The Urban Legend

When the Eagles are playing, or if it’s a particularly nice day, or a particularly unpleasant day, or if I’ve locked myself out of my house. All one needs is some type of fun beverage (I’m partial to a local Yards beer from the Whole Foods or the beverage distributor that used to sell me beer in high school), the proper weather equipment (fan, sweater, blanket, or aforementioned fun beverage), something good to complain about (depending on the season, a particularly galling loss by the Eagles/Flyers/Phillies/Sixers will typically suffice), and the star of the show – a stoop.

Potentially unfamiliar to those from suburbia, or those with actual front yards, or those that did not grow up in a city with such an obnoxious and persistent street culture, your stoop is your kingdom. In Philadelphia, we have two general categories of stoop, complete with underlying judgments. The fancy, snooty brownstone stoop, typically found on the numbered north-south streets, is much farther from the street, usually has an awkward amount of space between steps that is not quite conducive to sitting, and is a decidedly suboptimal stooping spot. On the other hand, on the smaller side streets and the east-west (usually tree-named) streets have perfectly shaped two- or three-step stoops, never more than yelling distance from a neighbor. Although, to be fair, in Philadelphia, our default volume is yelling. My stoop is painted white and is shared with my neighbors, with a small ridge in the middle that’s perfectly shaped for holding a pint or a wine glass. It’s framed with a black iron railing that is about a hundred years old and looks it. There are several potential stooping positions, depending on age, agility, and how the wind is blowing. For the lucky folks whose stoop railings are not rickety and terrifying, one can lean back against the railing, extend their legs, and have a nice unobstructed view down the block. Given that my mom and I often chat with our across the street neighbors while stooping, we tend to adopt the traditional position, sitting on the top stoop with feet on the bottom step (for a normal sitting position) or second step (for added coziness). This way, you can lean against your front door and survey the block in both directions. Legs can also be crossed, in pretzel form or at the knee or the ankle. An older stooper might bring a supplementary camping chair out, often kept specifically for this purpose. Younger stoopers often stray (literally) towards the street, or play hopscotch and run around under the watchful eye of one parent (the one who drew the short straw and has to watch their partner enjoy a beer while they take first watch). Cars rarely dare to interrupt the stooping, and if they do, they will often be met with choice words.

Sometimes joined by neighboring dogs, and occasionally my cat, we stoop through all of the seasons. Brought together by pure chance, my neighbors know more about me than some of my more distant (or maybe not so distant) family members. My block runs the gamut in every way – generations, birthplaces, ages. On one side of my house, a group of three young men that my mom, sister, and I collectively have a crush on and affectionately call “the bros” – finance types who wear fleece vests and are always rushing out of the house at 9pm on the weekend with an obscene amount of Pabst Blue Ribbon and White Claw. On the other side, several different mid-20s couples have moved in and out – most memorably, the French husband and American wife who looked after our cat on occasion, made fun of my French, and commented on how “high maintenance” our beloved feline is – we were terribly sad when they moved to the suburbs. Down the block, a Puerto Rican family that’s lived in the neighborhood across generations, with the dad who’s always outside washing his car and the eldest son blushing as he comes home from a date with his girlfriend. The eccentric middle-aged woman who somehow manages to be in everyone’s business at once, and is inexplicably now living in Costa Rica and Airbnb’ing her house, but still consistently gossiping on the block text chain. The young family who owns a great brewery and has a daughter named Winona, which I’ve added to my personal baby name list – they have a beautiful house that I always peek into when I’m walking back from the bus stop. The couple, about my mom’s age, that we’ve befriended solely through talking about our cats and the Eagles over margaritas at the corner bar. An older woman down the street who is always sitting behind her glass door and used to glare at me if my skirt was too short while I was walking to the trolley in high school. 

The beauty of stooping is that it does not require intensive social interaction, and it’s almost entirely spontaneous – no need to rearrange schedules, or try to pick out a fancy sounding bottle of wine under $10 at Whole Foods (a Herculean task), or pretend to care about the renovations your neighbor is doing that probably cost more than your entire house. You can bring a book, a friend, a family member, or even a laptop (I’ve been known to work-from-stoop on occasion). You can laugh, joke, pry, exchange favors, ingratiate yourself with neighbors who own a great brewery, and share space intentionally with the people you’ve been forced to share space with unintentionally. 

I’ve recently relocated to a stoopless Parisian fourth floor walkup – and Paris is wonderful, livable, and dynamic. In terms of street (and stoop) life, however, Philadelphia comes out on top every time.