Reading Terminal Market: Chaos, Cakes and Camaraderie
By Nicole Robinson
You would think Reading Terminal Market was a secret eatery, hidden for the most adventurous tasters in the city. When my GPS said “You have arrived”, I looked around in confusion until I saw groups of people slipping out with to go bags. I curiously walked around them into a place fill with the mixed aroma of sweets and spices. Every turn was a different vendor, with a crowd or line of people behind it.
There are grocery markets with fruits, vegetables and other organic foods. There are vendors offering traditional fast food or vendors selling a melting pot of traditional dishes. The cuisine was not the only diverse palette, but the people within Reading Terminal Market mimicked the same sense of diversity. It was refreshing to see the world that we live in reflected in such a well established market.
Getting around the place was no easy task. The chaos may have been controlled by designed paths to redirect and regulate the flow of traffic, but it was hard not to stop and stare at the restaurant signs and cooks making their signatures meals.
It is inevitable to be pushed or to face people who just do not want to move. I tried my best to squeeze through small spaces and politely say excuse me when passing by people, but still I was met with glares and rolling eyes. By yourself, the whole excursion can be intimidating, but with a band of friends you can brave the most fiercest of throngs.
It is nearly impossible to just settle down on one restaurant, so bring enough money to sample from almost everywhere. My sweet tooth led me to Termini Brothers’ vendor. Termini Brothers specialize in making desserts. With having only ten dollars to my name and college student optimism, I spent half that on a chocolate cake layered with butterscotch and chocolate moose.
The friendly cashier rang me up and wished me to enjoy my treat. The cake was creamy and smooth, each layer exciting my taste buds. I knew I made a good choice and left satisfied with my dessert.
I recommend this establishment for tourists just exploring the city or Philadelphia natives
looking for a place to hang out and explore with friends. I do not recommend going alone, even though a party of one could still enjoy oneself. The market is just more fun when you get to share it. I would definitely visit again, but next time with a group of people.
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African American Museum: The Black Experience
By: Nicole Robinson
When you walk into the African American Museum in Philadelphia, you are greeted by the prominent figures who you grew up idolizing. The activists who are known for their messages of peace and equality. The facility showcases publications highlighting black influencers such as Barack Obama, Martin Luther King Jr., and Malcolm X. You are welcomed by the tribal African music playing throughout the museum. You will be directed by the receptionist, who has been educated on the history of African American history of Philadelphia. Prices may vary based on age. Since I am a college student, my price of admission was only $10.
After payment, the receptionist will usher you to Gallery One, where you can get a general synopsis on the struggle of slavery to freedom in Philadelphia. Gallery One takes you through the timeline of the hardships of slavery, along with sacrifices by those affected. The timeline shifts to the slow, but progressive strides to the abolition of slavery to the journey of equal rights in Philadelphia. The brief descriptions and visuals paint a long history of injustice, but also includes the unity of abolitionists on both sides of the spectrum to obtain equality.
Gallery Two presents the visual recording exhibits called Audacious Freedom: African Americans in Philadelphia 1776 - 1876. There you are given particular insight on a black trailblazers and their triumphs, along with their defeats. The narratives of these people inspire visitors through anecdotes of pain, suffering and the fight for justice.
Gallery Three is an art exhibit of John Dowell’s Cotton: The Soft, Dangerous Beauty of the Past. The exhibit is a compilation of modern day people and cities supplanted within cotton fields. The symbolism of the cotton plantations translate to the theme of black people still working for people in power and how people of color should resist the unjust system. The art work is very powerful and truly moved me. Despite social change and national progression, black people still fall victim to everyday injustices supported by white patriarchal corporations. Dowell uses this notion throughout all of his pieces.
My lasting impression is nothing, but positive. I was mesmerized by the entire exhibit. As a black woman in this country, I am use to receiving very surface analyses and information about the black experience in America during the era of slavery and segregation. I feel a lot more connected to the narrative of my community and my narrative as a young woman in this generation.
I would recommend this museum to everyone. I note that the attendees of the museum are of all walks of life. Everyone can learn and gather an understanding of African American history.
There is often this misconception that this museum only showcases African music in Philly, or a look into African art and exhibits paying homage to local black figures. This museum does not just display art and history, but a piece of the black experience through art, music and rich history. It is important to break stereotypes about black and African culture. Visiting the African American Museum may just start a conversation or put ideas into perspective. Bring your friends, family or anyone you think would benefit from this experience. I have truly learned a lot in my short time of being exposed to the information given to me by this museum. Just imagine what you could learn.
