An Homage

by Isaiah Thompson

In a wild, half-baked move not long ago, I joined a gym for the first time in my life, a funny little no-frills South Philly place. No in-house massage parlor here. It was a local place for local folk, with little in the way of decorum. Regularly, an overweight guy held forth by the elliptical machines, like South Philly's own Socrates, on why Barack Obama is a communist. Best of all was the yoga. Because yoga, in this funny South Philly gym, was taught by these funny South Philly characters, among them Domenic, a pleasant, slightly spaced-out, middle-aged dude with a comfortingly non-chiseled body and that Philly accent that doesn't let an "o" go untortured. One night we were sitting there. Domenic had turned off the lights, and was leading the group while touting the melodic virtues of his favorite yoga CD of synthesized pipes and swishing trees: "Breathe in, breathe out. Feel your — HEY! IF YOU OPEN THAT FUCKING DOOR ONE MORE FUCKING TIME, I'M GONNA COME OUT THERE!"

Someone, apparently, had opened the door to peer through. It clicked shut. "I'm sorry," Domenic continued, sheepishly. "I hope I didn't I didn't break your meditation." But I was meditating on something else now: how much I loved this great, insane city and all the great, insane people who call it home. I suppose there are other Domenics teaching other improbable yoga classes in other bare-bones gyms in other gritty cities, but there was something decidedly Philly about this one.

It's been a year and a half since I moved here. My first impression of Philadelphians, as I told my boss back then, was that, "They never shut up. They walk around with their mouths just hanging open." A year and a half later, I find the city more bizarre — but begrudgingly endearing — every day. So, as 2009 winds down, as the mayor, the unions and City Council sharpen their knives, as Harrisburg politicians lay plans for another year of plunder, as the city chugs on, ever teetering between greatness and ruin, an homage to the many great things of Philly: its cheap, decent food; its democratically divey bars; its medieval neighborhoods; the fact that the hot dog man calls me "buddy" every time; the fact that my Fishtown friend hitched a ride to work on a horse and buggy; that I turned a corner on a South Philly street to find a man dressed in full colonial garb, for no apparent reason. And to its strange, rude, wonderful residents who always hold their own. Happy New Year, Philadelphia.