Dear Philadelphia:

I think you’re stalking me.

What’s more, I kind of like it.

Two weeks ago, while Mamaist was visiting, I took her up to New York for a day. Not to make her sound too small-town Texan (she’s not – she’s traveled plenty, just not in the Northeast, and besides, El Paso isn’t a small town by any means), but it was her first time visiting the Big Apple, so she had a list a mile long of things she wanted to see in Manhattan. (It’s a good thing I know my way around.) The Statue of Liberty
(from Battery Park – she didn’t need to be in it). The Empire State and Chrysler Buildings. Rockefeller Center. Central Park. The Apple Store on Fifth Avenue (my mom is a tech geek like me). Ma Phillyist also wanted to eat lunch at Carnegie Deli.

Seating at Carnegie Deli is tight. Like, elbow-bumping your neighbor tight. So you can’t help but converse, at least a little, with the people sitting next to you. We ended up chatting briefly with the people who sat at the table beside ours about pickles. They have them in two colors at Carnegie, and we talked about how the bright green ones were different from the yellow-green ones. (At least there weren’t any red ones.) The conversation came to an end quickly enough when Mamaist and I were delivered what seemed like eight pounds of smoked meat between two slices of rye bread.

Positively enraptured by my sandwich, I decided to say something profound. (Or at least, I thought it was profound at the time.) “It’s all about the rye bread. In Philly, they put everything on a hoagie roll.”

“Careful what you say about Philly!” said the woman sitting beside my mother. “We’re from there!”

“So is she!” my mother exclaimed.

“Really?”

“Well,” Mamaist clarified, “she’s from Texas. But she lives in Philadelphia now.”

And we were off. Turns out that the couple seated beside us actually live in Wayne now – a town I’ve become pretty familiar with since I started dating my boyfriend. Before they were in Wayne, they lived, quite literally, around the corner from my current apartment in Center City. What’s more, they own a well-established sign-making shop not far from my neighborhood – and they make signs “all the time” for the building where my office is located.

As we talked, we continued to chow down on our sandwiches (pastrami for us, corned beef for them), until it became clear that Mamaist and I were full. “It’s too bad we don’t have the dogs here,” she lamented. “They’d love these scraps.”

“Oh, you have dogs?” the woman asked. “What kind of dogs?”

"Well, we have a long-haired German shepherd –" Ma Phillyist began.

“You do not!”

“Yeah, we do. Ranger. He’s almost four.”

“We have a long-haired German shepherd, too!” Her eyes welled up and she leaned over to hug my mother. “You’re Jewish, right?”

My mom nodded, slightly taken aback. We are, but neither of us gives off that impression. Our last name is “Ivey,” for chrissake.

“You know what this is?” the woman continued. “This is bashert. It’s fate! We were meant to meet today.”

Her husband turned to me. “You should come visit our shop. You’re so close.”

“Oh yes!” the woman exclaimed. “And we’ll take a picture of you with our dog and send it to your mom so that she knows you’re not completely away from German shepherds!”

“You know what?” I told her. “I think I will come visit you.”

At that point, it was time to leave Carnegie Deli and continue seeing the sights in Manhattan. But I think that one of the real highlights of the trip was finding two Philadelphians in Midtown Manhattan. I haven’t been by to visit them yet, but I most certainly will.

You follow me everywhere, Philly. And I don’t mind one bit.

Photo of Ranger, the dog who started it all, and his pal Lily, via Mamaist.