The history of religious freedom in the city is practically synonymous with the background to this plot of land, which was originally reserved in 1693 by William Penn for the burial of his fellow Quakers. In 1804, a meeting house was built on the site, and it still serves as a forum for gatherings, in the West room. The adjoining exhibitions in the East room are modestly presented, but careful examination can teach you about more than just the building's origins: Lovingly put-together tableaux depict scenes from Penn's life, reflecting his peaceable philosophy, such as his supposed refusal to carry a sword and his efforts to build accords with American Indians, while a huge facsimile map shows the division of Pennsylvania land at the time of the city's founding. Naturally, the greatest assets for visitors are the super-knowledgeable, ever-present guides, who'll talk you though everything from the building's architecture to the Friends movement's luminaries, such as abolitionist and feminist Lucretia Mott, who met there. And the site isn't without its eerier side: Beneath the building itself, the bodies of an estimated 20,000 yellow-fever victims lie in mass graves, a sad reminder of the epidemics that swept the city in 1793. The meeting house, then, is a quiet place, but steeped in little-known history.

Atwater Kent Museum

For 109 years, the John Haviland-designed building that is now the Atwater Kent Museum was the home of the Franklin Institute. Shortly after the Institute's move to the Parkway, a radio manufacturer named A. Atwater Kent was looking to open a museum of Philadelphia history. The great building may have lost the scientific wonders of the Institute, but since the Kent's opening in 1939, it has gained two large collections: With the closing of the Norman Rockwell Museum, the museum absorbed works by the famous Saturday Evening Post illustrator; and with no small controversy, it also acquired part of the collection of the Pennsylvania Historical Society. Among the museum's treasures on the first-floor exhibit (an overview of the collection) are a supposed lock of George Washington's hair; a gibbet, or cast-iron contraption that held the body of a tarred criminal for public display; and a stuffed-and-mounted dog named "Philly" who served in WWI (yeah, that was kind of unexpected...). The highlight, however, is a hilarious 9-minute video purportedly to teach kids about the life of William Penn, but which can make their parents laugh, too. Its cool, simplistic animation lightheartedly ribs our founding statesman, with clever sound effects and scrolling 18th-century-like text. It concludes: "To be continued in the Adventures of Old William Penn. More prayer! More prison! Two wives! Fourteen children! ... Look for it wherever you find fine animations of 17th-century Protestant nonconformists." Also on the rather hodgepodge and cramped first floor are souvenirs from the Philadelphia Centennial Exposition in Fairmount Park in 1876, Quaker clothing and documents, highlights from the city's manufacturing history (Stetson hats, for example) and a small room of recent acquisitions (a brass John Wanamaker sign, a chamber pot, comic books). Vacuuming and chitchat from museum employees crisscrossing the floor and reinstalling an exhibit got distracting, so on to the top floor. Here is the Rockwell exhibit, and it is accordingly hokey, with a bright-yellow barber chair and old-time music "playing" from a 1940s-era radio to complement the Post covers.

Betsy Ross House

Leaving aside, for a moment, any objections to deifying the supposed house of the supposed flag-making seamstress, it's still possible to relish a visit to her lodgings as an exercise in historical reconstruction. There's bounteous biographical depth to the woman herself, Elizabeth Griscom Ross (later Claypoole); letters from her descendants and a gloriously illegible family tree substantiate her existence and the oral tradition of her fame -- though these are unhelpfully laid out at the last point on the self-guided tour and, like many of the side exhibits, could use further elucidation. For the most part, though, you're shuttled up- and downstairs by placards bearing Betsy's over-deferential narration. Taking a stroll through her rooms -- marveling at what appears to be a musket on the kitchen table, remarking how her landlady greedily chose the quieter bedroom for herself -- is innocuously entertaining, yet grounded in virtually no factual basis, only conjecture. In truth, she may have lived a few doors up or down the street, but the thorough preservation of a property from the period is commendable. The trouble is, for sheer enjoyment, the Betsy Ross House falls curiously flat too: Perusing neatly arranged items that approximate the look and feel of a 1777 property, where all the contents go unlabeled and unidentified, is neither romantic nor informative.

