the Urban Archivist

January 10-13, 2008
phila., penna.

I’ve always loved the old, non-standard state abbreviations. Since they were somewhat arbitrary, I remember –though I couldn’t pinpoint it to a year– when the Postal Service mandated the current and horribly bland two letter abbreviations. What with zip codes being the parts that really matter, I don’t understand why they cared anyway.

In any case, the abbreviation Penna for Pennsylvania was always my favorite, precisely because it made no sense. Abbreviating Illinois as Ill, for example, made intuitive sense. But Penna was just silly.

I first became aware of Penna’s power during the consumerist act of shopping, Mandrake. Every Friday night as a young child, my dad and I went grocery shopping for the week. I would often read labels to amuse myself. Many labels, especially those for canned goods, featured the text Reg. Penna. Dept. Agr. which was short for Registered with Pennsylvania Department of Agriculture. Just like the Free Masons and the Post Office, Pennsylvania seemed to exert a disproportionate pull on the world. It must be due to the influence of Ben Franklin –a noted Pennsylvanian, Postmaster, and Free Mason.

I’ve never been to Philadelphia so I jumped at the chance to go. Lodging was mostly taken care of, so all I had to pay was airfare and food. Unfortunately, I didn’t get the chance check out outlying residential Philadelphia nor did I ride the subway. And there were places that I wanted to get to but didn’t get the chance. That’s OK; I feel like I will definitely be back here. I like this town thus far.

Most unfortunately, though, I have had exactly two songs stuck in my head the whole time here. The first is the theme to Fresh Prince of Bel-Air and the second is Boys To Men’s Motownphilly. A little more fortunately on the pop culture front, I keep thinking about Trading Places, the finest Eddie Murphy movie this side of Coming to America and a most excellent Eddie Murphy, Dan Akroyd, and Jamie Lee Curtis vehicle. I had to fight back urges to corner the frozen concentrated orange juice market.

Kate was the first to notice that there weren’t any walk signals. We later found a few at the really wide intersections. However, most of the streets around Center City are very narrow and few of them have walk signals. People wait on a red when there are cars and walk on a green. They also cross against a red when it is safe to do so. No cop hassles any pedestrian, as they like to do in various Seattle neighborhoods. Seattle could use more of a Phila. Penna. sensibility.

It seems that any city that really wants to promote walking –as the signs around Philadelphia seems to indicate– would give pedestrians the benefit of the doubt. Pedestrians can fend for themselves; they don’t need to be herded by cops who only walk infrequently, and only as part of their jobs at that. I imagine that drivers on the East Coast may just fear pedestrians, actually. A driver would hit a pedestrian only to have him/her stand up, pick up their detached limb, chase the driver down, and start beating on him/her with the dismembered appendage. The driver would then offer to take the injured pedestrian to the hospital just to stop the beating.

Aside from the oppressive weight of national history, much of the city center is like an architectural museum. The row houses, tall skinny buildings squeezed together, are positively charming. Along several blocks, they are commercial buildings with top chain retailers squeezed into relatively narrow storefronts. It’s a very refreshing sight, actually. At times, the upper floors are part of the store; at other times they are small offices or even residences. This is mixed use as it should be. It seems to be a great partnership of historic preservation and contemporary use.

My only complaint here is that the city seems to shit on its waterfronts. (Note that these are only my quick “windshield survey” observations.) At-grade highways hug both the Schuykill and Delaware rivers. Penn’s Landing attempts to make cursory overtones at engaging the waterfront but it seems to be a highly contrived and regulated space. It seems more of a semi-private commercial space than a true public space.

There are certainly plenty of docks and I’d hate to see much of the “working waterfront” go away. There is always a tension when it comes to recreational versus working waterfronts and far too many times non-working waterfront goes the way of private, luxury waterfront development. It’s sad that many cities can’t seem to find a balance of public recreational, private residential, and working commercial uses. On the other hand, a wholesale “publification” as Chicago did in the early 20th century isn’t so bad.

Of course, one thing that would have to happen is that industry would have to stop shitting in the water. The waterfront areas just outside the city are highly industrialized and the landscape, near the airport say, is pretty bleak. I have no doubt that much of the coloration and appearance of the water here is mere siltation and maybe tidal activity (as well as the time of year, perhaps) but I also have no doubt that it is polluted as well.

