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.
