I’m in Philly. On holiday. That’s right, people. I am on vacation, at home.

My parents moved to Virginia two days after my high school graduation. Count ‘em: one, two, STOP! Just two. And it sucked royally. The summer of ‘01 (yes, I did just reveal my age) was the worst. A new state–a southern hick state, at that–right after my high school graduation, for an entire summer… can you spell h-e-double hockey sticks? Virginia is a nice state, but it’s not “me”. There are places in this world that we appreciate and in which we find great beauty, but to which we simply do not belong. That is what Virginia is to me. I have lived here for 5 years, but I have never called it home.

By contrast, every time I go to Philly–a place that has not been mine for 61 months– I talk about going “home”. Sarah, one of my best friends, says, “Erin, when are you coming home next?” Because Philly is my US home. I was born in Philly, I grew up in Philly, I adolesced in Philly, I fell in love for the first time in Philly, I had sex for the first time in… no, scratch that. But still; you get the picture. Philly is where my American heart lies.

So it is with great pleasure that I pre-write and pre-publish this blog entry. Because when you read this, I will be in Philly. I may be in bed still, or I may be eating a soft pretzel that I bought from a street vendor (extra mustard, please!), or I may be at a favorite restaurant, or I may be playing in the park, or I may just be doing illegal things. But whatever I’m doing, I’m happy. Because in Philly, I can relive my childhood.

I can visit my childhood home where I scraped my knees, learned to ride a bike, made angels in the snow, and trudged up the hill to school. I can visit my church, where I learned a little bit about my heart, a lot about life, and made some wonderful friends. I can visit my elementary, middle, and high schools, where I made friends, lost friends, crushed on about a million boys, and did my fair share of heart breaking, too. I can visit the YMCA and the JCC, where I spent 15 hours/week for 10 years, doing the sport I love most: gymnastics. I can walk the streets of my suburb, frollick in the yard, and remember the innocence of youth.

I grew up in one of the best places on Earth. Lower Merion, my suburb, is home to so many wonderful memories. I remember my making my first best friend (we are 21 years strong, thank you). I remember learning how to pump a swing. I remember reading my first book. I remember getting my first “big girl’s bed”. I remember learning how to ride a bike and steer a sled. I remember jumping in piles of leaves that my parents had labored to rake into all-too-tempting piles. I remember my first days of school, all dressed-up and ready for a new beginning. I remember my first crush, my first slow dance, my first date, and my first “real kiss”. Because all of these things happened in Philly.

Philly is home to some not-so-great memories, as well. I remember stepping a bee when I was 3. I remember horrific fights with my “sister”, Sarah, which brought me to tears. I remember groundings, and bad grades (honest to God, anything below an A- made my heart stop), and I remember my first broken heart. There are much more serious memories, too: I remember I remember watching the Heinz plane blow up during recess in second grade; our senator, his pilot and co-pilot, and two little girls my age were killed. I remember my classmate Jimmy, whose lips were always purple from a faulty heart, who died in third grade. I remember another classmate, Aaron, who died on the eve of our high school graduation. I remember a best friend’s mom, who fought a battle against cancer, and won it only to die from a side-effect of chemo. Because all of these things happened in Philly, too.

Yes, youth should be innocent. We should all have the opportunity to partake in the joys of life before we feel the pain. But youth is also when we learn about suffering, tragedy, and heartbreak. Hopefully, we still find ourselves in the solace of the parental wing when we learn these lessons. But youth is a time of growth, and growing up can hurt. Philly is my home. It was my protector, my teacher, and my friend as I grew up. And although my zip code no longer reads 19096, I think there may be a tattoo on my heart. Because, if what they say is true and home is where heart is, a piece of my heart must have been left in Philly.

And now that I waxed all poetic, I will leave you with a bit of humor. If you’re from Philly, you will get a good chuckle. If you don’t know anything about my home town, read this. You may know me a little better after you do. Cuz Philly, Philly, that is where I am from.
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You Know You’re From Philly If:

• You punctuate every sentence with, “You know” at least twice.
• You realize that your favorite dessert is “wooder ice”.
• “Youse guys” is a perfectly acceptable reference to a group of men & women.
• You know how to spell AND pronounce Narberth, Bryn Mawr, Bryn Athyn, Wilkes-Barre, Schuylkill, Bala Cynwyd, Conshohocken, and Monongahela.
• You pronounce ACME “ACK-A-ME”.
• You think that $2,500 a year for insurance on a 1977 Toyota Corolla is a bargain.
• You call sprinkles on top of your ice cream cone “jimmies”.
• You don’t think Wawa sounds funny.
• You don’t go to the beach in New Jersey; you go “down the shore” (or, if you’re really from Philly, you go daunashoore). And, to be honest, we all know that the shore is the only good thing about Jersey.
• You know where to find the Rocky statue.
• You can make a cheese steak and you’ve never been taught.
• You went to see the Liberty Bell for a class trip every, single year.
• You know what and where “Boathouse Row” is.
• You will buy a pretzel from anyone, anywhere without even thinking of where it was - or where his hands have been.
• You don’t know what a sub is, but you think they are trying to describe an imitation hoagie.
• You go to The Gallery or South Street in the summer time just to chill.
• You refer to something as “a whole nother,” as in “That’s a whole nother issue.”
• You can eat cold pizza (even for breakfast) and everyone you know does the same.
• You know the difference between a cheese steak and a pizza steak, and know that you can’t get a really good one outside Philly.
• You live for summer, when street and county fairs signal the beginning of funnel cake season.
• You know what a township, borough, and commonwealth is.
• You know what a “Mummer” is, and are disappointed if you can’t catch at least highlights of the parade.
• You still keep kitty litter, starting fluid, de-icer, or a snowbrush in your trunk, even if you live in the South.
• You know how to respond to the questions “Djeetyet?” and “Wid o widout?”
• You say things like, “Outen the lights,” “I’m calling off today,” and “They’re calling for snow.”
• You know that Yuengling is pronounced “Ying-ling,” and believe that it really is a premium beer.

So, for awla youse who don’t know about Philly, come on ova. We’ll pick you up at da Airport, jump on da Schuylkill (Skoo-kull), or maybe craws da Benny to go to Lantic Ciddy. We can catch an Iggles game and have some wooder ice, if ya want. And we’ll be shoore to take lotsa pitchers cuz Philly is bee-yood-ee-ful! So whaddaya figger? Wen youse comin’?