Mission Brief
The mission was simple: survive two days in the wilds of Philadelphia.
The Planning Phase
Step one: chaos in the group chat (6000 messages in the planning chat, 0 plans made). Half the squad wanted to rough it in Baltimore Friday night, the other half lobbied for rolling into Philly fresh on Saturday morning. After much heated debate (and some questionable reasoning), Baltimore won mostly because someone found a $5 ticket to Philly leaving at 7 a.m.
That left us with the real challenge: packing. Picture this two hours of frantic stuffing, arguing, and redistributing everything Agent Smirnoff owned into four oversized hiking packs. By the end, we looked less like adventurers and more like overburdened sherpas gearing up to trek through uncharted lands. But the bags were packed, the plan was set, and we were officially ready to survive two whole days in the urban wilderness.
Day 1: The Great Escape
The MARC Train Heist
We stumbled onto the very last MARC train at 11:30 p.m, a photo finish that felt more like a prison break than a vacation kickoff. Everyone arrived at the station in varying states of panic, but we made it. The rules of the operation were clear: this was an all-expenses-paid survival trip, emphasis on “all” and “paid.” Translation: no one could spend more than $20 the entire weekend.
Agent Smirnoff’s Domain
Enter Agent Smirnoff. The man thrives in tight budgets and tighter situations. Within minutes, the bottles were out, the vibes were flowing, and he was mid-conversation with a certified baddie. Meanwhile, BBW, Icarus, and Federale launched into their TED Talk: “The Philosophy of Surviving Philly for Two Days.” She humored us, amused but clearly skeptical. Then, with the confidence of someone who had seen things, she delivered one crucial piece of advice: “Whatever you do, don’t camp in downtown Baltimore.” Given the tragic memories of All Exp. 1, we knew she was absolutely, undeniably right.
The Halethorpe Incident
We bailed off the train at Halethorpe (The stop before downtown), a random suburb stop that felt more like a witness protection hideout than the start of an adventure. This is where Agent Smirnoff hit his final form. His eyes lit up—not with survival instincts, but with the primal urge to “rizz.” His decree was simple: “We’re finding a bar.”
So picture this: four lunatics, strapped with hiking packs bigger than our torsos, marching 30 minutes through a dead-silent suburb at midnight. Every dog bark felt like a motion sensor. Every porch light? A spotlight. But somehow, miraculously, we stumbled upon a bar.
Divine Intervention #1
Inside, Smirnoff was in his natural habitat, drink in hand, charisma dialed to 100. He pitched the whole Philly Survival Saga to the bartender like it was a Shark Tank pitch. She laughed, shook her head, and wished us luck… then hit us with a twist worthy of divine intervention: “You can camp in our backyard if you want.”
May the heavens bless her soul. We had found sanctuary.
Camp Chaos
So there we were, pitching tents right next to a train station, feeling like kings of the night. Of course, royalty doesn’t last. Smirnoff, overcome by the spirits of his namesake, absolutely obliterated a tent mat. Federale and Icarus, channeling medieval plague doctors, hosed it down with the bar’s garden pipe. Meanwhile, BBW christened the expedition with his first cigarette of the trip, a solemn Camel Red puff, like he was blessing the journey.
And then… silence. Tents zipped. The suburban wilderness surrounded us. Did we sleep soundly? Hard to say. But we had survived Day One, and in the gospel of broke college expeditions, that was already a miracle.
Day 2: The Awakening
Morning Revelations
Day 2 began like a scene out of a tragicomedy. At exactly 6:30 a.m., the suburban birds chirped us awake, and so did Agent Smirnoff’s groaning. Beside him, BBW sat up, hair wild, muttering the words of a man on the edge: “I can’t do another day of this sober.” His solution? Another Camel Red, ceremoniously lit like it was incense to bless the morning. The smoke curled into the sky, carrying with it a silent prayer: “Please deliver us from our own stupidity.”
