Every year, Philly holds a Saint Patrick's Day parade. And while we don't pull a Chicago and dye the Schuylkill green (it's pretty gross anyway), it's usually a nice little affair.
Two years ago I was actually in the city on March 17 to film a video for a group project, and though my Irish half will never forgive me for it, I'd completely forgotten that it was St. Patty's Day.
It was absolutely miserable outside. It had been raining since early that morning, I had forgotten an umbrella, and I had no idea where I was supposed to meet my group. Frustrated and soaked to the skin, I was fuming in a doorway by City Hall, waiting for the rain to let up, when I heard bagpipes.
Bedraggled, soaking wet and somehow still smiling, what looked like half the archdiocese's priest contingent rounded the corner, led by our then-newly-appointed Cardinal Rigali. The streets were absolutely empty, but there they were, flanked by bagpipe players and the city police department, marching on. Everyone waved at me. It was adorable.
If there's one thing the Irish are good at, it's tradition, and it's good to know that no matter what, on March 17, come rain, snow or ridiculous hangovers, there will always be a parade somewhere.
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(And for your listening pleasure, some Chieftans, for obvious reasons.)
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