City of Brotherly Love ... and Advice
By Jeanne Robertson
My suitcase on wheels acted like a young child pulling against me when I arrived at the Philadelphia airport. The plane was late and my clothes were so wrinkled that I looked like I had just spent five days in flight. I was tired. My feet hurt. My bursitis shoulder ached, and my bags seemed to have doubled in size. The steady drum of airport announcements was getting on my nerves.
There were few passengers in the halls as I trudged toward the escalator.
"Oh, great," I thought in disgust when I arrived at the top of what should
have been moving steps. The small sign said "turned off." My shoulders
sagged. I was going to have to pick up that heavy rolling cart and hanging
bag and carry them down the steps.
Then I remembered. Near every escalator, there is an elevator.
Almost tripping myself when I rearranged the wheels, I walked around
the corner dragging everything behind me. Yep, there it was, complete with a sign that reported, "Out of order."
My attention was diverted to a man who was leaning against the wall, watching me make these discoveries. The words on his shirt told me he worked at the airport.
"Well," I began. "I have just arrived in the City of Brotherly Love, and your escalator is turned off and your elevator is out of order."
He didn't alter his position against the wall as he snapped his fingers, pointed in my direction, and said, "The Liberty Bell is cracked, too."
Jeanne Robertson, professional speaker and author, can be reached through
Photo by Kleeberg Studio.