Willkommen nach Pittsburgh
There was a city called Pittsburgh, in a state called Pennsylvania. There was a cabaret, and there was a master of ceremonies.
With great anticipation, I headed to the airport to make my flight to the other side of the state. I had no delays, and the flight even left the gate early. As I commonly joke about these short-haul fights, the flight gets to cruising altitude, the flight attendant serves refreshments from the head of the plane to the tail, she goes back to the head of the plane to collect the trash, and then we are told we were making our final approach to Pittsburgh. It’s a 40 minute flight.
We followed the Allegheny River toward the city. I looked down and spotted the Squirrel Hill tunnel – a hole in the ground absorbing and spewing traffic. I was happy with the recognition. Then we were just north of Oakland and outside my window was Pitt’s Cathedral of Learning reaching upward.
I had remembered hearing stories about a project to sandblast the Cathedral to clean the years of black off the building. However, I believe that ’Burghers rather would have spent the money on more educational causes at Pitt versus something rather cosmetic and the building remains blackened as a testament to the steel industry that made the city what it is. It is impressive to see a 42-story building rising from the ground without another skyscraping in sight. I could see the soot streaks on the building from the sky.
We headed past the Golden Triangle with the myriad of yellow painted bridges hopping over the Allegheny, Monongahela and Ohio Rivers. There was PPG Place, which I have likened to a glass castle in the middle of downtown, surrounded by the other buildings. I had only seen views of Pittsburgh from the Mt. Washington side, it was equally impressive to see the opposite view.
Passing the city, we hurtled in space for more minutes than I thought were needed until we crossed over patches and patches of recent or new developments. Hills were shaved flat, and then topped with houses. From the air, I could see the mini-grids and cul-du-sacs of neighborhoods soon to be formed. At last I felt the ground approaching, and our final descent was finally ending.
I jumped off the plane and walked through the airport. I called my family and texted Brian of my safe arrival. I wandered the terminal toward the Core, the hub of the four terminal wings, and found the tram to take to the landside terminal. Guided by “Ground Transportation” sign, I mazed through the other passengers, TSA agents and airport staff to the doors. There was the 28X bus stop at the left end of the entrance to the airport.
I call Harris to apprise him of my situation and that I should be downtown in 30 minutes. I settle in on the bus, which is shaped like a caricature of a bus and has an out-dated fare box charge 50 cents less than the current fare. It reeked of stale smoke. I texted my friends that I had landed in Pittsburgh and that it was 11 degrees Fahrenheit. I turned up the volume on my iPod.
The airport bus is an express bus and after the first mandatory stops in a shopping center, it travels a third of the route on an bus-only roadway. The bus zips along, clanking and chattering, but it is constantly moving stopping only once en route to the city. A minute prior to exiting the restricted roadway, I see the white sign with royal blue trim and letter of the Pennsylvania road system that labels the geopolitical boundary of the City of Pittsburgh.
The bus enters a tunnel briefly and we spill out the other end, and voila, a grand vista of the city. As you take in the view before you, the bus hits the Fort Pitt Bridge, a yellow planted bridge that crosses over the Mon(ongahela) feet before its waters become the Ohio.
I got off the bus a few stops than I had told Harris, but as stepped down I almost ran into him. “This isn’t 9th and Liberty,” he commented. He was right but I figured that I could get off early and walk the 3 blocks to the pre-appointed corner. We headed back to his apartment so I could drop off my bags, and make a game plan for the day as he whipped up some eggs for brunch.
The plan was simple, I would go to the Warhol Museum definitely and I would find a few other things in town to keep me busy while he could rest between shows. Harris headed off to the matinee and I rested for a little bit. I was up early, ran to the airport, flew across the state and took a shuttle into town. It sounds like nothing but it was exhausting.
I walked over the Seventh Street Bridge, now called the Andy Warhol Bridge, and saw the Alcoa Headquarters, a beautiful modern building of aluminum and glass in sleek wave forms. I got to the Warhol Museum and paid my admission fee.