Carpenters' Hall

When I first walked into Carpenters' Hall, I wasn't so impressed -- it looked like a room with some postcards for sale and a few items on display. But then an enthusiastic volunteer started telling me about the history of the building, and I was hooked. By the time the elderly guide leaped over the barricade into a corner display of original flooring and furniture, grabbed onto the antique mantel for emphasis and cried out, à la Patrick Henry, "I am not a Virginian, but an American," I was damn near weepy. The building, completed in 1774 by the Carpenters Co. of Philadelphia, was the meeting place for the First Continental Congress from September till October that year. The building is still used today for members of the guild, and it's run independently from the National Park. But the room is also used for several of Historic Philadelphia, Inc.'s characters, and a young Thomas Jefferson held the small crowd of visitors mesmerized. An apt improviser, T.J. entertained questions from the crowd about his day and his visions for the future. (Funny, no one asked about Sally Hemings.) His character being a Declaration-era T.J., the actor got big laughs from his proclamations that he would never run for public office and told yarns about his promise on his wife's deathbed never to marry again. Too bad, because this charming dead president made several female tourists swoon.

Eastern State Penitentiary

If you split the 2200 block of Fairmount Avenue in half, you'll see a quaint, sun-strewn neighborhood on one side and a castlelike fortress of torture on the other. The latter is the Eastern State Pen, opened in 1829. Beyond its frightening, lofty, dingy-gray stone walls lie strips of dilapidated cells leading to a central rotunda where prison guards once scrutinized inmates. Today, this dank jail, which hosts tours, art exhibits and Halloween events, is open to the public. Though most of the grounds are in ruins, some cells -- like the vault of notorious criminal Al Capone -- are refurbished to their almost-original state. Be mindful, cameras are essential here: The morose hallways, cells and artifacts, and the prison's dramatic natural lighting offer keen photo ops.

Edgar Allan Poe House

The story's pretty compelling: A family takes tenancy in a small townhouse at Seventh and Spring Garden streets -- a young man, brilliant but dogged by financial troubles; his teenage bride, slowly losing her battle with consumption; her caring mother. The story doesn't end happily but, to its credit, is all true. Edgar Allan Poe moved to the small house, now preserved in his memory, sometime between 1842 and '43, living there with his wife, Virginia, and her mother for about a year. His own transient lifestyle ensured that none of his belongings remain in the rooms he once occupied. Instead of fabricating the house -- which must have seen countless other tenants -- with substitute furniture and fittings, the National Park Service curators take the braver route of showing the rooms bare boards and all. Of course this is much more unnerving. The cupboards where his belongings once sat are barren, the hearths are cold, but something still remains: details of the house that call to mind passages from the books he wrote while he lived in Philadelphia, such as The Fall of the House of Usher and The Tell-Tale Heart.

It's quite fair to let your imagination take over. Still, just so you remember where the line lies between fiction and fact, clarify his biography with the 10-minute film, then ask one of the park members to give you a run-down of Poe's history in Philadelphia publishing: The collection of manuscripts they have to show partially illustrate how hard it was to make money as a writer in his day, and how remarkable it is that his stories survived. To fully revel in the atmosphere of the scribe, take a moment to recline in the reading room, a realization of a description Poe gave -- satirically, of course -- of exquisite middle-class taste. Where else can you listen to Christopher Walken narrate "The Raven," or leaf over copies of Poe's edited criticism while coddled in plush velvet?

A sophisticated and thorough memorial to America's foremost Gothic imagination, the house at 530 N. Seventh conceals a wealth of literary history behind its neatly tended lawn. Added to which, it appears the Park Service has a well-developed sense of humor: You'll never imagine what's under one of the floorboards in the top room. (Don't tell.)

Elfreth's Alley

So it's a street. The claim is that it's the "oldest continuously inhabited street in the U.S.," which might make a nice place to live, but doesn't exactly set the alarm bells a-ringing. Celebrating its tercentenary this year, Elfreth's Alley houses a museum and, really, the same kinds of buildings you can see all over Old City, albeit without the bad modern art hanging on the walls.

Fort Mifflin

Set back in the wetlands, just beyond 95 South and almost underneath the airport's runway, lies Fort Mifflin, a medieval-style fortress that protected the U.S. through six wars. "It's very much overlooked," says Janet Benedetto, Mifflin's director of research, "However, it's the absolute genesis ... of the Revolutionary military effort in this region." As history goes, in 1777, before supplies could reach British forces occupying Philadelphia, Fort Mifflin blocked their ships at the bottleneck of the Delaware River. For six weeks, the little fort held back what was then the world's largest army. Yet, after a barrage of cannonballs bombarded the fort during the skirmish, they declared defeat and destroyed what was still standing so that there would be nothing left for the British. "The guys burned the place down, which I think is fabulous," says Eileen Young-Vignola, Mifflin's executive director. Despite defeat, the battle played a key role in the Revolution. Young-Vignola's friend, Dr. Don Johnson, suggests that they use "Washington's ass was saved here" as a slogan for the fort, because even though the rebels lost the battle, the fort weakened and detained the British forces till the winter, when they moved on to face Washington at Valley Forge.