It was at this moment that BBW realized what the rest of us had known all along: this trip was, by all definitions, dumb. But dumb in the kind of way you’d tell your grandchildren about. That’s when Icarus and Federale rallied the squad like motivational coaches at halftime: “Come on, it’s not about comfort, it’s about the story!” And somehow, against all odds, that actually worked.
The $8 Uber Renaissance
With morale (barely) patched together, we summoned an $8 Uber, splitting it four ways like the pioneers we were. For two bucks each, we arrived back at the train station, scrubbed the sins of Day One off in the bathroom sink, and stumbled onto the bus to Philly.
Finally, finally, we slept. For the first time in 24 hours, no chaos, no tents, no bar hoses. Just pure, uninterrupted slumber in the embrace of public transportation. And by the time we rolled into downtown Philly, we weren’t just passengers, we were reborn.
We had survived the prologue. Now the real adventure was about to begin.
The Great Gym Heist
By the time we hit Philly, the mission had shifted. Survival was cute and all, but this was supposed to be a vacation. And what’s vacation without a little luxury? We were after saunas, eucalyptus-scented showers, and towel service so fluffy it could double as a mattress.
So we scoured the map and locked onto the crown jewel: City Fitness. A seven-star gym (okay, maybe it was only four, but seven sounds better) that screamed resort vibes. With the cunning of con artists, we booked four separate orientation slots back-to-back, essentially scamming our way into a spa day for free.
The Improv Performance
When we arrived, the front desk innkeeper clocked us immediately. Four disheveled backpackers dragging hiking packs bigger than our torsos? Yeah, we weren’t exactly blending in with the Lululemon crowd. Still, she leaned into the bit, welcoming us like we were totally legit. With a sly grin, she started probing us with questions, fully aware of the ridiculous theater she’d just signed up for.
That’s when brilliance struck: “We’re UPenn students, just checking out gyms in the area.” A collective improv performance was born. We each slipped into our characters like seasoned actors:
- Icarus: the resident troublemaker, cracking jokes about machines, pointing at the rowing machine like, “So when do we actually get in the boat?”
- Agent Smirnoff: the unhinged PhD student
- The Chainsmoker: the reluctant muscle guy, the leader of the pack
- Federale: the intellectual anchor, delivering believable stats and facts that tied the entire nonsense together.
The innkeeper countered with sharper and sharper questions, “Why the tents? Why the hiking packs?”, but we parried like knights of improv. “Well, if we’re already in the area, might as well make a camping trip out of it.” The delivery was seamless, our harmony unshakable. It felt less like survival and more like a Broadway play.
She rewarded our collective performance with a 30-minute tour of the entire facility. We marched through gleaming weight racks and luxury saunas like we owned the place, while Icarus kept derailing the tour—pointing at a squat rack like, “Is this where they hang people who don’t re-rack weights?” The rest of us held character, nodding solemnly as if this was cutting-edge research.
The Royal Treatment
And then… freedom. She set us loose inside the gym, knowing full well what we were doing, but respecting the dedication to the bit. We had walked in as scrappy backpackers, but in that moment, City Fitness became our five-star resort.
What followed was nothing short of a rebirth. We marched straight into the temple of civilization—City Fitness showers—and emerged like royalty. For thirty glorious minutes, each of us indulged in more luxury than we had in the past two days combined: foamy high-end soap, fragrant shampoo, steaming water raining down like a divine blessing. We rotated through like spa veterans—shower, sauna for twenty minutes, shower again, fresh clothes, the works. By the time we were done, our campsite grime was gone, our souls rejuvenated. We were no longer filthy backpackers. We were vacationers. We were kings.
And as every king knows—luxury demands a feast.
The Martyred Innkeeper
But here’s the kicker: our beloved innkeeper got fired the very next week. Maybe it was for letting four feral hikers cosplay as UPenn gym rats, maybe it wasn’t—but in our lore, she was a martyr who sacrificed her job for our wellness.
Icarus and the Great Grubhub Betrayal
Now, no tale of ours is complete without the legendary antics of Icarus, the undisputed king of scams (a title he held proudly until he was fired from his sixth job). In his glory, he whipped out the food delivery apps like a magician producing cards. “Order whatever you want, boys. Feast on my tab.”
