Born a third-generation American, I was raised with a vivid sense of pride for my country. Born in New York City, however, my perception of what this country exactly is remained far more tenuous for a long time. What did the soil feel like one thousand miles away from either coast? What scent did the trees give off resting between the Appalachians and the Rockies? Most importantly, what were other Americans like? What does that word mean, apart from the ideals and laws we all uphold and debate over? I set off from my home city with two close friends, determined to make it to the west end of South Dakota, committed to answering these questions. 

The beating heart of Center City – with its restaurants, high-fashion boutiques and tourist attractions – pumps life to the extremities: west to Mantua, north to Olney, south to Point Breeze, and along that massive artery the Delaware into Fishtown, which I presently call home.  We are a city of neighborhoods – each with its own distinct heritage, demography, and architecture. We are an old city, a city of revolutionaries who told the British where they could stick it. We are New York's precocious cousin where you can still throw a rock without hitting someone, buy dinner and a drink for under $20, and get a Big Gulp should the mood strike.