W. C. Fields, real name William Claude Dukenfield, the famous American actor, comedian, juggler and writer active in the early 20th century, was well-known for his dry humour and cynical wit. Born near Philadelphia in 1880, he often referred to his birthplace in funny but disparaging remarks. One might wonder how, if prompted, he might have written a travel story that gives some clue to his true impressions. So, we asked him.
I once remarked—rashly, perhaps, but never inaccurately—that first prize was a week in Philadelphia, and second prize was two weeks. This observation has followed me about like a persistent creditor, tapping me on the shoulder at dinner parties and insisting on an explanation. Very well. Pour yourself something medicinal, pull up a chair, and I shall explain how a simple visit to the City of Brotherly Love became a test of human endurance and liver fortitude.
I arrived in Philadelphia with the optimism of a man who has not yet unpacked his bags. The station itself greeted me like a brick wall with ambitions. Philadelphia, you see, has an architectural devotion to brownstone and red brick so sincere it borders on a moral philosophy. The buildings stand square-shouldered and unamused, as though they’ve seen things—most of them involving me—and disapproved of every last detail.
My hotel room was efficient in the same way a coffin is efficient. It contained everything strictly necessary and nothing that might encourage joy. The window looked out upon an alley where the sunlight went to retire. Somewhere below, a trolley bell clanged with the enthusiasm of a man who hates his job but refuses to quit.
Philadelphia prides itself on history, and it will not let you forget it. History leans out from behind every corner, taps you with a quill pen, and asks if you’ve got a minute to discuss 1776. I was marched—figuratively and then quite literally—past houses where Founding Fathers slept, argued, perspired, and possibly wished they’d chosen Florida. These homes are preserved with a reverence usually reserved for saints’ bones. One is expected to whisper, nod solemnly, and imagine powdered wigs solving problems that modern men prefer to ignore.
The locals, earnest and well-meaning, insisted on educating me. “You must see Independence Hall,” they said, with the air of people suggesting oxygen. I saw it. I admired it. I stood in it. And after fifteen minutes, I felt independent enough to leave. But Philadelphia does not permit you to leave history behind so easily. Liberty Bell, they cried. And there it was: cracked, famous, and surrounded by tourists photographing it as though it might run away if not documented.
The food was substantial—heroic, even, but carried a certain aggressive sincerity. Cheesesteaks arrived wrapped like confidential documents and weighed roughly the same as a small anvil. After three days of them, I began to walk at an angle. The city’s beer was honest, straightforward, and plentiful, which was fortunate, because I required it constantly.
Entertainment in Philadelphia has a civic quality. People do not so much relax as *participate responsibly*. Evenings were spent in respectable establishments where the patrons drank politely and talked about sensible matters. I attempted to introduce frivolity but was met with expressions suggesting I had asked to juggle raccoons in church. My jokes landed with the soft thud of a sponge against a courthouse wall.
By the fourth day, the city and I had reached an understanding. It would remain resolutely Philadelphia, and I would remain mildly irritated. I walked the streets, past orderly rows of houses that looked as though they had been aligned with a ruler and a stern lecture. Everything functioned. Everything worked. Nothing surprised me. This, I believe, was the true crime.
A week in Philadelphia is survivable. One adapts. One learns the rhythm of the trolley bells and the moral weight of brick. One finds a bar that pours generously and asks few questions. But two weeks—two weeks is a sentence. By that point, the city has shown you all its virtues repeatedly, and you have nodded at each one like a man agreeing to terms he cannot escape.
So when I said that first prize was a week and second prize was two, I was not insulting Philadelphia. Heaven forbid. I was merely acknowledging its power. Philadelphia is not a place you conquer; it is a place you endure with dignity and a well-stocked flask. It is a city that knows exactly what it is and has no intention of changing for you—or anyone else.
And that, my friends, is why I left at the end of my week, tipped my hat to the nearest historical marker, and departed with relief, admiration, and a renewed appreciation for places where surprise is not considered a character flaw.
