I started my trip, Friday morning, feeling harried and blue - left over depression from the night before when the incessant noise from my neighbors had gotten me down. I could wish that such small things didn't get to me, but that would be wishing for a fundamental change in nature.

But I was upgraded to business class for my flight to JFK, and as the comfortable flight progressed, my spirits lifted with the familiar excitement of travel, and I began to spark with new ideas, as I observed the people around me, and reflected on the fascinating book I'm reading "I Don't Want to Talk About It". The book explores how male gender socialization breeds a covert depression in many, if not most, men that gets transmitted from generation to generation in the form of physical or psychological abuse. The book resonated in my own life, as I thought of how my Dad would subtly put me down when I displayed any tendency that wasn't stereotypically masculine.

Nowadays, I'm often told that I'm a pretty masculine guy, and I pride myself on it, even though I don't consciously make an effort to be masculine. But, as a kid, I was anything but. I was a tremendously shy, vulnerable, sensitive kid. I was picked upon at school because of my height, large feet and skinny frame, and I was frequently fearful and withdrawn as a result. I had all kinds of "soft", fanciful urges - to draw, to watch romantic movies. I cried when I saw how my mother accepted her lot in life to be a housewife. And all this sentimental, vulnerable side of me was progressively drummed out as the message was sent that these were not masculine traits. I ended up where I am today - in therapy to try to recover my lost sensitivity.

Yet if I'm to fully identify with the thrust of the book I'm reading, I'd have to accept that parents should bring up their kids in a way that allows them to fully accept all sides of themselves - the softer side included. Would this mean that kids would end up somewhat effeminate? And do I really want that, considering how I feel about effeminate men? Would I want that for myself? It's one of those cases where you know what's good for you, but don't want it.

Anyway, I arrived at JFK on a rainy night, picked up my rental car, and headed South for Philly. I was going to stay with a gay couple in West Philly. I recently rejoined L/GHEI, a gay-and-lesbian hospitality exchange organization, and the couple in Philly would be the first people I'd stay with. But I'd known ahead of time that I'd arrive pretty late in Philly, so I'd planned on staying in a cheap motel that first night. You'd think that driving from New York to Philly would be a fairly easy operation, after all they're two big East Coast cities within a couple hours' drive of each other. But there's no direct route, and I've been thrown off more than once by the interchanges between the various freeways.

I'd intended to come in over the bridge, but instead ended up in this endless suburb leading into Philly along route 1. By the time I figured out where I was, I was in Center City, which is what they call downtown Philly, in the rain, after midnight, searching for a vacancy in a city full of visitors for graduation weekend at Penn. It took me an hour and a half to find a room in the Society Hill Hotel. And my room overlooked a busy, latenight pub and club scene, so I slept fitfully.

Saturday morning, then, bearing a tired, squashed face, I drove over to West Philly to meet my hosts. West Philly, where I lived for part of my time at Penn, is a large, leafy suburb whose streets are lined, for block after block, with huge old houses, many of which are now extremely run down in the worst areas. My hosts lived on one of the nicer blocks, in a large three-story semi-detached house. Only one of them, Bill, was home, and we spent a pleasant hour getting acquainted before I headed out again to refamiliarize myself with Center City.

At Penn's Landing

Typical Center City sight: the new and the old

In Society Hill, a masterpiece of architecture

In the cool, grey afternoon, I spent a pleasant few hours traipsing back and forth through the length of Center City, an area about thirty blocks long East-to-West between the two rivers. It's one of my favorite places, and one of the most civilized downtowns anywhere, with its quiet, narrow streets of old row houses, cobbled alleys, and casually accepted splendid history.

A traffic cop entertains both drivers and pedestrians with his fabulous street theater, at Penn. Every time the light was about to change, everybody would get ready for the dance he'd perform; a huge variety of leaps, swivels and flailing arms. It had everybody in smiles. One college girl even gave the cop a hug.

Philadelphia has four major things going for it: the charm of Center City, the Philadelphia Orchestra, livability - consider the house I was staying in; huge, beautiful, and yet it cost half the price of the cheapest loft you could find in San Francisco, and finally the beautiful Fairmount park which stretches either side of one of the rivers. As the evening closed in, I took myself for my first ever run through the park (I used to be a biker when I lived here, and had biked it many times). I made it all the way to the last bridge when, consulting a map, I realized I'd run about 3 miles and still had to run back to my car, which I'd parked near Boathouse Row (a famous Philadelphia site - the boathouses for the rowing crews of various academic institutions). It was then that my knee gave out. It hasn't happened to me in years. I guess I'd just overdone it - all the walking, and then finally a long run, after not having run at all in the preceeding couple of weeks (I'm lifting weight so much that I'm finding I don't need to run much in order to stay trim). So I limped back to my car, the whole three miles.

After running in Fairmount Park

I recouperated back at the house for a couple of hours, before heading out to meet someone at this fairly awful bar called 12th Air Command. One thing I don't appreciate about Philly is its lamentable gay scene, with its tired old bars. The guy I was heading out to meet was a 23 year old I'd met online. In person he turned out to be charming, bright and absolutely and unexpectedly gorgeous. We hung out for a while with his drama-filled young friends before heading over to Philly's gay mainstay, Woodies, where we danced together on the crowded dance floor. I had a wonderful time, and concluded the evening at his place, by just after four in the morning.