The Time is Now
By: Graysen Montel
Entering the building the heavy crimson door flings shut behind me. I can taste the dampness of the rain-kissed air and hear the hollows echo of the store steps singing under my feet as I flounce down them. I pass the metal fence and onto the cobblestone road, passing the neighboring bird egg blue door with cobra snake copper numbers crowning the door. The molding framing the door’s point is peeling and chipped but also flaking with legacy, history, and character. The buildings leaning in on me are all layered in brilliant green ivy varying in height, thickness, and shades gracing the triangular leaves. The rust colored brick is hardly visible through the tight webbing of the ivy crawling up the walls like veins tracing a forearm. I walk across the street, cars whipping past me like the flowing wisps of hair cradling my cheek as the strands blow past my face. Trotting in front of me is a woman whose perfume, a mix of lavender and vanilla lingers behind as she turns into a boutique littered with “sale” signs. The sweet and savory scent adds to my appetite and drowsiness fogging my my head like the clouds drifting above me casting a mist over Dublin. The silver sky seeps into the trees and roofs like watercolor paint bleeding together on canvas. I gaze through shop windows block by block, passing music shops, bakeries, and small stores. Each display window full of merchandise lacing the corners, all of the windows of cafes, are full of stacks of pastries climbing the windowpane and piling into a mountain of breads each powdered by a different flavor nestling in its flaky layers. I continue walking enchanted by the spilling smells escaping the bakeries but continue on regardless of the delicious beckoning of the last few coffee shops and bakeries.
I settle on a quaint sky blue shop, small and plush and cozy. An iron gate in looping shapes and patterns surrounding a few rows of tables accompanied by patrons sipping coffee and tea while munching on a variety of food from scrambled eggs the same bright yellow as dandelions to hazelnut colored biscuits made in house. The bronze handcrafted script of the sign with swirly lettering delicately framed and hung reads, “The Lovin’ Spoon” above the wide open doors pulled back so the shop is completely open on one side facing the street. Stumbling in, incoherent from delusion drowsiness my sense ignite into a sparkling display of fireworks laced with the sounds of soft tunes and the disappearing taste of the misty, rainkissed air. I clammer to the front to read the menu hanging by old chains behind the counter. The menu is crafted of a picture frame with several dents and a chalkboard inlaid in it, the words written out in narrow cursive. The menu is partially concealed by a stainless steel contraption with prongs and faucets spitting steam and standing at the ready to create a delicious cup of various kinds of caffeinated beverages. As I inhale the decadent smells, I look around.
The tables are made out of antique metal sewing machines, the interior of the shop being full of welcome, the chairs inviting me to sit. The floor beneath my feet is a warm, cedar wood the golden color of amber and butterscotch. The interior walls are blue like the outside, but several tones lighter, the walls wrapping around me are the same light blue as pale hydrangeas during spring’s first bloom. In the back of the cafe, three men in suede, cotton, and tweed sit reading the newspaper and blowing on the tops of their coffees in pristine white ceramic cups. At a table adjacent from the main counter a young woman sits and scrolls on her phone, her checkered scarf perched on the back of the chair next to her, keeping her lavender umbrella that is layered in beads of water company. The walls were decorated with artistic and highly stylized black and white photographs, most consisting of images crafted out of coffee and cream on the top of a latte. In the back right corner, a large table painted ivory is snug against iron cast chairs and an “L” shaped wooden bench in the corner dawned in several pillows with tassels and buttons. On every table are matte grey placemats in front of every tucked in chair, and a delicate folded napkin with silver utensils nestled in on the side. On the wall is a huge clock, but in place of Roman Numerals etched into the face of the clock, all twelve digits read in simple scripture, the word “now.” So, at any time, the time is always now.
There is a man behind the counter, who is tall and lean and draped in a splattered white apron. He greets me with a smile warmer than the sandwich press and an Irish accent thick as heavy cream. He had salt and pepper hair and gray-blue eyes like the overcast Dublin sky. He took my order for a large cafe mocha, and I paid him with the metallic and colorful Euros in my jacket pocket. I stood there as the coffee machine ignited and swirled together cream and caffeine. As the kind man poured the delectable content out of the steel pitcher and into a ribbed cardboard to-go cup and topped it with whipped cream and cocoa powder. As the lid touches my lips, singeing them with savory flavors, the flavor dances on my tongue, and look at the clock, the time is still now.
