What’s the Farthest Away from Home You’ve Ever Been from When You’re Away from Home?

The other day, some friends and I were talking about where we say we’re from when we’re out of town. Those of us from small towns are used to no one ever hearing of Nowhere, PA, but if you’re from a city, you might have a little better luck.

For example, when I’m in this county, sometimes other parts of the state, I can usually tell people what town I’m from and they know what I mean. In the rest of the country, I usually say I’m from Pittsburgh. But the farthest away from home I’m ever from is when I’m in Europe. Then I just tell people I’m from Washington, DC.

So when you’re away from home, where do you tell people you’re from? Can you say your hometown and find it does the trick? Do you pick a nearby city and hope for the best? Or do you say you’re from the nation’s capitol and just let it rest?


And Then a Cop Took Me to Prison

It all began innocently enough. Just breakfast, we said. Catch up a bit, we said. I know a great place called Mugshots, my friend said, and we can get a bite there before I go to work.

So it always begins.

But Philly is a city of quick changes and big ideas—just look at what happened there in 1776—and what might begin as breakfast with a couple of friends can too easily end behind bars.

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Rethinking Titles and Loving Van Gogh at the Barnes Museum, Philadelphia

Me: It was so good getting lunch with you!
Cousin: I loved catching up! I’d better make the blog!

True praise, indeed! Whenever I’m in Philadelphia, I try to see several friends even if I’m there only a short time, and one of the great benefits of taking the train is that I can always fit in an early lunch at 30th Street Station before the westbound Pennsylvanian pulls out. So even though I spent most of my weekend with Til, an old friend from college, I was able to wrap up the trip sharing a lunch and conversation with my cousin*, who’s a big fan of my blog. (Girl, why didn’t we get a picture of us together before you went back to work??) May this be just the first of many meet-ups with faithful readers on my travels.

Whenever I visit Til, our weekends tend to include some combination of old movies, needlework, and nachos. This weekend was no exception, but before succumbing to our sophomore-year habits, we had a yard sale at her new house and visited the Barnes Collection downtown.

Know how you always whisper for some reason in an art gallery? This weekend we knew the reason: Til had lost her voice. Ten years ago, I lost my voice when she visited me in Germany, so now we’re even. Well, not quite. I wasn’t relying on her as interpreter in this case, even if Philadelphians do say “water” differently than the rest of the world.

Dr. Barnes was a scientific, methodical man who devoted his mind and self-made fortune to acquiring and understanding art. The cashier at the gift shop pointed out the symmetry in the galleries: he’d arranged his art like the periodic table. Top to bottom, side to side. The result is a wall of art, all feeding off of and informing one another, quite unlike a typical gallery that leaves each piece on its own.

Additionally, he didn’t want to label the art with little plaques all over the place, so instead, there’s a booklet in each gallery that tells you the name, artist, and year for each piece. Let me tell you why I love this idea. In Gallery 1, a painting captured me and stirred my emotions. A very ill person lay, apparently dying, on a sickbed, while someone (their child? a doctor?) leaned over them holding their hand. How poignant, I thought. How moving.

Curious, I opened the booklet to see who painted it and learned that it’s called The Hypochondriac, by Honoré Daumier. What a turn! I had to look at it with all new eyes and a greater appreciation for the power of titles in visual art as much as written. I never would have had that experience if a plaque had left out all the mystery.

We weren’t allowed to take pictures in the museum, so I’ve found my favorites on their website to share here. (All images are theirs and theirs alone. Please visit their collection website to learn more about each one and see the rest!) By the end of the museum, I had developed an eye for Renoir and noticed I’m drawn to images of Montmarte. I want to be as good at titles as Glackens, and I want to pet Van Gogh’s canvasses with their distinct brushstrokes. I walked away from the gift shop with a birthday gift for my nephew and a postcard of a Toulouse-Lautrec for myself. I hope you enjoy the collection.

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Making Myself Hungry (more recipes!)

My BFF recently shared this conversation between herself and her 4-year-old daughter, E:

BFF: We’re having stir fry tonight.
E: Did you learn it from Aunt Becca?
BFF: No, why?
E: Well, you learn a lot from her.

E, I promise I’ve learned more from your mom than she has from me, but get ready for a few more Aunt Becca inspirations. Maybe I haven’t been writing about food lately, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t been eating it. And despite all this, I have also been losing weight, albeit far, far more slowly than I was before autumn arrived and, with it, my taste for warm, heavy foods full of cheese (the other food of my people).

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Bears! Bears!! Blackwater Falls, West Virginia

Blackwater Falls State Park, West Virginia, has bears everywhere. Every gift shop—from the Trading Post to the Lodge to Park Road Gallery Gifts—includes bears. T-shirts, shot glasses, key chains, postcards, books, coffee mugs: if you can put a bear on it, it’s at Blackwater Falls.

Sound advice from the experts.

Sound advice from the experts.

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Thanks for following!

One and a half weeks after going public with my blog on Facebook, and I feel like I’m already a celebrity. Just wanted to give a shout-out to everyone who’s already chosen to subscribe by email, follow with your own WordPress account, and/or like me on Facebook.

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It means a lot to me that you want to read my words and see my pictures. If my awesome friends and fans keep this up, I might even buy the domain and go semi-professional with this blogger life!