Philadelphia Museum of Art

Stand at the bottom of the steps for a moment. Feel the stone under your shoes, worn smooth by millions of feet. Ahead, the stairs climb in broad terraces toward a row of golden-coloured columns. Behind you, the Benjamin Franklin Parkway runs straight toward City Hall, lined with trees and flags. On a warm day you can hear it before you see it... someone, somewhere, is running up these steps with their arms already half raised.

That runner is part of the story, and we will come back to it. But first, look at the building itself. The museum sits on Fairmount, a small rise that once held the city's main water reservoir. Planners in the early twentieth century wanted a grand civic avenue ending in a temple of art. This hill gave them the perfect stage. The museum opened here in 1928, at the far end of that long, diagonal parkway.

The institution is older than the building. It grew out of the Centennial Exposition of 1876, the great world's fair that marked one hundred years since American independence. After the fair ended, the collection lived in Memorial Hall, across the river in Fairmount Park. The city wanted something larger and more permanent. The result is the structure in front of you — a neoclassical design, built to look like an ancient Greek temple, but stretched across a whole hilltop.

Here is the first detail many visitors miss. The building was designed by the office of Horace Trumbauer, working with the firm of Zantzinger, Borie and Medary. Inside Trumbauer's office, a key designer was Julian Abele. He was one of the first prominent African American architects in the United States. For decades his role was rarely mentioned in public. Today he is recognised as a central figure in shaping the museum's form.

Now look at the colour of the walls. They are not white marble. The stone is a warm dolomite, quarried in Minnesota, with tones of honey, cream and pale rose. In early morning light it glows almost yellow. In late afternoon it turns softer and pinker. The builders chose it on purpose. They wanted the museum to feel warm from a distance, like a temple seen in Mediterranean sun.

Raise your eyes to the triangular gable above the columns on the north wing. This is the pediment, the sculpted triangle found on Greek temples. Here it is filled with figures in bright glazed terracotta — blues, reds and golds. The ancient Greeks often painted their temple sculptures, and this pediment follows that idea. It was created by the sculptor Carl Paul Jennewein. Most classical buildings in America stayed white. This one chose colour.

Along the roofline, look for small winged creatures with the body of a lion and the head of an eagle. These are griffins. In ancient myth they guarded treasure, which suits a museum very well. The griffin has become the museum's symbol. You will see it on signs and banners around the building. Once you notice the first one up on the roof, you start to spot them everywhere.

Now, back to the runner. In the 1976 film Rocky, the boxer Rocky Balboa trains by sprinting up these steps at dawn. At the top, he turns and lifts his fists toward the city. That scene changed how the world sees this place. People now call these the Rocky Steps. Visitors from every country climb them, often counting each one, and finish with the same victory pose. Locals say the steps get more runners than some gyms.

Near the bottom of the steps, off to one side, stands a bronze statue of the boxer, arms raised. It was made for a later film in the series. For years the statue moved between the museum and other sites, and some in the art world debated whether a movie prop belonged here. In the end, it found a home beside the steps. It may be one of the most photographed sculptures in the city — and it is outside the museum, not in it.

Inside, the collection is vast. It covers thousands of years and many cultures. Some galleries hold entire architectural spaces brought from overseas. You can walk through a medieval cloister, a Japanese teahouse, a hall from a Chinese palace, and a pillared temple hall from India. These are not small models. They are full rooms, rebuilt piece by piece, so you stand inside them instead of looking at them through glass.

Here is the second surprise. The museum holds one of the most important groups of works by Marcel Duchamp, the French artist who challenged what art could be. Among them is a strange installation called Étant donnés. You see it through two small peepholes in an old wooden door. What lies behind it is best discovered in person. The museum also holds major paintings by Paul Cézanne, including his large painting of bathers, and one of Vincent van Gogh's sunflower canvases.

In recent years the building went through a long renovation guided by the architect Frank Gehry. He is famous for curving, dramatic buildings, but here he worked quietly. He reopened old passages, restored a long vaulted corridor, and brought light into spaces that had been closed for years. The changes respect the original design. Many visitors walk through without knowing a famous modern architect touched these rooms at all.

Before you leave, walk to the top terrace and turn around. This is the view Rocky saw. The parkway runs away from you like a ruler, toward the tower of City Hall and the glass towers beyond. Look to the side, and you may catch the Schuylkill River behind the museum, and the rowing clubs along its bank. Take a breath here. Listen to the voices on the steps below, the traffic, the wind across the stone. Whether you came for the paintings or the climb, you are standing exactly where the city wanted you to stand.