Times have changed, and times are strange/Here I come/But, I ain’t the same/Mama, I’m coming home . . .
When I made arrangements for the fourth installment of Asian Arts Initiative’s Sound Type Music Festival and Music Writers Workshop down in Philadelphia, I purchased a return ticket for 9:55pm train back. Oddly, it was the Palmetto, which was coming up from Florida and not the Northeast Corridor. But I didn’t care.
Workshop time is valuable to everyone involved. I wanted to be present and engaged. I didn’t want to appear like I was looking at my watch and wondering when would the appropriate time to bolt. Two scenarios came to mind: Maybe the writers group would want to hang out for a bit after. Or I’d sit in a bar, near William H. Gray III/30th Street Station, eat dinner, have a couple of beers and try to do some work.
As luck would have it, Thursday night, a member of the writers group invited everyone to their place for a vegan dinner and a show at Johnny Brenda’s. Sadly, the show wasn’t happening for me. But I could make the dinner and have more than enough time to make the train back home.
I was thrilled. I had scraped, scrimped and begged to make the trip down. Saving any amount was beneficial — and necessary. Plus, there’s key lesson that I’ve learned many times over: Unless someone is a straight up creep, and you have time, say yes to someone being hospitable. Say yes to that small kindness. I’ve yet to regret it.
The food was delicious and lovingly made. The colleague’s place was lovely. Their bandmate built most of it, including one of the most gorgeous bathrooms I’ve seen in some time. The bandmate told the group that he liked to wind down by soaking in the tub and watching TV. So, there was a 25-inch TV right by the tub. That was just fucking genius.
Two colleagues made brief appearances. One girl had to rush to catch a bus back to Baltimore that she was in danger of missing. Strangely, she seemed unconcerned. Another colleague had a train back to NYC. Around 7:40-7:45 or so, most of the group decided to head over to Johnny Brenda’s. As we were all saying our farewells, a local colleague says to me, “From your Instagram, it seems as if you haven’t been home a lot lately.”
“No, I really haven’t,” I replied.
I caught a Lyft, which dropped me off at 30th Street Station. I then walked two blocks east to Post PHL for a beer. But it wasn’t a relaxing beer. Before I got into Philadelphia, I learned that I got approved to cover this year’s FME in Rouyn-Noranda, Québec. Another trip? Sure, man. I had to send the travel team a copy of my passport for the flight. I had several conflicting deadlines to tackle when I got back home. I was making mental notes of things while texting friends and family. I was frantically looking at my watch.
9:20pm: I walk out of the bar and make the two block walk with my duffel bag and my camera backpack. I’m looking forward to heading back home for a couple of weeks. As soon as I glance at the departure screen, I see that the 9:55pm Palmetto is delayed — indefinitely. I’ve never seen that before.
My heart sunk into my stomach. Two hours before, I joked about never having any major delays going back and forth to Philadelphia. And it looked like I just jinxed it. The next Northeast Corridor train was delayed — but only by about half an hour. I frantically looked up how I could change my ticket, and if it would cost me. I wanted to go home. And unless, it cost me more than my ticket, I was willing to pay. “Oh mama, I wanna go home . . .”
I went up to ticket booth. A sister was behind the counter. And with a desperate look on my face, I explained what situation was. The sister was told me “I got you. Just show me your bar code.”
Thank you sister. Bless you. Bless you. Bless you. And with ticket changed, I got on 10:04pm Northeast Corridor train back home.
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