Philadelphia - February 2002

Melanie and Cindy whipped this little weekend together on Thursday morning; by Friday noon all the reservations were in place and we were on the road by 8 p.m. that night. Melanie drove, which probably shaved a half hour off the drive from DC to Philly. I think it was about two hours door-to-door. Whew.

Our accomodations were at the Alexander Inn, in the maze of narrow one-way streets between downtown and the historic district. It's a classy place, recently renovated with an art-deco look, and the staff is cheerful and attentive. Note that it bills itself as a bed-and-breakfast; breakfast here is continental, so I guess that makes the Hampton Inn by the interstate a bed-and-breakfast too. Not to bust on the hotel, but "B&B" has a more cozy, home-cooked connotation than that. Look, breakfast was fine, just continental, that's all.

Since we were unpacked by 10:30 we struck off to find a nightcap - this neighborhood is very active at night, and as is our wont we settled in at the closest Irish Pub, a few blocks over on Walnut St. Decent food, good beer, service a little bit taxed by the after-theatre crowd.

Philadelphia's a pretty compressed town, with a lot of pre-automobile dimensions. Still, it's nice to see so many trees rising above the rooftops.

Our first mission on Saturday morning was a trip to the Barnes Foundation museum a few miles outside of town. Okay so it turned out to be the second mission, as the road took us past a Saks during a Lancome gift-with-purchase event, and the ladies wouldn't stop screaming until Eric agreed to stop. Lamenting that "we purposely married women who don't do that" Eric and I cooled our heels in the store parking lot before continuing on to the museum. The Barnes collection is tucked away on an estate in the suburb of Merion. Access is tightly controlled - Melanie had to reserve tickets the day before over the phone, and all bags and coats must be checked. But the collection is fantastic, with some heavy-hitting French Impressionists, a few Van Goghs and my introduction to Chaim Soutine. A must-see.

Note: traffic in downtown Phildaelphia is miserable on a Saturday afternoon. Or maybe it was just all that Groundhog Day excitement that flooded the streets. Across from the Irish Pub is the Caribou, a French bistro with fine food (save for the tomato soup), an American bartender who likes us and a French waiter who hates us. Worth a roll of the dice.

After our late lunch Melanie and I struck off on foot to check out Independence Hall and the Liberty Bell, a brisk 15-minute walk away. We learned the hard way to plan ahead - the days of a quick visit to either location are over, with Park Service barricades and guided tours the new world order.

The Liberty Bell closes at 5 p.m. We arrived at 4:45, and the Park Service official working the line informed us (and everyone who would arrive after us) that chances were not good that we'd have time to make it through the magnetometer and get to see the bell. "In the name of Liberty" a young ranger closed off the barricade. Melanie and I had nothing better to do, so we waited... and managed to squeak in under the wire.

Three guards worked the magnetometer. I had to doff my baseball cap twice. I think the arrangement could be more efficient, though I hesitate to say that lest the terrorists win. We caught the tail end of the last official presentation, and as the previous group filtered out we convinced the young ranger to give us poor stragglers a 5-cent presentation in the name of Liberty.

He happily obliged, and we got the real story of the crack - the bell slowly split (and was drilled out) over 90 years, until the hairline buzzed its way all the way to the top - drilling out the crack at that point would split the bell completely. As the bell had become a symbol of the emancipation movement it was retired intact rather than being melted down and recast.

The next morning before collecting our car at the garage a few blocks from the hotel we took the time to grab a few final pictures.