But that's just one slice of history. After the Revolution, Mifflin was rebuilt and served as a prison camp for the North during the Civil War. Many of the fort's impressive structures, various batteries, soldiers' barracks, officers' quarters and a blacksmith's shop are still standing from that period.

Though Mifflin's history could fill volumes, also worth mentioning are the fort's "arsenal" -- arched stone tunnels built into the earthen mounds along the fort's walls. These chilly, barely lit compartments held hundreds of prisoners. Some prisoners were kept down there for years; many died in there from the putrid conditions. To add another layer of creepola, some say these structures, along with other areas of the fort, are haunted. Spoooky.

Franklin Court

Franklin Court is divided into two parts -- the above-ground site of Franklin's home, seen through a series of excavated viewing points (most popular, by far, is Franklin's privy), with sort of meaningless quotes about the house from Franklin and family etched into the stone ground. A house-shaped metal structure designed by Robert Venturi offers an architectural talking point. Follow the dark ramp down, down, down underground and you find the museum at Franklin Court, a bizarre tribute to Franklin. The phone bank is one of my fondest memories from class field trips -- call famous names (you have to dial a full number with area code or country code), and hear quotes about the man who, according to most tourist sites in town, invented everything ever made. D.H. Lawrence is my pick for best phone call -- he gets so overly enthusiastic during his quote that I feared for his safety. A miniature dioramalike theater with a running show about Franklin in Paris was marred by a potato chip bag thrown carelessly onto the stage, but was otherwise mildly amusing. The film on the way out of the museum was broken the day I visited, but I remember from years ago that it's pretty interesting for a museum informational piece, focusing on Ben's romance with his wife, Deborah. Franklin Court is out of date, kind of dirty and definitely cheesy, but it's also undeniably entertaining.

Graff House

One enters the Graff House, a.k.a. Declaration House, through a garden into a dark and rather stuffy room. There's a passable repro of the Declaration of Independence -- the house's claim to fame -- and quotations from John Locke et al. (Thomas Jefferson's source material) running down its curved beige walls. Jefferson famously wanted to "escape the excessive heats of the city" and, while in town for the Second Continental Congress, rented two second-floor rooms from bricklayer Jacob Graff Jr. Up the stairs and past a huge Day-Glo orange tile mosaic of the man himself, the National Park Service has re-created the spacious rooms where he composed The Great Document: a chest of drawers, framed botanical prints and a compass whose needle moved unnervingly behind the plate glass. Speaking of the glass, handprints mar the surface -- most likely from the just-departed school group, but maybe the ghostly handprints of the long-departed T.J.? Shudder. Next is a funhouselike relic: a small, dark room suddenly enlivened by flashing lights and piped-in audio of musket fire, fife-and-drum music and patriotic speeches. The lights come from cubes with images of fireworks, cobblestoned streets and "modern" scenes of 1970s picnics and rallies -- all, according to the wall label, "in celebration of the Fourth of July." OK. Downstairs again, an 8-minute film about T.J. and the Declaration gives us a litany of T.J.'s occupations (everyone was a renaissance man back then, huh?) and the story of his four months in Philadelphia in 1776, which he seemingly spent washing his feet in cold water to ward off chills, noting the temperature on his cool old-fashioned barometer, buying gifts for his wife and strings for his violin ("music was the passion of his soul," the narrator tells us). And somewhere in there, he holed up and wrote the D of I. A rather pensive, Romantic-looking young actor gazes out the Graff House window and -- cut. A thorough, if anachronistic (in more ways than one) look at Jefferson and his great achievement.

Head House Square

I'm sorry, is there supposed to be something to see here? A nondescript brick walkway surrounded by Pizzeria Uno and Wawa logos does not a landmark make. Sure, on the weekends you've got your craft fairs and your workshops, but what about the working week? Not to mention the cobblestones are hell to bike over.

Historic Germantown

Yeah, there's that cracked bell, the world's most famous testament to shoddy workmanship. But if you really want to see some history, check out Historic Germantown. Sure, it's not exactly on the (well-) beaten path of Old City historic sites, but it's far less crowded and well worth the trip. Historic Germantown offers many examples of 18th-century architecture and is the site of the Battle of Germantown.

