Philadelphia: Where History, Art, and Poltergeists Collide

We had a few days in Philadelphia, home of liberty, cheesesteaks, and a food scene so good it really ought to be spelled seen. This was the summer edition of the Lawyer Pilots Bar Association, the group Chad joined earlier this year. We’d had such a great time at the March gathering that we went back for more—and, once again, they did not disappoint. I especially like how they include activities for “copilots,” which is just a polite way of saying “the non-lawyer, non-pilot spouses who need something to do while everyone else argues about case law and TSA.”

The flight in was less “smooth descent into a cradle of liberty” and more “unplanned carnival ride.” We detoured through Buffalo to support a friend, then dropped into a weather system on the way south. At one point, the plane fell a good 100 feet in an instant—what I’d call “an abrupt introduction to gravity.” I wouldn’t say I was scared (there was no time for that), but I did briefly wonder if my obituary would include the words “snack enthusiast.” Once we landed safely, Chad declared it a “spirited ride.” I declared it an urgent reminder to buckle down literally everything in the cabin, including my dignity.

That night we hustled to the reception, exchanged pleasantries, then grabbed dinner at a restaurant near the hotel called Bar Bombón, a vegan spot where the menu helpfully put quotation marks around every meat option. So we ordered “chicken,” “steak,” and “chorizo,” which really translated to “plants doing their very best impression of animals.” My favorite part, though, was the non-alcohol alcoholic drinks, which were basically cocktails in witness protection.

The Sofitel, our conference hotel, was lovely and walkable to museums. Chad approved because the room had hardwood floors instead of carpet, as if carpet is some sort of lurking health hazard. (To be fair, in hotel rooms, it probably is.)

The copilots’ agenda kicked off with a Revolutionary War talk by a member who used to be an archivist for Presidents Ford through Reagan. She was incredible—funny, sharp, and full of those “wait, how did that even happen?” tidbits. Like the fact that George Washington somehow survived eight entire years of war without getting shot. He was tall, flashy, always riding at the front—and yet never hit. Honestly, it makes you wonder if the Redcoats were secretly rooting for him.

Now, I’ve done the Revolutionary circuit before: storytelling benches with the kids, stars collected for carousel rides, even one of those doomed duck tours (which are now discontinued, probably because duck boats plus barges equals tragedy). I’d even seen Washington’s actual tent. So I wasn’t expecting to revisit 1776 this trip, but Maria’s talk was so good it pulled me right back in.

Still, my focus this time was art. The copilots took a docent-led tour of the Barnes Foundation—Dr. Barnes being a man who turned $20,000 into a world-class stash of Renoirs, Cezannes, Picassos, and Matisse. Then, in a plot twist, left the collection to an all-Black college, only for the city of Philadelphia to swoop in later like a pickpocket in powdered wigs. (For the full drama, watch the documentary The Art of the Steal.)

This all got me thinking about art’s value. Why these painters, why these canvases? Who decided Renoir was priceless while your uncle’s watercolor of a covered bridge remains garage-sale fodder?

Later, we ventured to Fishtown for dinner at Suraya, a Mediterranean restaurant so stylish it tricked you into feeling chic just by sitting down. The open design made it feel grand, but each table was tucked away like a little tent—so you could feel like Lawrence of Arabia while eating baba ghanoush.

To digest, we took a ghost tour. We began at Betsy Ross’s house, where the guide casually mentioned she lost three husbands and multiple children. Suddenly the “crying woman” ghost people report didn’t seem so far-fetched. We also heard about condos built on top of graves, because in Philadelphia apparently even the real estate market has skeletons in its closet. I did wonder if Zillow discloses “excellent location, granite counters, occasional poltergeist.”

The copilot group also has a book club, and we discussed The Philadelphia Heiress. Allegedly historical fiction, but really more “unauthorized fan fiction of The Philadelphia Story.” It was silly, shallow, and—therefore—perfect for a lively discussion. I got a little carried away and now find myself in charge of the book club moving forward. Nothing says “vacation” like accidentally volunteering yourself for homework.

While Chad worked one afternoon, I marched over to the Philadelphia Museum of Art. Compared to Barnes’ tightly packed walls, the vast spaces here made the paintings seem like introverts at a party, each one demanding its six-foot bubble. And yes, I ran the Rocky steps, though I stopped short of pumping my fists in the air. (I did, however, note how battered the steps looked. Rocky may have won, but winter clearly takes the title every year.)

That night, we caught up with our friends Erin and Bill at Barclay Prime, where the highlight wasn’t just the steak—it was the ceremonial steak-knife selection, like sommeliers for cutlery. Afterwards, they whisked us to a speakeasy hidden behind an unmarked door reading simply Franklin Mortgage. Inside: moody lighting, inventive cocktails, and bartenders who could make a gin fizz feel like therapy. Even their non-alcoholic drinks felt dangerously sophisticated.

I squeezed this trip in right before heading to Quebec with my mom and wondered if I’d overdone it. But Philadelphia was such a delight—historical, haunted, and full of delicious surprises. I’d gladly return… just maybe not in winter, when the weather feels like George Washington himself is throwing ice at you.