Transfixed by the desire to buy a quilted floral jacket, I set out yesterday on foot to Philadelphia City Hall, which is maybe a mile and a half from my house. The day was clear, with a vivid blue sky and spring temperatures, and I strolled along the Parkway past the library and past Logan Circle, which is being fixed up and is behind fencing at the moment.
There was a little vendor market (“Made in Philadelphia”) on Dilworth Plaza on the west side of City Hall, and though it wasn’t officially open yet, I zipped over to the little tented cubicle where a woman was selling the things I had seen (and yearned for, and walked away from) the day before.
The clothing (long jackets, short jackets, vests, shirts) was made of quilted cotton, with neatly bound seams, cheerful prints on one side, and stripes on the other, which meets one kind of serious need that drives me. Though I mostly wear black and blue, I am drawn compulsively to (a) William-Morris style florals (b) stripes (c) quilted things and (d) finished French seams inside and out (I absolutely loathe the current fashion for raw hems and ragged jeans).
The clothes were also relatively cheap, which is the other serious need I have. Even if I was a billionaire, I would not buy expensive clothing. I tend to spill food and drink on myself, because my absolutely visceral impatient hastiness is the one part of my ADHD I have not been able to tame, and though I do not cherish clothing, neither do I want to destroy something expensive because I can’t keep hold of a dumpling in my chopsticks to save my life.
I had walked away from the clothes the day before because I am often seized with the conviction that I absolutely must have something, and experience has taught me if I can put physical distance between the object of desire and myself, the feeling passes. It hadn’t passed. I woke up thinking about quilted things.
So at City Hall, I bought a floral jacket and an absolutely exuberant vest, and went to sit in an Adirondack chair on the artificial lawn, where I scanned my phone and watched families play cornhole. Off to one side, the fountains leapt from the pavement and subsided, over and over; it’s not warm enough yet for kids to be playing in the water, but some sober, serious teenage boys made forays into it and looked embarrassed. The smell of bacon wafted from a food vendor the other end of the pop-up market, the skyscrapers narrowed the sky to a manageable blue glare, and the sun shone down. Banks of tulips blazed from the beds that bracket the east side of the plaza. The roller rink isn’t up yet, but the tented restaurant is. People paraded up and down from the glassed subway entrance, emerging to blink and set off in various directions.
About fifteen years, ago, Dilworth Plaza was a grim, gray institutional stretch of pavement. Occupy Philadelphia took it over, with tents, sleeping bags, awnings, trash, food, chants, and police presence. We picked our way past it to get to the dark and dank interior of City Hall or to get on the subway. I sort of vaguely supported the movement’s aims, but it was also an absurd undertaking and smelled bad. Eventually the encampment was cleared, and construction began. Now, here we are, with what I think of as a city beach.
I like beaches. I can sit on a beach with a good book, various things to do, and snacks, and sit and do nothing for hours. Dilworth Plaza feels the same way. Sometimes I go there on a sunny day just to sit and watch.
It was named after Richardson Dilworth, who was mayor of Philadelphia until I was eleven. I remember my parents mentioning him. I remember his name coming up on the six o’clock news; he was a Democrat and survived the sinking of the Andrea Doria, I find on looking him up on Wikipedia. I don’t really remember him, except for the plaza.
My adult kid texted me and we met for lunch, and it was the perfect day, so in my little-old-garden-lady floral quilted jacket, my elastic-waist trousers, and my canvas sun hat, I went home for a nap with my cat. I have become Miss Marple, and I’m okay with that.
I’m going to Longwood Gardens today, and my kid affirmed that the jacket was the perfect look for that. They considered my patchwork vest, and finally pronounced that it was suitable for someone visiting an exhibition of outsider art. We both laugh. I’m also okay with that.