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Tourist season has just barely begun here in Philadelphia, the “City of Brotherly Love,” but you wouldn’t know it by looking at the hordes of people jamming the sidewalks. With cameras glued to their faces (and earbuds blocking any outside noises), the gawkers are oblivious to those of us who live here. We edge around the posed photo-ops, trying to avoid being part of anyone’s ‘what I did on my summer vacation.’ We cross streets to avoid being sucked into the massive amoeba-like student groups. We plan our route so that we pass the minimal number of historic sites possible on the way to and from our destinations.

It never occurred to me, when we chose to live in this part of town, that the historic district also meant the tourist district. I just liked it because it’s vibrant with lots of shops and restaurants and many old warehouses renovated into condos. It’s within walking distant of the Reading Terminal Market and a couple of decent grocery stores. The subway is convenient to get to more far-flung parts of town. From my front door, I can walk in four directions and find interesting things to see in safe neighborhoods. Now, though, as summer begins, I’m beginning to rethink my decision.

Once upon a very long time ago, I visited Philadelphia with my parents. I saw Independence Hall and felt the crack in the Liberty Bell. I had lox and bagels at the Famous Fourth Street Diner.  I liked the city then, though it was much grittier than it is now. That vibe I mentioned earlier? I could feel it, then, too, even as a teenager. Maybe that’s what drew me back here all these years later. Maybe Philadelphia has been calling to me all along. It’s my place; I just didn’t know it until now. But the tourists are going to drive me crazy!

So, what am I going to do about it? I’m not going to beat them, that’s for sure. Trust me, there are waaay too many of them to battle. Instead, I’ve decided I’m going to join them. I’m going to take back a piece of my new city for me. I will gawk and stare and appreciate all the historic landmarks alongside the most dedicated tourist. Betsy Ross and Benjamin Franklin, look out: here I come.

My mother has a tradition at Thanksgiving. We all hold hands, the meal spread before us on the table, and tell everyone assembled what we’re thankful for this year. When I was a kid, this made me cringe. First, the tradition made sure everyone was staring at me—horrifying when I was a self-conscious teenager. Second, what the heck was I going to say? I would obsess for days ahead of time to come up with the perfect short, thoughtful phrase. Inevitably, I would flub it and a slight titter (or out-right guffaw from my brother) would circle the table. Eventually, as I matured, I learned to play to the crowd, keep it simple and the moments eased on by.

These days, it’s so easy to focus on the worst. Crisis after crisis hits the headlines and pops out of every mouth, TV, blog or tweet. The stories are frightening and devastating. Every-day life is full of small calamities, too: the car breaks down, the toilet backs up, the cat throws up on the new sofa, bad hair, really bad dust-bunnies. Sometimes it seems like there’s nothing to be grateful for. Then Thanksgiving arrives and I remember my mother’s tradition. I spend a few days thinking about all the great things in my life and I re-focus on what’s important: family, love, laughter.

This Thanksgiving, I won’t be sharing a meal with my family, but maybe that’s a good thing. The turkey would need a sweater to keep from catching a chill while I list all the things I’m thankful for this year. I have a wonderful husband. I have terrific friends, some of whom just helped us move. You have to be grateful for people who help you haul an eight-foot sofa up five flights of stairs. I get to write every day. I have romance readers who enjoy my stories. The list goes on and on.

Now I’m going to pass this wonderful tradition on to you. Join hands, everyone. What are you thankful for this year?

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Welcome to my thoughts about writing, romance and anything else that occurs in the course of a writer’s life.  Or anything that occurs in a boater’s life, too.  If you’ve clicked around my site, you know  that I live on a 40 foot sailboat.  I’m about to sail to Maine from the Chesapeake Bay–we plan to leave next week, if the weather works out.

How often should you expect to hear from me?  That depends on the wind, the waves, writing and internet connection.  My life is one of random, sporadic connections with people, places and the world-wide-web.  Sailing is a fluid endeavor, as is writing.

Come back and visit from time to time and get to know a bit more about my world.

Cheers!

Lisa