For whatever reason, be it negligence by the servants or generosity on the part of the master, the gates to the wedged yard behind the Tavern have been left ajar, inviting a rare stroll across a patch of acorn-spotted lawn commonly reserved for posh, peculiar parties. The glare of Walnut Street reveals a tranquil but unimpressive tableau. I return to the alley, which empties shortly into a sea of fresh white cobblestones. Unworn and unsoiled by traffic, the upward-jutting boulders are out of sorts here, and they make it known with each unsteady step across them. In the distance a solitary skateboarder practices his tricks on a building of some historical import.

Now it's across Walnut, and past the Ritz Five, where an usher reclines in the lobby with his cell phone, behind a poster for Once in a Lifetime. Around the corner and up Thomas Paine Place, a shortcut for cabbies and Society Hill gadabouts. A pair of young wastrels come swerving down, his arm around her shoulder too tightly. The graffiti on the dumpster to their right reads "Revolt Evolve" and is signed Naz '06. Below that are signs prohibiting parking.

At the top I cross Third Street to Willings Alley Mews, which has, since 1735, played host to Old St. Joseph's. Signs declare this is a National Shrine. Inside the locked gate, a lawn-jockey-sized St. Joe stands guard over a scaffolding skeleton. Across the alley is the unassuming entrance to the immense inner sanctum of something called Bingham Court.

Here, at the intersection of St. Joseph's Way and St. James Place, two footpaths wide enough for vehicular travel, is a vast brick quad monopolized by nearly identical condominiums on all sides. Compared to most of its upstart counterparts in the area, this development is old-school, having been designed by I.M. Pei some four decades ago. At the dead center of this silent expanse sits a formidable, elevated planter. Better said, it is a plateau of foliage so scopious that a path has been etched through its center so that one may walk between its globed lampposts and over its interlocking tree roots for a momentary respite from hard city footfalls. Sadly the trail ends in calf-high switches and grasses, an unsatisfying conclusion to a promising idea.

Stepping off the stone edge, I again hit the bricks, following St. Joseph's Way south past Richard Lieberman's Unity, a rusting sculpture depicting angular, unknowable things. Soon I come to an awkward aside, an antepark, which, like everything here, is paved with smoothly interlocking bricks. Its two cold benches face each other with aloof indifference from either end, like chairs at Charles Foster Kane's dining room, minus the table. Trees, bushes and other things of the soil are cordoned off to the perimeter, where they can sully nary a pant cuff. Crickets chime from the sidelines like experimental jazz.

As with all earthly concerns, St. Joseph's comes to an end sooner than expected. On the other side of Spruce Street, bustling even at this late hour, St. Peter's Way welcomes all comers.

Here, colonies of ivy slump along the bottoms of the walls like derelicts. Only rarely does a leafy arm or two find a spot felicitous for climbing. The path is interrupted, however courteously, by the unexpected and unremarkable Cypress Street, and soon I am in Three Bears Park. Or what remains of it. The playground has been ripped asunder for renovations. Its torn ground will be replaced, judging by the miniature ziggurats of brick lying in wait to one side. The jungle gyms are locked behind impromptu fencing of the chain link variety and wrapped in caution tape. Its quintet of benches are arranged inhospitably on one side. But what of its trio of smooth stone bears? That's them, indubitably, resting beneath a makeshift plywood cover, in their usual spot. This park has its own bantam plateau of underbrush, halved by a path of bear paw stepping stones, each adorned with realistically pointed claws.

St. Peter's Way continues across Delancey; a pygmy station wagon rests silently double parked at the western end. Its flickering hazard lights draw attention to a shiny, upwardly stretching metal structure approximately the height of a man. While rummaging in the dirt and darkness for an inscription on this moose-antlered sculpture, I rap my head on its jagged underside. I am unscathed, but the thing wavers and wobbles. I pause to learn whether its shuddering will cease before the station wagon is claimed, but a rustling from some unknown creature in the dead leaves at my feet inspires me to march on. It's nearly midnight.

Soon the saintly path comes to an end, across Pine Street, at the stalwart walls of St. Peter's Church and adjoining graveyard. In the daylight one can traipse right through, but at night they keep the vandals out (and the specters in) with some sturdy locks. Same goes for the spear-topped iron fence around the cemetery beside Pine Street Church, on the other side of Fourth. Its scent is fecund from summer chaparral.

My path, ever dotted by holy buildings, soon deposits me on South Street, a block of which is declared closed to traffic by bright orange sawhorses and sandbags. Empowered, the few truants and popinjays remaining from the early evening's unchaste activities traverse the asphalt with impunity. The cold night air has muted most of the city's unpleasant aromas, but not here.

The polite brick pathways have long given way to concrete sidewalks by the time I reach Bella Vista. A man drags a tarpaulin from his front door to the pavement and enshrouds his motorcycle, putting it to bed for the evening.

St. Albans Street is holy in name only, a utilitarian Bella Vista channel lacking the opulent reverence of its Society Hill brethren. Halfway along the tight passage a motion sensitive light catches wind of me and illuminates everything. I spy a foot-high barbecue stilted by tripodular legs on the sidewalk, orange embers still glowing within. I pause to gaze and the overhead lights click off suddenly. But, as I turn, they reignite, illuminating my steps until the jurisdiction of the next street lamp.

(pat@citypaper.net)