The Favorite Place to Go in My City Is No Longer There

When today’s writing prompt asked, “What is your favorite place to go in your city?” my answer came instantly—but it’s a place that doesn’t exist anymore, at least not in the way I knew it. If you walk through Center City Philadelphia today, you’ll see expensive restaurants, polished storefronts, corporate glass, and boutiques that feel more like showrooms than shops. But the place I loved—the place that shaped who I became—was a very different Philadelphia.

When I was a boy, around 9 to 12 years old, my father had a tradition: the day after Thanksgiving, he’d take me downtown to Market Street. It wasn’t “Black Friday” back then, at least not to us. We weren’t there for department store windows or Christmas decor. Our destination was the stretch of small, cluttered, family-run hardgoods and Army-Navy shops that lined Market Street like a mismatched row of treasure chests.

Market Street in the late 1960s crackled with life. Wide sidewalks jammed with people. Mom-and-pop storefronts squeezed shoulder to shoulder. Hardware stores with windows stacked high with tools. Army-Navy surplus shops spilling jackets, boots, helmets, canvas bags, and enough military gear to outfit a platoon. The air smelled like pretzels, hotdogs, roasted chestnuts, and diesel. Delivery trucks clattered, vendors hollered, and the whole street buzzed like a hive. It was gritty, loud, and imperfect. But God, it had soul.

My dad—who I would eventually nickname “Mr. Gadget”—loved those stores more than anything. He had an obsession for things you might “possibly need someday,” even though we never actually used most of it. He’d dig through bins of wrenches, nails, canteens, dummy rifles, knives, tarps, flashlights, ropes—anything with potential. The aisles were narrow, the wooden floors creaked, and the shopkeepers were old-school Philly guys in aprons who knew every inch of their stock. Those shops had a heartbeat. Every cardboard box, every cluttered shelf held mystery. You never knew what you’d find.

I’m convinced that’s where my antique hunting passion was born—right there among the surplus shovels and dusty shelves.

Getting there was an adventure in itself. We’d walk down Lasher Road in Drexel Hill to catch the Red Arrow trolley to 69th Street, then hop on the El. He didn’t call it the subway—it was “the El,” because half the ride was elevated above Market Street before it dove underground. When it did, the smell changed instantly—musty, metallic, unforgettable. I think he took me on that trip not for fun, but to show me how to navigate a city, how to move through the world. Lessons disguised as outings.

Our first stop downtown was always the Horn & Hardart Automat at 9th and Market. Breakfast came out of little glass doors, and the coffee poured from those famous dolphin-head spouts. That place was magic—a whole city eating in one giant humming room.

Then we’d hit Market Street. Without fail, I’d forget my hat or gloves, and he’d end up buying me a heavy wool set because it was always freezing. He held my hand the whole way, but never palm-to-palm. Instead, he curled his fingers around mine, nails digging just enough to sting. That was affection back then. Fathers weren’t huggers, and kids didn’t complain.

Those days were a mix of wonder, fear, pride, and the simple comfort of being with my dad. I didn’t know it then, but he was teaching me resilience, independence, and a certain kind of confidence that would later help me survive New York City in my twenties. He was teaching me retail, too—how to spot value, how to hunt, how to pay attention.

And now, that entire world is gone.

The gritty charm, the cluttered shops, the men in aprons, the chaos, the smells, the noise, the possibility—it’s all been replaced by clean glass, polished concrete, upscale menus, and stores that feel like they came off an assembly line. Progress, I guess. But something was lost along the way.

So when someone asks me, “What’s your favorite place to go in your city?” I think of a place that exists only in memory. A place where a father and son rode the El into a bustling, imperfect Philadelphia, walked through a maze of shops overflowing with treasures, and bought things we didn’t need but loved anyway.

The favorite place in my city disappeared years ago.
But it still lives inside me—shaping who I became and reminding me where my fire for treasure hunting, retail, and the thrill of discovery truly began.