April 2004

Emily P., age 26, Pennsylvania
April 18, 2004

Winter and Spring had a ferocious battle for sovereignty over Philadelphia during the late-night hours of April 12. It had been irritatingly chilly and soakingly rainy all day. Mark and I met for Malaysian food before Death Cab was to take the stage at the Troc [ticket stub taped onto the page]. Upon stepping out of my cab, I was sprayed by a passing car, leaving most of the left side of the same leg uncomfortably drenched. I drank my tea while waiting for Mark, trying to banish the grumpiness that cold,wet denim can inspire.

Death Cab was good, though not remarkably so — not like last time. Mark was sick, with a throat too sore to admit more than a sip of beer. I can never enjoy myself if the person I’m with is uncomfortable; I give great sympathy.

We shuffled out of the Troc around 12:30, to discover that the seasons were duking it out blitzkrieg style. Winter was pissed and not willing to shove off without one last “fuck you” to the Cit of Brotherly Love. The rain had become a barrage of tiny bullets, transformed by the gale-force wind that whipped

(It snows in Spring here. Tiny, white petals carried from trees on the breeze.)

through the city. I tried blocking the rain with my umbrella. “Bitch, please,” Winter responded, violently blowing the umbrella inside-out. An inside-out umbrella strikes me as oddly grotesque. I righted it, closed it, and made my way with the others toward the “shelter” of a bus stop on Market Street. The wind threatened to knock me over, and I wondered how Pat’s tiny girlfriend wasn’t whisked away — a P.O.W. Cabs were hard to come by, and we stood shivering before a little graveyard of mangled umbrella carcasses for what seemed like a very long time indeed before Pat (our savior!) sprinted across the street and hailed a cab — I firmly believe it was the last in the city. The five of us piled in, cold, wet, and laughing in wonder at the apocalyptic weather that had set in while we were innocently digging Death Cab. My body hurt from the forcefulness of my shivering.

In the end, Spring appears to have won. The city has come alive, with no one wanting to miss anything — themselves (ourselves) becoming the very thing others don’t want to miss. It’ll be chilly and rainy again soon, and there seems to be a sense of urgency among the masses to enjoy the day while we have it. This is not a sense often experienced during Winter. I have to go now — I might be missing something.