The historic American experience. Free live concerts. Skyscrapers. Old-looking buildings. Street art. Both rude and polite people...

These words, taken from a tourist's Internet travel diary about his visit to Philadelphia, left me feeling homesick in Austin, Texas, about 1,600 miles away. The history and culture, the beat of a city as old as the nation. That's my Philadelphia.

I have lived in several states - California, Washington and now Texas for about three-and-a-half years - but I'll always be a Philly girl. Growing up in the city, you don't fully realize how much it becomes a part of you. You move away, thinking perhaps the suburbs are better, or perhaps the country. You don't really believe you'll miss the rowhouses, the street sounds and, yes, the rude and polite people.

Much of my longing centers on food. Consider this: I have walked into a deli in Texas, asked for a hoagie and received nothing but a blank, uncomprehending stare.

"Yes, I said a hoagie," I insist. I know I'm speaking English. What don't they understand?

During the '60s, my sister and I were close enough in age to develop our own language. In our world, the words hoagie and craving were synonymous. This association began one day when we were both desperate for the meaty, provolone-laden, Italian feast on a fresh, crusty roll. We had to have one now! (You know the feeling.)

After that, we routinely replaced the word craving with the word hoagie. We came up with such convoluted sentences as, "I have a hoagie for a Coke" or, "I have a hoagie to go shopping."

Why doesn't the deli counterman know what a hoagie is? After all, in my world, it is the root of all desire.

"Oh, you mean a sub?" he finally replied. "OK," I conceded. "I'm hungry. If you want to call it a sub, we'll call it a sub."

Then I began educating him about condiments. "Do you want mustard or mayonnaise on that?" he asked. "I want oil, vinegar and oregano," I said, bringing on another blank stare.

Clearly, I am in another country where the locals don't speak my language.

Though Texans are ignorant about hoagies, they have heard of Philly cheesesteaks and try to reproduce them. But would any self-respecting Philadelphian trust a restaurant with a name like Texadelphia?

Texadelphia advertises "Philly style cheesesteaks" and folks around here think they're just great. They eat one and think they've taken a mini-trip to the land of Mummers. I eat one and remember just how far away Philly is.

Here we get a little sliced steak, a few onions, gooey, artificial cheese and a little pizza sauce on a too-soft roll - no crusty crust, just a mushy, doughy roll. This is a cheesesteak? Texans should stick to barbecued brisket.

I didn't realize how much I would miss shoofly pie and soft pretzels, or that the jingle for Tastykakes would live on in my head like a Top 10 hit song. (Oh, for Peanut Butter Kandy Kakes fresh from the factory!) And no one told me that west of Philly there would be very few old-fashioned diners or street vendors.

I really miss the street vendors, selling their food and wares, along with the street entertainers, the free shows, wall murals, and artists with sidewalk studios. To me, Philadelphia is a city with a heartbeat, one with more talent than its walls can contain.

My own beat was Motown. I could do the disco spin better than anyone I knew. My friends were as interesting as the neighborhoods that produced them - Jewish, African American, Hispanic, Indian, Italian, Irish - each one only a train stop away. I also didn't know I would miss this racial and cultural diversity. In fact, I miss it more than hoagies. I could say, "I have a hoagie for some cultural diversity."

Comedian W.C. Fields, born in Philadelphia, left the area to work as a stage performer in New York and as a film star in California. He suggested that his epitaph should read, "Here lies W.C. Fields. I would rather be living in Philadelphia."

I guess he missed the city, too.