You must make the trip to Pittsburgh for the Warhol. It was just an experience to see so much recognizable art. I like Warhol’s works, so I was devouring all the art.
Afterwards, I crossed the Sixth Street Bridge, now Roberto Clemente Bridge, while having a phone conversation with one of my favorite Pittsburghers, Quinn. I asked her for a suggestion for a place to eat downtown. I weaved up and down the Burgh’s streets, up Penn and down Liberty. I went to the Point and wandered through PPG Place to find somewhere to eat. I remembered Station Square.
I found myself crossing the Smithfield Street Bridge and the Mon, and finding a chain that we don’t have in Philly for lunch. By the time I was finished, it was 5:15 and I wanted to head back for the key pass off before the second show.
Harris left, and I changed into something more appropriate for the theater and headed out to the O’Reilly Theater. I got my ticket and headed for my seat. My friend from Penn, Wendy, would always say “a good stage manager has the curtain up by 8:12” and at 12 minutes after the house lights were down and the action began.
As for the show, I did a little boning up on Cabaret since I last saw it when I was 16 or 17. There were points in the story I couldn’t remember: Clifford’s sexual ambiguity, the shuttling of funds between Paris and Berlin, or the boarding house in Berlin. I did remember a lot of the songs, and Harris would fill me in on plot points as he would tell me about rehearsals. I went in prepared to get the story without much difficulty.
It was amazing. The papers have been giving it the ravest of reviews. I was so impressed by the actors and the production, and so were other in the audience. Of course, I thought that Harris was the bomb, duh.
Afterwards I caught up with Harris and met his castmates, and a few of us finished the nights with some drinks.
The next day was a quiet and slow one with a walk out to the strip district, brunch at a cute diner and a visit to the Heinz Pittsburgh Regional History Center. After a busy day and a half, we had a quick dinner and then there was the trek out to the airport. I bade Pittsburgh farewell and headed home to Philadelphia.
With great anticipation, I headed to the airport to make my flight to the other side of the state. I had no delays, and the flight even left the gate early. As I commonly joke about these short-haul fights, the flight gets to cruising altitude, the flight attendant serves refreshments from the head of the plane to the tail, she goes back to the head of the plane to collect the trash, and then we are told we were making our final approach to Pittsburgh. It’s a 40 minute flight.
We followed the Allegheny River toward the city. I looked down and spotted the Squirrel Hill tunnel – a hole in the ground absorbing and spewing traffic. I was happy with the recognition. Then we were just north of Oakland and outside my window was Pitt’s Cathedral of Learning reaching upward.
I had remembered hearing stories about a project to sandblast the Cathedral to clean the years of black off the building. However, I believe that ’Burghers rather would have spent the money on more educational causes at Pitt versus something rather cosmetic and the building remains blackened as a testament to the steel industry that made the city what it is. It is impressive to see a 42-story building rising from the ground without another skyscraping in sight. I could see the soot streaks on the building from the sky.
We headed past the Golden Triangle with the myriad of yellow painted bridges hopping over the Allegheny, Monongahela and Ohio Rivers. There was PPG Place, which I have likened to a glass castle in the middle of downtown, surrounded by the other buildings. I had only seen views of Pittsburgh from the Mt. Washington side, it was equally impressive to see the opposite view.
Passing the city, we hurtled in space for more minutes than I thought were needed until we crossed over patches and patches of recent or new developments. Hills were shaved flat, and then topped with houses. From the air, I could see the mini-grids and cul-du-sacs of neighborhoods soon to be formed. At last I felt the ground approaching, and our final descent was finally ending.
I jumped off the plane and walked through the airport. I called my family and texted Brian of my safe arrival. I wandered the terminal toward the Core, the hub of the four terminal wings, and found the tram to take to the landside terminal. Guided by “Ground Transportation” sign, I mazed through the other passengers, TSA agents and airport staff to the doors. There was the 28X bus stop at the left end of the entrance to the airport.
