South Street Philadelphia
A good way to spend your day
photo by Velena. Primorac
Above: Marko requests a crooked picture to show off his
brand new leather jacket, purchased at Western Wear on
South Street. Editor's Note: Marko requested we warn
readers about Western Wear. The zipper on his leather
jacket busted three weeks later. Good thing it was only
$350.
Photos above and at right by Marko Primorac
Above: Marko's sister, Velena,
accompanied him on his trek to South
Street to do some shopping and see
the sights. Right: A shot of downtown
Philadelphia's South Street, near the
intersection of Ninth Street.
Just and hour and some change away, Philadelphia is worth the drive. A
few weeks ago, I finally broke my routine of slaving over school and work.
After waiting only two hours for her to get ready, I hopped into my filthy ride
and took my sister and myself speeding down the Turnpike, to the Valley Forge
Exit, and then down to Philly. Traffic was not too bad (the toll was $3.50), and
luckily, once we hit South Street, we found a parking spot right away (travelers
beware, the parking meters on South Street are up to two hours only: tickets are
$15.00).
What is there to do on South Street on an early Thursday afternoon?
Take your pick: shopping, bar hopping, eating, getting a fix of caffeine (and,
from the looks of some of the people walking around, fixes of different chemi
cals, if that's your style),
staring (there are many
interesting folks on and
around South Street), or
just wandering around. At
the insistence of my sister,
"we" chose to shop. I
needed a new jacket, and I
haven't purchased any
bare necessities in almost
three years, so I played
along. It took me five
minutes in "Western
Wear," a good place to get a leather. I bought one there six years ago and if it
were not for my arms getting longer than the sleeves, I would still be sporting it
I struck a deal: leather jacket with kicks for $350 (no more lunch or dinner for
the next month, but it's worth it).
My sister still was still on her quest for "the perfect jeans," and had no
luck in "Western Wear." So we moved on, strolling up and down South Street,
and she stopped in every boutique until she wandered into one with "the perfect
jeans." Finally, after nearly forty minutes of going in and out of the fitting room,
her personal Odyssey was over. The price was obscene, but the quest was finally
complete and my sister was glowing (not only were the jeans "perfection," but
they were made by a mascara wearing guy, a private designer who worked in the
store).
BY Marko Primorac
Capital Times Staff Reporter
Continued on page 7