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Suenos, Munecas y Escribiendo
By: Graysen Montel
With a violent jolt and the spitting of the roaring engine, the wheels kissing the ground and rolling rapidly towards the gates, the plane touches down. We deboard, a stampede of impatient people fighting to exit the congested aircraft and reach the crowded immigration counter first. After waiting in a warped line of people, a hectic whirlwind of questions and foreign accents all in a confined space, the chaos of collecting our belongings and weaving through people out to the taxi area, we are finally greeted by the peaceful fresh air of Guatemala. As we pile into the taxi, resting our heads against the open windows, pastel buildings whiz by in a blur. Banners and streamers delicately strung from almost every roof, and crucifixes hung on every door, and colorful saints and holy statues grace every porch. Even the hotel lobby dressed in festival decorations, vibrant ribbons, flags, and tapestries. A restful night in a hotel later, and we are on our way to Antigua and the celebration of Holy Week.
The metal frame of the car is rumbling as it crosses the cobblestone entering Antigua, the windows open as the sun beats down on my face, it peaks out from behind the volcano Antigua is at the base of. Gazing out at the people on the sidewalk, draped in vivid woven stripes, their dark hair intricately braided like a tail down their back, and the smell of pastry, coffees, and tropical fruit from the stands and carts embrace us. Every person dawning traditional Mayan wear, their copper faces stitched with a smile of cultural pride. The sound of folk music married to modern Latin dance music fills the narrow streets and paths winding through the city. We zigzag through the streets, more confusing than typical due to the celebrations and parades. Some streets are blocked off as sand carpets decorate the ground and children spread colored sand and dust over the stencils in swirly patterns and religious pictures with immaculate details.
As we pass through, the buildings all are a multitude of colors, from the bright sky blue of the Guatemalan flag to the rich crimson red of the belly of the Quetzal, every shop having an identity, a history, and a story to tell. We enter the main square, a green space canceled out by the mass of people sitting on it. Surrounding the square like a perimeter are shops. On the grass are carts selling sweets, each full of every flavor of candy, a stick of dairy and coconut called canilitas de leche, a grainy ball of pomegranate and sugar and a variety chocolates all touch my tongue and imprint a sweet punch, like little dancers on my lips. The pastries of the bakery carts all have a gorgeous crust, crisp and golden, flaking off as I pick it up and bite into it, and the rich flavor lingers. Past the carts is the clothing shop overflowing in color, cotton, and patterns. Across the square is the pale yellow arch tourists always buy postcards depicting, the silhouette of the volcano casted behind it like a shadow.
Adjacent to the carts is the pale church that is adorned with every decoration you could imagine for Semana Santa, candles embellishing the steps, curtains and drapes all caress the doors. As we enter, passing a large engraved bowl of Holy Water rippling as people dip their fingertips in, the sound of feet shuffling on the magnificent marble floor, the rattling of rosary beads of a prayer, and the creaking of the old dark wooden the pews as people sit and stand, are the only sound in the entire church. The Scared imagery of Jesus crowned in thorns, angels guarding heaven and a weeping Mary covered in blue cloth cradling her son in a barn all gracing the stain glass windows light the room and cast colored shadows tinting the porcelain white floor. Perched on the main wall at the very front of the church, in between Mayan rugs, Saint figurines and Virgin Mary candles, is a life-size Christ on the Cross all signify the meaning of this week.
Just behind the street food vendors and tourist restaurants, is a small shop tucked behind the church and inlaid to a concave building, the door within an arch, like a hidden gem. Entering, the smell of aggressive incense burning stings my eyes and nose, as little trinkets litter tables and shelves. The older woman greets us warmly, her hair as black as scorched wood. She grabs my hand gently, her wrinkled fingers wrapping around my wrist as she shows me a tiny wooden box painted with a scene of a Mayan temple and Pyramids. But she lifts the lid to reveal a hidden surprise, and places one delicately in my hand. I look at it, amazed by the little dainty detailed etched into it. I look in the box and there are dozens of them, all dressed uniquely and painted and decorated slightly differently. I read the little paper that is attached to the box, and in Spanish it explains what these are. They are called worry dolls. You tell each of them one of your worries before going to sleep and then put them under your pillow at night and they will make sure your worries go away. They are a cultural staple to Guatemala, similar to a dreamcatcher for Native Americans. But the details and personality radiating off of each one uniquely draws me in like a fish on a lure. The finger-sized little wooden figures with their straw hair dyed black, the handwoven little dresses are charming. Just like the Culture and Country, the little worry dolls immediately win me over.