Regardless, I never felt connected to any water here in any local sense. I mean, I felt that, yes, I was on the East Coast and the Atlantic Seaboard –I love that phrase. However, the only connection to water that I felt was regional.

Next time that I am out here, though, I will have to test these biases and very preliminary observations. I’ll definitely ride the subway and I will check out areas beyond the city. After all, the Chesapeake and the ocean are nearby. I will also have to check out the universities and the neighborhoods. From the air, it looked as if the city had densely-packed residential areas. They were packed even closer than Chicago’s narrow lots, which is something I figure is about right for the East Coast.

I’ll definitely be back, though. I don’t know what it is but something about this place struck me quite unexpectedly. I really like this town. Maybe it is because, after having been in Chicago a week earlier, I felt I was once again in a big city. For an appreciable amount of time, I really didn’t want to go back to Seattle with its lack of meaningful transit choices, laughably paltry regional commuter rail, and stultifying insistence on consensus.

Of course, I don’t care much for Philadelphia’s very East Coast use of horns and surliness of some customer service staff. On the other hand, at brunch on Sunday we saw a fabulously Hot Chick wearing a thin and flimsy fuschia dress, wild hair that had Angela Davis aspirations, and facial hair that results from an irregular and less than meticulous shaving schedule. It was empowering to see that one can “make it work”, to quote Tim Gunn, quite well regardless of facial primping. That’s a kind of East Coast in-your-facedness that I can get behind.

[ jump to photographs ]

…still life at 11:L4 pm

october 6-8, 2007
astoria, oregon

There was a sign in the B&B warning us that we were in a remote area of the coast. I’ve never thought this area to be particularly remote seeing that there are several routes in and out and that touristy Seaside is just down the road. Still, apparently storms occasionally knock out power to the town, leaving residents to make do with alternate sources of power and light. Charmingly, the Rosebriar provided our room with a plain cardboard box. Inside was a candle, matches, and a flashlight.

There was a nice stillness inside the Rosebriar’s lobby. We sat in the part that was a living room. By living room, I mean an old-fashioned sitting room, or parlor, with armchairs and couches arranged around a coffee table. Often, as is the case at the Rosebriar, a fireplace, rather than a television, serves as a focal point, though not too much of one. The fire is mainly there to keep people warm while they engage in the primary activity of convivial conversation.

It was a wonderfully overcast day and the afternoon was giving way to evening. The drizzle outside made the stillness inside comfortable, relaxing, and contemplative. The coffee table had an open bottle of wine for guests. There were no others around and the counter was closed. Kate and I sat in the quietness and sipped wine as we pondered dinner options, both restaurant and clothing. We had come back just so that we could change from our day clothes to our evening, dinner clothes. This is how uppity life on the coast should be.

Astoria is thankfully further from the larger-city bustle of Portland thanks to the two lane highway in between. Two-lanes have more of a tendency to follow the terrain and work with or around it, whereas the larger four-lane, divided highways are more likely to flatten terrain to get where they are going. (They are still better than Interstates.) Two-lanes, then, make a more scenic route more intimately engage with the landscape. They pass through towns rather than skirting around them. They take their time. As a result, they make the drive longer and, thus, make distances seem further.

After passing in the blink of an eye through small towns, US 30 enters Astoria. Here, it properly bifurcates into two, one-way streets. This is the proper way highways should pass through larger small towns. It creates two main drags and potentially doubles the linear footage of the business district.

Astoria simultaneously feels properly coastal as well as touristy, with public accesses here and there peeking through remaining bits of working waterfront. The remnants of a waterfront railroad trestle form the basis of a new pedestrian walk along the river. One is just as likely to find restaurants and boutique-like shops on the water as one is to find warehouses. Piles from old, removed piers poke above the water line at low tide. Downtown lies just off the waterfront. Antique shops –a mainstay of touristy locales– can be found scattered among local sports bars. Residences climb up the hill behind downtown onto the bluffs.

This layout, with impressive Victorian homes leading up the bluff, speaks of a certain historicity that is absent in much of the Northwest. It harkens back to the Old Money East. In fact, Oregon’s oldest city itself is named for millionaire John Jacob Astor, whose Pacific Fur Company set up a trading post in what was to become Astoria. The city became an important port and economic hub. Eventually, the seat of Clatsop County government sat in Astoria.

