I go to Allegheny Cemetery most Sundays and I would like to make the case for it, because people react to that sentence like I told them I collect teeth. It is 300 acres. It has hills, ponds, extraordinary trees, and a Victorian landscape design that people paid a fortune to walk through in 1850. It is free. It is quiet. Nobody plays music. Nobody throws a frisbee at your head. There are more birds there than anywhere else in the city because nobody mows aggressively and nothing is sprayed. Cemeteries like this were BUILT to be walked in. That was the point. Before public parks existed, this is where families went on a Sunday afternoon with a picnic. The idea that a cemetery is a morbid place you visit only in grief is about a hundred years old and it's a marketing decision, essentially, made by an industry that wanted death moved indoors and behind a curtain. So: I walk there. I read the stones. There's a woman near the north gate, died 1871, and the inscription is one line — "She was fond of company." That's it. That's what her family decided the earth should say about her for four hundred years. I think about her constantly. Bring tea. Don't bring a radio. Say hello to the groundskeeper, his name is Walt, he'll tell you where the good trees are.