The wind is whipping the flags of Philadelphia. I’m staying at the Ritz-Carlton and have a view of City Hall, which is palatial. I was a guest last night at the central branch of the Free Library of Philadelphia, which was started by none other than Benjamin Franklin. Robin Black, a local writer whom I met last weekend in LA (was that just last weekend?), graciously shared the publication day of her book “Crash Course: Essays from Where Writing and Life Collide.” She read from her book, then invited me to read from my book, we talked about pet peeves, and then the audience, which comprised a singularly intelligent bunch of individuals, asked penetrating questions about commas and hyphens.

There was one staunch defender of the view that “none” is singular (I say it’s plural, unless it emphatically means “not a single one”). There were many who agreed with me that “they” is not singular. Someone asked if copy editors at The New Yorker have a hand in the cartoon captions, and I got to explain the captious relationship between the copy department and the cartoon editor. And someone asked about our policy on words like “Web site”; the editors of the New Yorker’s Web site would love it if we went with “website.”

Amtrak got me to Philly faster than the A train gets me to Rockaway. The streets of the city are all torn up. Before the talk, I had a drink with a friend’s brother-in-law, who is a lawyer. Bill helped me find the library, but did not come to the talk, and explained that it was his wife’s book-club night, and that Martha, his wife, had not been able to persuade the club to take up my book. This rolled right off my back. Thanks for trying, Martha.

The road in front of the library is under construction as they repair the pedestrian bridges over Benjamin Franklin Parkway. After the event, Betsy and Hilary, friends of friends dating back to college—what feels like Colonial days on the banks of the old Raritan—returned to the hotel with me for a nightcap. Workers were scoring the roads around the Ritz and filling the dents with fresh blacktop. (There is a word for that process, but I can’t think of it.) We risked getting tar on our soles when we crossed the street.

It was a perfect blend of business and pleasure. Just for the hell of it, this morning I am having breakfast delivered by room service.