Back When I Was Here

Eighteen Years/Eighteen Years NaNoHellNo

Back When I Was Here

Last weekend I took my 17 year old daughter to visit my alma mater, University of Pennsylvania. That’s right, she toured my alma mater with her alma mater. I’d been back to campus for my 25th reunion a few years ago, so I was prepared for the sight of things that weren’t there when I was a student in the late ‘80s, like new buildings and frat-houses-turned-LGBTQ-support-centers. What I wasn’t prepared for was my inability to recognize the things that had stayed the same.

Take, for instance, the high rises. These three tall apartment buildings anchor the west end of campus, near an angular arch made of red metal tubes and nicknamed, inevitably, “Dueling Tampons.” As we meandered down the campus’ main drag, Locust Walk, I pointed out the high rises to her, towering off in the distance near 40th Street. “I lived in that one sophomore and part of junior year,” I began, continuing the droning “Back When I Was Here” tour in which she was trapped, where every story ended with a meaningless comparison to ’87. “They’ve got their own kitchens, which is nice, but the elevators are slow. Or they were, back when I was here.” My daughter nodded, or maybe she was trying to give a Morse code signal for rescue to the people walking past her.

Then we were standing near a big concrete building with a sign: Rodin House. “Huh. This is new,” I said, squinting toward the top. “Wasn’t around back when I was here.” My daughter, carefully and slowly, said, “Um, you just told me this was one of the three high rises.”

Right. Rodin House. Built in ’71. One of the high rises. I knew that. Ok. Well, it’s a new sign. That’s what I meant.

We continued onto 40th and took a right onto Spruce, lined with row houses that have been off-campus living for generations of students. “I lived here somewhere senior year,” I said. “Let’s see if I can figure it out.”

My daughter trailed a few feet behind me as I stopped at each row house that stretched down the block and craned my neck up: did I live here? I remember there was a stone wall I used to sit on in front…is this it? Didn’t the house have a dormer window? None of these houses have dormers. Is that a sorority? I vaguely remember we were aware there was a sorority on our block but I don’t think we even knew where or what it was, back when I was here.

Finally I stopped at 4040. “I think this could be it,” I said to my daughter. There was a “rental available” sign that looked like it had been there for a few years, and the porch was covered in leaves and empty of anything except a cigarette ashtray. That vibe felt familiar. “Take my picture,” I directed my daughter. I posted it on FB and asked for independent confirmation from Penn friends that I had lived here. Two said nope, stairs are on the wrong side.

My daughter and I had dinner that night with my roommates from senior year. In the midst of a conversation that flowed as easily as if we’d just paused it in 1988 to watch an episode of Thirty Something rather than for almost thirty years, I asked them if they could remember our old address. One said 4041, which would have put us on the other side of the street, and the other had no idea where to even start.

So, here I am in front of what may have been my old apartment. It may have been someone else’s old apartment, though.

Back on our alma mater tour, I dragged my daughter into the academic building where I took most of my classes. “This building was so cool,” I said, as we walked up the ramp. “It has this modern façade but if you go inside, you can still see the stonework of the old building that it replaced.”

Let me save you the suspense. No, you can’t. Inside, it just looks like a regular building that happens to use a lot of exposed brick.

Irvine Auditorium, where I used to stand in the orchestra pit when I crewed for shows like 10,000 Maniacs and New Order? It doesn’t have an orchestra pit. (Here’s the ceiling, though, which almost made up for it.)

Despite her faulty and boring tour guide, my daughter was getting more and more excited about the campus and about Philly in general – it probably helped that the day before, I had taken her and a friend to see the Head of the Schuykill crew regatta, which was just crawling with academically and athletically gifted college boys over 6’1”.

But I was feeling unmoored. Why couldn’t I remember the Penn I’d loved, back when I was here?

That’s when we stopped at the food carts on 34th and Walnut and got ourselves a Philly street pretzel. It gave me a second to read a couple of texts from my Penn posse, the friends who are, to me, the best treasure I gained from being at that school; everyone wanted to know how our trip was going and wished us luck.

That was the moment I relaxed and realized: at least when it comes to recognizing what matters, like multi-decade friendships and the cheap, chewy, carbo-sodium bomb that got me through four years of college on a budget, my faculties are completely intact.

Have to close with this most Philadelphia of ’80s bands: The Hooters. Thanks to my college buddy Dan for reminding me about them and verifying that yes, it was 4040.