count us as the foul, fetid, fuming, foggy filthy 2.7

Why 2.7? That’s how many New Yorkers move every day to Philadelphia. We count Scout, our middle-aged kitten-sized black cat, as the .7, though she’d likely object to such a characterization if she could.

Remember my reference last month to “some other, little-engine-that-could town?” I meant my fiancee’s home town, which was one of the first words I spoke to her when we met. “You’re from Philadelphia? My job has an office there — I love that town!”¬† We lived in San Francisco then, before being chased out of that city by skinny millionaires and my own mid-life crisis and homing-pigeon drive to live in NYC.

Then, this spring, a job possibility in Philly re-opened the prospect of moving there — and we sort of realized it made sense. Not just because of escalating housing costs, either. And not *only* because our vote this fall will count for more there.

I’ll write more about why as the transition proceeeds. Meanwhile, today (and there) temps exceed 100 degrees — reminding me of my time in Madyha Pradesh, while putting songs from this beloved musical in mind: “In foul, fetid, fuming, foggy filthy…Philadelphia!”

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