I just finished reading the novel "Jimi Hendrix Turns Eighty" by Tim Sandlin. It's set in 2022. Where have all the hippies gone? Assisted living, that's where. This thing really should be a movie or a sit com, a kind of Tales of the City for old people.
I used to come to the Reading Terminal with my dad when I was a kid. I remember it as being largely wholesale merchants in those days, big hunks of bloody meats, and sawdust on the floor.
It's changed. My daily fresh carrot, kiwi, blueberry juice would hardly have been an option. Same for the Mediterranean stew from the vegetarian stand; and the multigrain rolls and lemon tarts from the Metropolitan Bakery; and the proscuitto-and-mozarella-stuffed peppers that Julia gets at the Italian place; and the turkey sub with everything on it that Moult gets; and the Lo Mien that Jerzy likes; and the strange cream-filled pumpkin patties that Kristara covets.
P.S. I just remembered. I've got bragging rights. I saw Jimi Hendrix in concert. Just him. It was at an outdoor venue, an amphitheater. I didn't know it would turn out to be a big deal, that he wouldn't live much longer and that he'd earn status as legend. Like an antique. Who could have known that your great grandmother's mixing bowl, the one she used to make biscuits and cakes and meatloaf in, would be worth so much today.