Over thirty flights were canceled the day I flew through Philadelphia. Mine happened to be one. In a slurry of rain, balmy temperatures, and roving crowds of angry stranded people, I had the best night I’ve had in a long time.
The airport is twenty minutes from the Philadelphia Museum of Art. While everyone toiled, hollered, cried and yelled because their sack of underwear and tee-shirts were going to the wrong airport. I got to enjoy Japanese tea houses, Gothic carvings, joyous docents, and the sensation of being in a world class collection of art after sun down.