It was hot. 102F Hot. Filing past the fanny packs and their owners, I was in no mood to see anything. My happy place was at a pub in the shade.
I’m not an emotional or spiritual person. But when I turned the corner to finally see “The David” in his gallery I unconsciously said out loud, “Oh shit.” (It turned out to be a very spiritual moment.)
How does one take a picture of something that has been reproduced in society in every pose and position? Well, one doesn’t. With a sea of tourists and their phones turned up, it became a case of “if you can’t beat ’em, join ’em.”
Later that night, catching up with some mates:
“How was your day?”
“If I see one more virgin or set of balls I’m going to go postal.”
An amazing lunch was capped off with a small glass of Limoncello. “Compliments of the owner.” He was sitting two tables away and raised a similar glass of the neon yellow liquor.
Knowing the afternoon heat would bring people to the water I excused myself from the table, “I’m going to check on my swimmers.” Through the lens the omnipotent view delivered.
Amalfi Coast Italy
In 1903 Orville Wright with his brother Wilbur placed a homemade, powered contraption into flight on a bluff in Kittyhawk North Carolina. Their invention, built in a bicycle shop in Ohio, shrunk the world. Orville would die in 1948, at the beginning of the birth of the jet age. Whether or not he was able to see a jet in flight is not important. One thing he never foresaw… the anguish that is a child who needs to go potty while the seatbelt sign is on.
Somewhere between Chicago and San Diego
“Cubs win!” It was by a rather large margin that day. Large enough that by the time it was official the stands had mostly emptied. All that remained were some die hards, security guards and the remnants of a good day spent at Wrigely.
Chicago Illinois. Iphone 6
Reading Market Philedelphia.
As beef sandwiches go, this one was pretty good. Sitting at a counter in a warehouse-turned market, I sat quietly as my friend complained to the owner.
“I don’t know what it is. You get away from Chicago and it’s like Giardinara doesn’t exist. I mean this sandwich is good, don’t get me wrong. But a little Giardinara would take it to a whole new level! I’m telling you, next time I come I’m bringing a jar. You’ll see what I’m talking about.”
He’s Italian so he talks with his hands. Seen from a distance, he’s conducting a symphony with a greasy napkin.
The commotion of the market has been constant. From across the aisle the fish monger occasionally yells to his helper further down the counter. At the butcher a group of firemen shop the meat and place a large order.
In the space an arms length away a man in a dark suit appears where there once was no one. On his lapel is a small American flag. From his ear twirls a pigtail of white wire. Then came the cameras. Still and video all walking backwards in a swarm.
As I wipe my hands with yet another napkin a small man with white hair puts out his hand. I shake it with a head nod, “Mr. Sanders…”