Of the many wonderful historic sites, two are favorites of mine. One is Cliveden, the manse on Johnson Street built by Benjamin Chew in 1767. Battered by cannonballs and musket balls fired by Continental Army soldiers attacking the British headquarters, the house survived and still stands.

The Johnson House, built by Dirk Jansen, a Quaker (who also built Upsala, considered by the Independence Hall Association to be one of the finest examples of Federalist architecture in the area), upset its Quaker neighbors because it was so big and showy. After the Battle of Germantown, victorious British soldiers broke in and ate all the food, according to www.ushistory.org. Later, it was a stop on the Underground Railroad. You can still see the scars from the numerous cannonballs that bounced off its walls in 1777.

Independence Hall

To be fair, Independence Hall and the Liberty Bell had just implemented their new security system on my visit, so the hourlong wait to go through a metal detector and have my bag searched may have been simply new-system quirks. Although I was extremely cranky by the time I was able to get into a tour group to go through the hall (with two fifth-grade classes in color-coded T-shirts), it was hard not to appreciate the history that took place on the grounds. Our guide was extremely knowledgeable but clearly dumbed down the tour for the kiddie set, and he had a Matt Foley-esque quality that made me keep waiting for him to yell out that he lives in a van down by the river. The tour is 10 minutes start to finish and consists of two re-created rooms, a courtroom and the meeting hall of the Second Continental Congress. Few items on the inside of the building are original, but the building is and has been dedicatedly restored. For out-of-town visitors, Independence Hall is obviously a must-see, but for Philly kids looking for edutainment over the summer months, it might not be the most informative of tours. A tip for all visitors: Seek out the tour guide after the official spiel and get a one-on-one info session on the building's history -- you deserve it after waiting in that security line.

Independence Visitor Center

As of June 1, the Independence Visitor Center became a mandatory stop on any Philadelphia tourist's itinerary. Since then, anyone who wants to take the Independence Hall tour must pick up a free timed ticket in the Visitor Center. But if you don't need an Independence Hall ticket, is it worth the trip? If you're lacking a good tour book, the answer is, surprisingly, yes. Sure, there's the requisite Old Philadelphia kitsch (especially the wooden cutouts of cannons and musketeers hanging from the ceiling), but the center wins points for highlighting some off-the-beaten-path attractions and for sporting easy-to-use computerized guides to the region.

Liberty Bell

After a 45-minute wait just to pass through a metal detector and bag search into the Liberty Bell-Independence Hall fenced-in complex, and then another 20-minute wait to get into the Bell's room-sized encasement, perhaps I developed a negative bias toward this attraction. While standing in the mile-long queue, I thought that a wait this long must be for something good, right? It's the Bell: our hometown Statue of Liberty, Golden Gate Bridge, Gateway Arch. Strangely, someone in line near me mentioned that this was the reason he came to Philly. Well, fella, if you came to Philly for a five-minute presentation on the Bell and five minutes of snapshot time -- after which the Park Service encouraged my group to be on its way -- then I hope you found other Philly sites more rewarding than this.

Regardless of the heat and crowds (after all, our forefathers probably suffered much worse), the Bell holds history. It rang to call the Assembly, the First Continental Congress and, most importantly, the first public reading of the Declaration of Independence, and it became a symbol for the abolitionist movement that followed. Not to mention that it's famous for that mysterious fissure. I won't spoil all the fun of the five-minute lecture from the very friendly Park Service tour guide, but here's one thing to look for: In the engraving around the bronze ringer, Pennsylvania is misspelled.

Military Museum

This small, dark museum next to Carpenters' Hall is a tribute to members of the Army, Navy and Marines -- ostensibly, those who served in the Revolutionary War, but in reality extending through Vietnam. A wall-length diorama of soldiers in Revolutionary War times is cheesy, and there is a somewhat informative timeline of the war with antique weapons on display. The second floor features an outdated interactive exhibit, where you can try to maneuver a battleship into firing position (using two switches to turn a little plastic model ship) and a filmstrip with motionless colonial figures voiced over with famous quotes and narrative. But the museum does have a room in the back of the first floor that makes it a worthy stop for tourists and Philly residents. The memorial room, as it is called, is dark and cool and marked by a large sculpture on a marble pedestal bearing the quote "their duty done, the valiant rest." The room's floor is made of teak decking from several different kinds of battleships, and a book recognizing donors to the memorial rests on a bed of sand from Iwo Jima. It's a small, touching tribute to soldiers who fell in more recent years hidden in a colonial setting.

