As an East Coast transplant surrounded by natives, something I learned very quickly is that nearly everyone who grew up in the tri-state area seemingly spent their childhoods being dragged on roughly half a dozen field trips to Philadelphia. Yes, that’s a big generalization, but if the looks of horror, disbelief, and secondhand shame I received whenever proclaiming I’d never been there are any indication, an annual tired shuffle past the Liberty Bell and Independence Hall was as second nature to these folks growing up as recess.
I had plenty of great experiences as a kid in the Midwest, thank you very much, but I couldn’t help but feel a little disillusioned by the fact that a destination so high on my bucket list was so heavily taken for granted by everyone I knew. There I was, gushing over how exciting it would be to stand face to face with such rich pieces of history (or, you know, just finally eat an authentic cheesesteak), and try as they might, my friends could only muster so much false enthusiasm for something they’d done a thousand times.
Imagine, then, my reaction when we mapped out our transportation plans to Lancaster and discovered we’d have to stop in Philly to pick up the car we’d use to get out to the country. I felt like I’d won the lottery! When we stepped off the bus from New York City, we found ourselves right across the street from the Liberty Bell. THE LIBERTY BELL! Oh hey, there’s the thing I stared at in picture books all through elementary school! The beautiful surrounding streets just added to the magic even more.
Despite the numerous field trips under their belts, my travel buddies humored me and joined me in a tourist-filled line to take a gander at the bell. We marveled at the fact that on a whim, we could simply saunter down the street out of our modern lives and straight into a treasured piece of history without so much as an entrance fee. Within minutes, we were staring at the bell head-on. It looked smaller than my childhood self imagined, but astounding nonetheless. The more striking sight, however, was the crowd of iPhones with humans attached to them blocking out a full view of the bell. What a strange ritual we partake in, desperately trying to capture something so heavily photographed that we could easily look at it anytime we pleased with a quick Google search. I guess we start to feel like beloved sights are only real if we take our own photo of it, no matter how mediocre the shot, as if that allows us to take a tiny piece of ownership home with us.
That made me….sad.
I am a frequent photographer no matter where I go, so it’s not as if I’m any more “evolved” than the gang I encountered, but just this once, I took a step back and simply committed the moment to memory. It was special enough on its own. The only picture I have of that afternoon features all the picture-takers stealing center stage, a tiny sliver of the bell visible between their flailing arms and glowing screens. That said, the three of us left swelling with patriotic pride, so I guess the bell is doing its job right!
Note to self: never take my childhood field trips (or any adventures, for that matter) for granted. Someone else out there has been waiting their whole life to see a sight that’s part of my own backyard!
Oh, and I finally ate a fucking cheesesteak.
It was worth the wait.
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