Essays
Some Token Praise
from The City Paper
10 May 2007
This morning, on the 34 trolley, reaching to pick up a piece of paper that fell from the book I was reading, I stuck my finger in spit.
It was soft and gooey.
Ugh, you say, “Enough! Don’t tell me more. What a rotten excuse for a transit agency…” (Actually, I said worse. And no one even turned to look.)
One day a few years ago descending the steps of the Eighth Street El station, I discovered a ripe pile of human feces.
“Stop! Stop! Spit is one thing …”
I reported it to the ticket agent. “That’s city property,” he said with a blank stare.
“But your customers — Look, sir, can you at least make a call, let someone know …”
“Next in line, please!”
I tell these stories because they’re easy — and funny, in a Philadelphia kind of way. It’s sport to complain about SEPTA. Public transit is the part of urban life we often seem to miss — or misunderstand. After all, this is a town with drive-thru fast-food windows right next to subway stations, and where the garage is the leading element of urban design.
But listen here: Time and again, I choose SEPTA because it makes my life better.
On Saturday I took my kids to a birthday party at Tunnels of Fun, deep in South Philly. Actually, it’s in a brand-new neighborhood called Packer Park. It’s adjacent to a real park, FDR, and a ballpark, the one where the Phillies play. We took the Broad Street subway to Pattison.
“You took public transit to Tunnels of Fun!” laughed my friend Jim.
“It’s right there,” I said. “A block from the Pattison station. Couldn’t have been easier.” That one block, along the northern edge of FDR Park, is really six, but that’s not the point. We got to amble along the park, listen to the birds and, while passing the Swedish museum and Novacare, discuss the city’s first European settlers, the origins of the city’s colors and the Eagles’ practice schedule.
On Sunday, the 47 bus and the El had my daughter and me in Fishtown 20 minutes too early to knock on her friend’s door. So we crossed Delaware Avenue to Penn Treaty Park and there continued our discussion on the origins of Philadelphia and the making of mythology. “What’s a treaty?” she wondered.
“When two sides agree to give up something in order make them both happier,” I offered. We ran through the dandelions and watched the sailboats go by and realized we weren’t used to seeing the Ben Franklin Bridge from such an angle.
I took the El and the bus three more times Sunday and never once had to wait . Our last stop left us at a huge Mexican party, with Aztec dancing and elote. The sky dazzled. The city, for yet another weekend, oozed life and pleasure (as much as the usual blood and grime).
Transit, for me, is part of that life and pleasure, the sense one has when he is free about the town. I love to walk, of course, and Philadelphia obliges. But with a kid’s hand in each of yours you can’t explore a sprawling city on foot alone. SEPTA, basically a commuter service, doesn’t imagine itself as a giver of pleasure. How can it when Harrisburg doesn’t even provide enough funding for basic operations? Service is cut, folks complain, garages reproduce like rabbits. Ridership plummets and service is cut once more. Vision is the first thing to go when you’re in freefall.
I’m not sure how we end that cycle. SEPTA, for its aloofness especially, is much to blame. Yet, despite the phlegm and pheces, its stations and vehicles are cleaner than ever. Its drivers are sweethearts. Its marketing campaign is a little cool.
The question is, can it become cool to take SEPTA? I offer this as an analogy. Last year, weekend retail sales in Philadelphia passed the weekday total, a sign that we Philadelphians are beginning to enjoy our city. What if weekend and nighttime ridership overtook the daily commute?
A whole city of tunnels of fun.
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