Thanks to three consecutive midterms, I ended up spending Fall Break in Philly. I don’t even know if it could be called a break (how Penn thinks that canceling Monday’s classes constitutes a vacation is beyond me), but it did allow for some quality time with my equally midterm-challenged roommates. One night we even managed to tear ourselves away from our procrastinating and head to the Bridge.
While the movie selection at the Bridge is usually pretty dismal (it is the cinematic equivalent of Fro Gro, after all), Where the Wild Things Are was miraculously on the bill, so we forked over our $12.50 and gave in to the wonderful world that Dave Eggers and Spike Jonze so masterfully created.
The film is beautiful to look at, and while I wasn’t as enamored as the folks over at the New York Times, it did make me think. In the film, Max literally runs away from home. If I were to run away from home, where would I be running from... and where would I be running to? What do I even consider home anymore?
Despite the fact that I’ve moved about a billion times during my time at Penn, I have come to view Philly as home. I spend far more time here than I do in my hometown of St. Louis, where I haven’t spent a summer since high school. When I ask my friends about their Thanksgiving travel plans, I find myself asking when they’re coming back home to Philly, not when they’re going to that place where embarrassing pictures of their middle school selves are displayed.
My home now is filled with great museums (see Guides, pg. 21), pretzel riders (pg. 12) and the best sushi roll known to man (pg. 8). What could be better? Still, I find myself yearning for my childhood home more and more.
There's a great quote by Pulitzer Prize winner John Ed Pearce that goes, "Home is a place you grow up wanting to leave, and grow old wanting to get back to." Next year I'll leave my Philly home, and I know I will feel its pull once I make a new one. Just like Max.
3500 The Strand, Julia
