Membership used to be less expensive if you live outside a 60 mile radius of the New York metropolitan area. (Too late, all you hicks! Your discount is gone!) But happily there is no premium for living just across the park. I plunked down my credit card for a membership and received two tickets. Since I was alone, I turned to the woman behind me in line. Be my guest, I said, handing her the extra ticket and wading quickly into the maelstrom that is the Great Hall. Which way to go? The stony Greeks and Romans? The superstitious Egyptians? Or did I want the more colorful, wide-eyed perspective of Medieval art? As I moved through the crowd, dense with people heat, all manner of faces, expressions—and breath—I turned to the west wall. And in that exact moment there for only a second under the heading MEMBERS COUNT flashed my name, big block letters in white light.
It was thrilling, the serendipity of seeing my name on that limestone wall, as if the museum had called me out, VAL! VAL! This place belongs to you, too. My rehab. My Greeks. My Romans. My Medieval friends.
And next, My Michelangelo’s Sorry Ass.