For two days of the Philadelphia stay, light rain fell in intermittent showers. My walking shoes absorbed the water the first day. Shortgrass drouths dry leather to the same texture as the wrapping of the mummies entombed in the Great Pyramids. All my other rain gear, except one semi-waterproof jacket, hung in a closet back at the ranch, or lay discarded in the corner of the saddle house.

The bed and breakfast owner filled a rack of big umbrellas to lend customers, but my sloppy style of opening and closing one prohibits public display. Philadelphia links back to the Quakers. Nevertheless, the brotherhood of kindness must have filed the spikes off their umbrellas, or they'd have lost the faith. If you think a hotshot will make a Brangus cow kick, just poke a city guy in his posterior on the way home after a hard day with an umbrella tip, and you'll know why these northeastern boys make such good place kickers.

On the first morning, it took 18 extra blocks of walking to find the Pennsylvania Academy of Art. The more directions I received, the more I lost my way. Residents have had ample time to locate the place. Thomas Jefferson founded the Academy. The present building exceeds the size of an Aesopian cathedral in stature and space, and is 125 years old.

Once I found the Academy, I was no more inside before I was stricken by the grand stairway rising to the second floor and a vast hall spaced with huge gleaming white marble sculptures, setting off an aura of Greek or Roman antiquity. Truly a drama of marble characters mounted as if leading to a royal court or a papal throne. Other art pieces ranged from overwhelming wall-sized historical scenes down through a gradual dimension to the Impressionist age and a startling collection of Andy Warhol's modern art.

Downstairs, the lunch room featured the Warhol Campbell's Tomato Soup Can picture as the soup for the day and "the joke of the day." Serving canned soup in Philadelphia is as absurd as ordering a TV dinner for New Year's Day in the dining room of a Four Season's Hotel. The city's restaurants, as a matter of course, serve corn and fish chowders so rich and succulent, the steam off the bowl causes the taste buds to swirl in anticipation.

"Eat Canned Tomato Soup for Art's Sake," the menu read in bold letters. After finishing a salad plate of fresh tuna dressed in lime vinaigrette, I was better disposed to address this desperate attempt at humor and open insult to my palate. I whipped out my pen and wrote the following on the reverse side of the check (the chef was eight times my size): "Take the canned soup off the menu. You have five working days, counting today, to correct this offense."

The next stop took a six-dollar cab ride in a hard rain to reach the Philadelphia Museum of Fine Art. Five minutes is a long wait for a cab in Philadelphia, even on a rainy day. Speed limits evidently aren't enforced. The cabbies plunge down the wet streets, splashing through busy intersections as if in a country lane. All the sights ever seen riding in the cramped back seat are the driver's license and the "no smoking" sign.

The imposing front entrance to the Fine Arts Museum back-dropped the scene in the movie "Rocky" when the star, Sylvester Stallone, ran up and down the stairs training for a fight. The front entrance must be only used to make movies and drink beer. The one time I climbed the stairway, the sole sign of human presence was shards of brown glass leading to tall locked doors bearing the disheartening sign, "Use Other Entrance."

The Museum's senior citizen's discount was skimpy. After seeing the portraits honoring the founding fathers topped in powdered wigs I figured the ticket office might respect white muzzles and gray sideburns. However, I received my money's worth taking a free tour to rooms hard to find. The original curator knew how to recreate a scene of, say, an ancient stone fountain in the center of an Italian monastery with every stone in place and only the monks missing, or the reception room of a rich Chinese ruler's home in the 13th century.

On the way back to the room, I no longer cared to sightsee. After a long day in museums, the exit signs, artistic foot stools, and quilted king size beds become more appealing. On the last lap, I jumped a gutter full of water to cross the street to the B and B. I'd forgotten how frightening high water can be.

November 2, 2000