It sounded too good to be true. And, of course, it was. Grubhub—battle-scarred veterans of Icarus’ credit card scams—had finally learned his tricks. The moment he tried to play his hand, the app slapped him down. Banned. Locked out. Checkmate.
Defeated but unbroken, we adjusted course with the grace of survivors. If we couldn’t scam our way to steak dinners, we’d embrace the spirit of the trip: five-dollar pizza slices the size of our heads. Hot, greasy, unapologetically cheap. As we sat devouring them, we laughed. It didn’t matter if we lost Grubhub, it didn’t matter if the scams had failed—because at the end of the day, we moved forward.
And in the gospel of survival, that’s all that counts: we adapt, we feast, we survive.
Tourist Trap Syndrome
By this point, we had fully leaned into the idea that this wasn’t just survival—it was a vacation. And what’s a vacation without “seeing the sights”? Problem was… none of us actually knew what there was to do in Philly. To this day, we still don’t.
So we defaulted to the tourist starter pack: the Liberty Bell, Independence Square, all the patriotic jazz. Easy enough, right? Wrong. Try rolling up with four hiking packs stuffed to the brim with tents, sleeping bags, and enough random gear to look like we were prepping for the Appalachian Trail. The security guard’s face said it all—pure confusion. He waved us through, but not without giving us that “are you about to camp inside the exhibit?” stare.
And then… the Bell. The famous Liberty Bell, cracked and legendary. We stood there, nodded solemnly, and thought: “Huh. That’s it?” Same with Independence Square. Same with the other landmarks. We ticked the boxes, shrugged, and agreed unanimously—“Enough history lessons.”
The Chainsmoker’s Ceremonial Rites
Meanwhile, the Chainsmoker was running his own side quest. To mark the halfway point of our grand survival saga, he ceremoniously sparked up not one but two more Camel Reds. Each drag was treated like a medal of honor, smoke drifting into the summer air as if he was personally baptizing Philadelphia in nicotine. By the time we were done sightseeing, he looked less like a tourist and more like the city’s unofficial chimney.
Instead, we claimed a spot in the park, laid our burdens down, and just chilled. In that moment, basking in the glory of our half-baked journey, greasy pizza still sitting heavy in our stomachs, we didn’t need monuments or museums. We were the monument—four idiots who somehow survived Baltimore, conned a luxury gym, and made it to Philly in one piece.
Vacation mode: activated.
The Great Taco Bell Feast
As the sun dipped low, hunger hit us like a freight train. Survival was one thing—but calories were currency, and we were broke kings. The solution? A royal banquet at none other than Taco Bell. Burritos, quesadillas, nachos—we devoured it all, feasting like emperors of the dollar menu. By the time we were done, we weren’t just full—we were legends of processed cheese.
Strategic Bathroom Reconnaissance
Of course, with great feasting comes great responsibility: the urgent quest for bathrooms. This became our true survival strategy, our secret weapon in every city—find a place, sit down like you belong, order nothing, use their resources.
First stop: a Spirit Halloween. It looked promising, but within five minutes we discovered it had an actual lice infestation. Nope. Hard pass. We dipped so fast it was like we were never there.
Next stop: Hard Rock Café. We strolled in with the confidence of rockstars on tour, grabbed seats, and told the waitress we had “every dietary restriction known to man.” Vegan, gluten-free, soy-free, lentil-free—you name it, we claimed it. The poor woman looked at us like we were broken NPCs in her simulation. She gave us water, we used the bathrooms, and then—since they couldn’t cook air—she politely escorted us out. Mission accomplished. Bathrooms: secured.
Barhopping Evangelists
Recharged and hydrated, we hit the bars. And like prophets of chaos, we began pitching the saga of our trip to anyone who’d listen. Four backpackers, two days of survival, one city that never asked for this. Some laughed, some shook their heads, some probably thought we were insane—but for us, it didn’t matter.
