A few weekends ago ushered in three events, my one-year anniversary in this fair metropolis, First Friday and Philly Beer Week. The latter two is a wedding of gallery hops with er… um… hopping of another sense. But Beer Week is not for liver-ruining binges, granted for those looking for this outcome, it certainly can be achieved. For those in search of a little more, Philly Beer Week is a celebration of craft beer. With events exploring the history of beer; highlighting smaller, independent breweries; and featuring rare brews; this week is a chance for beer lovers to unite over a nice brew, meet the breweries, and delight in dinner pairings. I started off Beer Week with two educational programs and a romp around Center City’s FF gallery hop before heading north to Fishtown for Frankford’s First Friday (check that alliteration).
Here are photos from the First Friday gallery hops and a few beer week events
Christ Church Burial Grounds, located at 5th and Arch, final resting place of several prominent figures in America’s founding including big Philly beer buff, Benjamin Franklin and Declaration signer/prison reformer/maker of intemperance charts Dr. Benjamin Rush. George Washington’s brewer, the great man who introduced America to the porter, was also laid to rest within the cemetery’s walls.
Francis Hopkinson, signer of the Declaration of Independence and, according to our guide, unrecognized designer of the American flag. Also, a really big fan of beer.
The Sonny Holliday Magic Show or it would have been but Sonny got a little riled at the impatience of a youg’un and obstinately refused to perform.
Beer blimp? The frequency with which I saw this dirigible over the period of beer week led me to question, a blessing over PBW or a portent of sinister events? The most likely option, beer advertisement.
First Friday Frankford, Fishtown (say that 10 times fast).
One of Fishtown’s former booming industries, another being beer. throw in Colonel Mustard and we’ve got a party.
I’ve yet to come across a street performance in this town without someone’s two year old adorably tripping over themselves in time to the music. In this case, the mohawked babe was wiggling to Muse’s “Starlight.” I couldn’t help but feel that the song was at the suggestion of the pre-teen (and I’m assuming Twi-hard) drummer.
In this corner-lot-turned-garden-party, I enjoyed a wonderful rendition of “My Girls” that was Deerhunters-do-Animal Collective. From now on, wherever I go, so too goes my flip recorder.