Stuck in the city of brotherly love. This isn’t a terminal. It’s the biggest hotel room I’ve ever been in, and it seems to be all mine. Well not exactly. I’m sharing this ‘room’ with a scattered amount of fellow passengers who share a unique bond. We all seem to view Continental Airlines as an entity, the value of which is akin to a steaming heap of camel poo. I’ll begin at the beginning which is a good place to begin. Arrived in Philadelphia last night and made my way to the incredible Warwick hotel in the historic heart of downtown. This is a good time to mention that the drivers cut me off like a bad Oscar speech time and time again. So I walked through the ornate doors past the consignere who tipped his hat, beneath the massive crystal chandelier, checked in at the marble counter, and headed down the marble hallway to get on the gold elevator. Got to room 714, put my bags down, threw the curtains back, and behold, a brick wall. So much for the view. Primetime tv doesn’t excite me much but how often do you get to wander downtown Philly? I headed out on the street which was bustling with activity. The steam escaping the manholes, the smell of four star cuisine and cheese steak together, the century old skyscrapers hugging modern marvels in a way where neither seem out of place. There’s this guy who is playing the banjo, and he’s really good. I’ll remember him more in the morning when, on my way to a meeting, I’ll see him again. Same corner, still playing with all the fury of a mad hornet. I pass a long, narrow alley. A thin black man in the shadows asks for some french fries. I tell him I’ll spot him a buck if he can tell me where to find some good jazz. He steps into the light and, with bright eyes says, “Little place. Fo blocks nof. Follow the music.” I thank him and head north, counting off the four blocks. A gray awning shelters the patrons, nicely dressed, standing outside. I wander through the door and let my eyes adjust to the dimly lit atmosphere. It’s packed, and peaceful. An elderly black man is unpacking a trumpet in the corner. A large grand piano sits just beyond him. The hostess signals to me, “Just one?” I nod. She leads me to a small table near the stage. I’m surprised that there’s one left. With the aging brick wall to my back, I scan my surroundings. An old black man is sitting to my left and as he slowly turns his entire body to face me, I smile. He says, “Evening. My name is Wayne. You new here?” Is he kidding? This is like church with a set of regular attendees. I find out that Wayne lives down the street a block. Grew up here. Now in his 70’s, he begins to tell me how he would come here and listen to Miles Davis, Charlie Parker, and Dizzy. “Dizzy come here, nobody know when. Jus show up. Miles come here, play til 2am. Sit at the bar, alone. Nobody go near Miles. People come, hear him play, they get scared. His genius was,,,,(pause),,,,terrifying!” He goes on. “You go near Miles, he in his zone, he look at you with a look, make you back away.” He laughs. His story obviously has me transfixed. I want him to go on but he turns away. The old man on the stage introduces the next song. “For New Orleans.” His muted trumpet, seamlessly blended with the small trio behind him, plays one of the saddest, most beautiful pieces of classic Jazz I’ve ever heard. I’m hooked. I can’t take my eyes off this guy. By the time I snap to reality and look at my watch, it’s well past midnight. I’d better head back, I think. Stepping outside, the city is still alive. I’m glad as I wander toward the hotel. I’ll never forget my conversation with Wayne, and the terrifying genius of Miles Davis. I fall asleep, the sound of that muted trumpet, still going through my head. ...To Be Continued...