City, and sunshine, revisited

Ever since my family moved to Mount Airy, I haven't gone out much. Sure, I go to the woods with the dogs, the co-op for produce, or the hardware store on Ridge Avenue, but other than that I'm perfectly satisfied hunkering down in this bucolic oasis northwest of the city. In fact, other than for work, I can't remember the last time I went downtown.

It hasn't always been that way. Over the last 20 years, I've lived in various parts of South Philadelphia, in the Art Museum area, and in an apartment dangerously close to the Irish Pub. In those years, I learned to love the city - despite the murders, trash, and occasional riots on South Street.

At the time, I found the city exciting and vibrant, with stories at every corner, and I couldn't imagine living anywhere else. And yet now I do, and until I went back downtown recently, I didn't realize what I was missing.

For those of us entering middle age, the migration northwest, south, or east across the bridges to New Jersey is as natural as that of geese heading north for the summer. There comes a time in one's life when parking right outside your door is more important than living within walking distance of 10 different restaurants, and being able to go to bed at 9 at night is more important than staying out until 3 in the morning.

These unfortunate changes and the corresponding move to the suburbs can cause a premature retirement from urban life, in which we stay in our more tranquil enclaves and forget the city is only 15 minutes away.

But on one recent spring morning, I stepped out of my Mount Airy shell, braved the potholes and amateur NASCAR drivers of Lincoln Drive, and went into the city to be reminded of what we left behind.

Off Kelly Drive, people pushed sleeping babies in strollers along the river, while happy dogs jogged beside their sweating masters. Sculls cut through the smooth water, leaving only a trace of a wake behind them.

Tourists ran up the Art Museum steps, raising their hands in triumph when they reached the top. Water shot from the fountain in Logan Circle. People lined up to have their pictures taken in front of the Love sculpture. And City Hall almost looked clean in the morning light.

It occurred to me then that if I were a tourist, Philadelphia would seem as beautiful as Paris, San Francisco, or Madrid, despite what I'd heard about its flash mobs, sports fans, and violence.

Perhaps because of the return of baseball - or the contrast between spring and the harshest winter in recent history - there seemed to be an air of civility across the city. Cabs stopped honking and let people cross Broad Street. Two businessmen talked about how nice it was to take their kids jogging in strollers after work. Instead of chatting on cell phones, strangers seemed to nod at each other in mutual acknowledgment that the city was a good place to be.

New restaurants opened their doors and windows to let in a spring breeze. A man stood on the corner giving out cards reading, "Mean People Suck." Young people wore shorts and muscle shirts showing off their tattoos. A multitude of different races, classes, and styles walked the same blocks, and I was reminded that, in the not-so-distant past, I was one of them.

The beauty of moving away from the city is that, if we get out in time, we can still see it for what it is. It is not just a place where it's difficult to find a parking spot, a tomato that costs less than $4, or a moment of peace when we really need one. It can also be a place filled with energy, optimism, creativity, and kindness, and that is the part of the city I had forgotten since I moved away. Fortunately, it doesn't take much to be reminded that it still exists.