Downtown, though somewhat run down, shows plenty of evidence of Astoria’s heyday. Some of the old buildings are taller and grander than what one would expect of a town of just under 10,000 residents. But when you are named after one of the country’s original millionaires, and living off his bankrolled ventures, you can afford to dream big. Nothing lasts, though, and eventually the declining or relocating fur, timber, and seafood industries left the town a sleepier place. Today, bed & breakfasts capitalize on all that sleep while antique shops sell off the surplus of finely-aged junk that mysteriously gravitates toward this neutron star of history. The result is a dense cluster of history –of the non-indigenous, white person type, that is– surrounded by a relatively young space.

I’ve heard tell that Astoria has a budding arts scene. Seeing all the little galleries and such downtown confirms this claim. Is it the location, the history, or the natural beauty that inspires artists? I think it’s the weather. It is perfect for the introspection, and even downright depression, that produces some of the most compelling art. The isolation probably helps, too.

It was October; it rained the whole weekend, as it should have. I’ve only ever been to Astoria when it was cloudy. Even last year on my visit to Seaside, where it was sunny, the day had clouded over by the time we drove into Astoria. This is probably as it should be. To an outsider like me, Astoria’s mystique and charm is partially dependent on clouds. I can’t imagine the cognitive dissonance I’ll feel if I ever go there during the sunny month. It’s certainly a romanticization on my part; however, coastal Oregon is naturally misty, overcast, and wet. I like the rainy overcast weather. I think I have the opposite of SAD.

Unfortunately, there are some downsides to this idyllic, romanticized, and somewhat isolated coastal living. Like anywhere else, Astoria wrestles with its share of issues when the tourists go home. The debate over an LPG terminal on the Columbia has been raging for a while now. While walking downhill toward downtown, we saw a flier publicizing a community meeting concerning condo development. Although Astoria’s downtown is gorgeous, it seems a bit small for the population. There is not much going on after dark, except for the bars. At the coffee shop, the barista told us of the high incidence of alcoholism and drug abuse. After three years, she was moving back up to Seattle.

Culturally speaking, I knew that I was safer letting my “freak flag” fly here than, say, in Golconda, Illinois. But still. While walking around, I noticed a few hicks looking somewhat incredulously at my outfit out of their car window. My somewhat goth-inspired look of black, lace-up knee boots, black-and-white stripey tights, a black skirt with pink piping, and an olive green Ike jacket might have passed with less of a blink in Portland, for example, so I was little more self-conscious about it in Astoria. It’s odd: sometimes when travelling and away in smaller locales, I’m more likely to tone down some of my smashing, extra-ordinary looks. Sometimes, I don’t cross any gender lines at all; it’s an issue of (perceived) personal safety. Other times, like this one, I apparently throw caution to the wind, despite self-consciousness of the counterproductive variety and with more than a little internal mental debate.

Perhaps I’m too sensitive at times. This is Astoria, for fuck’s sake, and these parts of the Pacific Northwest, unlike the Inland Northwest, are mixed bags of strange animals. The very idiosyncratic sense of individualism here can lead to strange forms of tolerance. I’ll take mere tolerance over outright mockery or threats any day of the week.

On the other hand, if there was ever a town more lubed up for heavy investment by The Gay Dollar, this one is perfect. In fact, it may have already begun! There was a gregarious gay couple at one of the downtown galleries who sounded like they lived here, at least for part of the year. What with the nice restaurants and places to sample nice wines, for example, Astoria has potential to be a regional, get-away mecca of fine taste, style, class. Coldwater Creek Cannon Beach and simultaneously family-friendly and promiscuous Seaside are both far too heteronormative. Additionally, all its natural beauty, with its outdoorsy opportunities, is a nice butchy counterbalance to it’s potentially foppish polish. Astoria could be the quintessential, idyllic, reasonably quiet, “on the coast” vacation spot.

Until such a glorious day dawns and even hopefully ever after, Astoria remains, for better and sometimes less better, further away and more isolated than it appears on a map.

My thanks to colleague and native Astorian, Shannon Lynch, for sanity-checking this post.

—[ jump to photographs ]—