The Philadelphia Zoo

On an especially hot day in May, the zoo can become, well, a zoo. Kids running around with cotton candy, teenagers torturing the free-roaming peacocks, parents worrying about kids catching foot-and-mouth disease in the children's petting zoo -- not to mention the smells. But the zoo can still be a great day spent outdoors, pedaling the Swan Boats in the little lake, walking with the wallabies or just strolling around the gardens. Sure, there are parrots and elephants, but the most fun is to be had observing the more exotic animals the zoo has to offer, especially the squirrel monkeys, lemurs and sifakas in the new primate reserve (which has a big placard at the entrance detailing the building's fire safety features -- no kidding). The prairie dogs are pretty darn cute, too. Otherwise, the animals are pretty listless. And don't be fooled by all the Komodo dragon hype: Naga, the largest of its type in the world, yadda yadda yadda, is actually quite a snooze. There seemed to be a collective "that's it?" reaction in front of the lizard's cage on a recent visit -- but it's on view until July 31. Regardless, some things still reel 'em in: People flock to the Carnivora House for the lion and tiger feedings, where, appropriately, zoo workers toss meat at the hungry kitties. And coming this month: the Channel 6 Zoo Balloon.

Portrait Gallery in the Second Bank of the United States

The Greek-inspired facade of the Second National Bank is one of the most recognized in the city, and the treasure of a gallery inside is probably one of the least. Entering the building, I was asked by a volunteer for a $3 preservation donation, and he noted that if I didn't have exact change, I could go on in and just send my donation later. But that $3 is badly in need, it seems, as I overheard two park rangers mentioning a recent incident when a large chunk of plaster fell from the ceiling during visiting hours. Indeed, the place seems in need of a major cleanup, which is sad given the wealth of history hanging on its walls. With dozens of works by Charles Willson Peale, Samuel Morse, Rembrandt Peale and others, all of the men (and a couple of the women) you learned about in history class and then some are represented in portraiture, and gossipy label plates give the viewer the soap opera that apparently was life in Philadelphia from the late 18th century through the early 19th century. You can connect the portraits and see who married into which families and who died broke and embroiled in scandal (seems like most of them did). The collection is also an amazing look at the portrait art in this era. The portrait gallery is a resource that more of us should be visiting, beyond picnicking on its marble stairs.

Todd House

A little background: The Todd House is really The Dolley Madison House. Let's face it, who the hell was John Todd anyway but Dolley's first husband? Indeed, before we even start, Dolley's marital status is a point of contention. ("I always heard she was divorced," whispers one tourist to another.) Actually, Dolley lived in this middle-class dwelling with lawyer John, her two sons, various siblings and two law clerks. Luckily, it's a pretty big house. The Todd House lost two residents in 1793, when John and his baby son succumbed to the yellow-fever epidemic. (We were also shown the site of the polluted and mosquito-infested creek on Harmony Lane behind their house.) Soon after, Dolley apparently met James Madison on "a blind date." Her financially conscious mother fixed her up on the advice of James' former Princeton classmate Aaron Burr (yes, the one who slayed Hamilton). James and Dolley took tea or whatever in the upstairs parlor. Our guide paints a rather unflattering portrait of James as short, shy and skinny. Dolley was tall and outgoing. Beggars can't be choosers, our guide essentially tells us, so although James was Episcopalian and 17 years her senior, Dolley married him and was promptly "excommunicated" from the Quaker religion. James spirited her away, and she quickly learned how not to be a Quaker, warming up to well-appointed furnishings and elaborate clothes. Before she died, she even posed for the paparazzi -- Mathew Brady snapped the first photo of any First Lady. Sadly, after James died, Dolley went bankrupt: Her wayward son John Payne Todd ("he was a Payne, I'll tell you," said our guide) drank and gambled her into bankruptcy, and she died in 1849. Our guide explained that it took about 20 years to re-create the Todd House from diaries, inventories and floor plans. We are shown photos in a "resource book" of the house when it was a luncheonette in the 1950s, where you could get "authentic" Dolly Madison ice cream (most products that took her name dropped the "e"). Today, we Philadelphians have a house Dolley occupied for two years, before she became glamorous and rescued treasures from the burning White House during the War of 1812 and fought to publish James' papers. Here, she was just our Dolley, epidemic survivor and presidential seducer.