The Quest for Night 2 Shelter
By nightfall, reality hit us like a brick: we needed housing for Day 2. And housing, in Philly, is no small feat. Every street felt shady, every corner had an energy that screamed, “You shouldn’t be here.” To make matters even more surreal, a random gay man hit on Agent Smirnoff, asking where we were camping. Smirnoff, true to form, dodged the question like a seasoned spy, but the encounter only reminded us of the razor-thin line between “adventure” and “literal homelessness.”
The 23 Bus to Hell
Then came the 23 bus. Ah, the 23. To the untrained eye, just another bus. To us, a one-way ticket straight into zombie land. Within minutes, it was clear: this wasn’t public transit, it was a live-action horror film. Shootings in the distance, shady deals happening two rows back, a haze of drugs thick enough to be its own passenger. Every stop, we debated: “Do we get off? Or do we risk it?” And every time, fear glued us to our seats.
At that point, it was simple. Philly or Philadelphia, hood or hood-er—we had no other choice. So we said, “Screw it. We ride this beast to the end.”
Divine Intervention #2
And somehow, impossibly, by the final stop, the nightmare dissolved. The bus opened its doors and we stepped out into… paradise? A quaint, cobblestoned town, like we’d accidentally glitched into a Hallmark movie. Once again, divine intervention. God saves us. Twice now.
The Ghost in the Forest
High on relief, we wandered toward the edge of a forest, looking for a place to pitch camp. That’s when we saw her. A ghostly figure in a flowing white robe, drifting across the darkness. For one terrifying second, we were convinced we had stumbled into a haunted dimension. Instinct took over—we bolted straight into the woods, running deeper and deeper until the ghost was nothing but a nightmare behind us.
And then—calm. A quiet clearing. Perfect for camp. Tents went up, bags went down, and for the first time in 48 hours, we weren’t just surviving—we were safe.
That night, after everything—buses, shootings, haunted forests—we slept like absolute babies.
Day 3: The Return to Reality
Corporate Life Intrudes
Day 3 kicked off with a stark reminder that life does not pause for vacations. Federale had office hours. Yes, in the woods. While the rest of us were still reeking of campfire and adventure, he dialed in, showing the world he had a “life” (debateably, though). Emails were sent, questions answered, Zoom calls endured—all while surrounded by trees and the lingering ghosts of our previous night.
The Great Smoothie Betrayal
Eventually, we dragged ourselves back to civilization, catching a bus back to downtown Philly. Adventure mode shifted: survival? Done. Sightseeing? Meh. Now: culinary conquest.
The mission: smoothies. But not just any smoothies—Temu Blender Smoothies. We hit Trader Joes like warriors on a shopping quest, grabbing a laundry list of ingredients: fruits, milk, oats, yogurt, … enough to fuel a small army.
Then came the grind. Literally. On the side of the street, we assembled the smoothie. The blender whirred, hummed, and… nothing. Temu had betrayed us. The blender was a fake. Slowly, painfully, the realization sank in: the Victory Smoothie—our crowning breakfast/lunch glory—was slipping through our fingers.
Raw Victory
What did we do? Did we cry? Did we rage? Nope. True adventurers adapt. We ate everything raw. Fruit chunks, powders, random nut butters—straight into the mouth, breakfast and lunch fused into one chaotic, crunchy, messy feast. Victory, in its purest form, tasted… weirdly delicious.
Icarus’s Final Scam Attempt
Emboldened by raw breakfast/lunch, we spotted a wedding in the distance and thought, why not crash it? Enter Icarus, ever the self-proclaimed king of scams, striding forward like he could talk his way into a fairy-tale reception. Of course, reality had other plans.Three questions in—“Who’s the bride?” “Where’s your plus-one?” “Which side of the family are you from?”—and the illusion crumbled. Icarus flailed, excuses flew, and just like his sixth job, he got politely—but firmly—escorted out. Classic Icarus.
Journey’s End
Undeterred, the rest of us regrouped, boarded the bus, and began the journey home. Philly had tested us, scared us, fed us, haunted us, and yes, embarrassed us. But