheese sandwich distributor in north Philly but don’t tell Vinny, I hear he is associated with a handful of mysterious sauerkraut poisonings.  

But what most people think of when the word “south philly” comes up in conversation is the large population of American-Italians whose families have been here since the beginning of this city’s origin. Upon first glance, they just look like regular 60-70 year-old men simply standing on the corner of the block, enjoying each other’s company.  But if you actually begin to pay attention to them you notice some very unique characteristics that confirm their placement within this demographic. First we have the New Jersey accent. I have NO idea why it’s new Jersey-ish instead of an Italian accent. “Johhhnny! Where ya been? We’ve been lookin all over for yas.” Then you notice the dress: leather jackets, slightly unbottoned faux silk button-ups, slicked back white hair and white sneakers. I have no idea why they’re not at work or at home but everyday they show up in little coffee houses and sit around with each others (sorry, I couldn’t help myself) and do one of two things  1) remain in silence, occasionally sipping their black coffee 2) Holler at their friend driving by whom then stops in the middle of the road and with window rolled down they converse in their very un-italian accents while traffic annoyingly honks away. After a few awkward transactions with my new favorite group of people I realized that if they refer to you as “Honey”, “Sweets”, “Girl”, or “Gypsy” (my personal favorite) there is a 92% chance their intentions are truly platonic and actually mean to flatter you.  So now, when my next door neighbor calls me Gypsy and then tells me how he has slashed the tires of those whom dare to park in his handicapped spot that took him ten years to get and then immediately transitions into a spiel about providing anything I could ever need (tools, sugar, a helping hand) I genuinely smile at his hospitable heart and yell “Nevaaaa!” after he accuses me of having a horn under my ponytail.

These are the small things that give Philly it’s ever appealing charm.

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