Trolley Tour

Departures from the Liberty Bell, Fifth and Market sts.: American Trolley, 215-333-2119; $15; Philadelphia Trolley Works, 215-925-TOUR, $18 adults, $5 children

There are two historic trolley companies cruising through Philadelphia -- the big open-air reddish-brown ones (Philadelphia Trolley Works) and the smaller red ones that advertise air conditioning (American Trolley). Of course, both are really just rectangular buses, and their routes are about the same (through Old City, past the Bell, around the Logan Fountain). I choose a red one, because the girl handing out its pamphlets was wearing frighteningly scarlet designer contact lenses, and the reddish-brown trolley people had regular eyes. My tour, skillfully narrated by a friendly college student named Jakita, wound its way from the brick-and-keystone architecture of east Center City and up the tree- and flag-lined Parkway. The driver slowed down at key spots to avoid potholes and so Jakita could get all the vaguely familiar anecdotes in (everything from the Todd House to the Arch Street correctional facility to Mr. Bar Stool is pointed out.) Trolley tours are probably nice for tourists because you can get on and off all day at scheduled times and places for a decent price. Or you can ride around for about an hour and get the Cliffs Notes version of historic Philadelphia without once stepping into the sun.

USS New Jersey

If massive, floating weapons of war are your thing, then the Philadelphia-Camden waterfront is your kind of place. Penn's Landing is home to the USS Olympia -- Commodore Perry's flagship during the Spanish-American War -- and the USS Becuna, a submarine launched near the end of World War II. Across the mighty Delaware River, on the Camden waterfront just south of Wiggins Marina, is the USS New Jersey, which was commissioned 59 years ago at the Philadelphia Navy Yard.

If you have about five or six hours to kill, you can see all three ships and make the round-trip via the RiverLink Ferry.

One way to start is to visit the Becuna and Olympia -- which are part of the Seaport Museum. It's $8 for adults and $5 for kids between 5 and 12. The least-historically significant of the three war ships, the Becuna nevertheless gives visitors a great feel for the claustrophobic life of a submariner. The self-guided tour allows visitors to proceed at their own pace, something to be thankful for when you get to the New Jersey, but more on that in a minute.

The Olympia, the oldest steel warship afloat, was the backbone of President Teddy Roosevelt's gunboat diplomacy. Distinctively low-tech, the Olympia provides an interesting contrast to the modernized and much larger New Jersey.

Sadly, both vessels -- but particularly the Olympia -- need lots of restoration and preservation work, and the museum is frantically looking for the money for these two military treasures.

When you want to see a more modern version of naval warfare, cross the Del, via the aforementioned ferry, and walk over to the New Jersey, also known as "The Black Dragon."

Nearly three football fields in length, the New Jersey is an impressive sight. And, at that length, it is also a somewhat daunting tourism destination, as you must climb and snake your way around. Unlike the Becuna and the Olympia, the New Jersey's tours are semi-guided, with docents standing at stations along the way. While the big battlewagon is infinitely fascinating, particularly in how a WWII vessel was retrofitted over the years -- with new communications devices, a computerized combat engagement center and, ultimately, shipboard cruise missiles -- to fight in Korea, Vietnam and the Gulf War, the tours can bottleneck on busy days, forcing visitors to wait and wait and wait.

These ships are not for younger children or those who have difficulty climbing. But for anyone else, they are highly recommended.

Washington Square Park

Shadier and less cramped than Rittenhouse (which on sweltering afternoons starts to feel unpleasantly like the boardwalk in A.C.), Washington Square boasts fancy architecture (particularly to the south and west) and a fairly calm setting, at least for the heart of Center City. Skip the "moon tree," a towering sycamore whose seeds were carried into space (like we care) and head straight for the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, right next to the nonfunctional fountain. So modest as to be easily overlooked, the simple tribute contains one of the more moving sentences in public monumenture, purportedly composed by an advertising copywriter who once worked on the square: "Freedom is a light for which many men have died in darkness." In truth, the area that now makes up the park was used as much for burying indigents as fallen soldiers, but it's hard not to be moved by that long-gone adman's sentiment. When I visited last week, a veteran had left his own sentiment: a laminated poem commemorating five fallen comrades in arms, and a bouquet of lilies.

Welcome Park

Hardly worth a trip on its own, but if you're in the area doing other touristy things or killing time before a movie at the Ritz East, you might as well drop by Welcome Park. Like many of the movies they show at the Ritz, Welcome Park has an interesting concept but can't hold your attention too long. The park is a giant map of Center City as it was laid out by William Penn in the 17th century. Highlights include the four squares (Rittenhouse, Washington, etc.), which are cleverly marked by real trees, and the original street names like Mulberry and Sassafras.