I call Harris to apprise him of my situation and that I should be downtown in 30 minutes. I settle in on the bus, which is shaped like a caricature of a bus and has an out-dated fare box charge 50 cents less than the current fare. It reeked of stale smoke. I texted my friends that I had landed in Pittsburgh and that it was 11 degrees Fahrenheit. I turned up the volume on my iPod.
The airport bus is an express bus and after the first mandatory stops in a shopping center, it travels a third of the route on an bus-only roadway. The bus zips along, clanking and chattering, but it is constantly moving stopping only once en route to the city. A minute prior to exiting the restricted roadway, I see the white sign with royal blue trim and letter of the Pennsylvania road system that labels the geopolitical boundary of the City of Pittsburgh.
The bus enters a tunnel briefly and we spill out the other end, and voila, a grand vista of the city. As you take in the view before you, the bus hits the Fort Pitt Bridge, a yellow planted bridge that crosses over the Mon(ongahela) feet before its waters become the Ohio.
I got off the bus a few stops than I had told Harris, but as stepped down I almost ran into him. “This isn’t 9th and Liberty,” he commented. He was right but I figured that I could get off early and walk the 3 blocks to the pre-appointed corner. We headed back to his apartment so I could drop off my bags, and make a game plan for the day as he whipped up some eggs for brunch.
The plan was simple, I would go to the Warhol Museum definitely and I would find a few other things in town to keep me busy while he could rest between shows. Harris headed off to the matinee and I rested for a little bit. I was up early, ran to the airport, flew across the state and took a shuttle into town. It sounds like nothing but it was exhausting.
I walked over the Seventh Street Bridge, now called the Andy Warhol Bridge, and saw the Alcoa Headquarters, a beautiful modern building of aluminum and glass in sleek wave forms. I got to the Warhol Museum and paid my admission fee.
You must make the trip to Pittsburgh for the Warhol. It was just an experience to see so much recognizable art. I like Warhol’s works, so I was devouring all the art.
Afterwards, I crossed the Sixth Street Bridge, now Roberto Clemente Bridge, while having a phone conversation with one of my favorite Pittsburghers, Quinn. I asked her for a suggestion for a place to eat downtown. I weaved up and down the Burgh’s streets, up Penn and down Liberty. I went to the Point and wandered through PPG Place to find somewhere to eat. I remembered Station Square.
I found myself crossing the Smithfield Street Bridge and the Mon, and finding a chain that we don’t have in Philly for lunch. By the time I was finished, it was 5:15 and I wanted to head back for the key pass off before the second show.
Harris left, and I changed into something more appropriate for the theater and headed out to the O’Reilly Theater. I got my ticket and headed for my seat. My friend from Penn, Wendy, would always say “a good stage manager has the curtain up by 8:12” and at 12 minutes after the house lights were down and the action began.
As for the show, I did a little boning up on Cabaret since I last saw it when I was 16 or 17. There were points in the story I couldn’t remember: Clifford’s sexual ambiguity, the shuttling of funds between Paris and Berlin, or the boarding house in Berlin. I did remember a lot of the songs, and Harris would fill me in on plot points as he would tell me about rehearsals. I went in prepared to get the story without much difficulty.
It was amazing. The papers have been giving it the ravest of reviews. I was so impressed by the actors and the production, and so were other in the audience. Of course, I thought that Harris was the bomb, duh.
Afterwards I caught up with Harris and met his castmates, and a few of us finished the nights with some drinks.
The next day was a quiet and slow one with a walk out to the strip district, brunch at a cute diner and a visit to the Heinz Pittsburgh Regional History Center. After a busy day and a half, we had a quick dinner and then there was the trek out to the airport. I bade Pittsburgh farewell and headed home to Philadelphia.
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