The Everywhereist

Before I tell you about the Deutsches Museum, I need to tell you about one of my greatest fears.

I am terrified that one day, I will be either 1.) abducted by aliens or 2.) frozen in some sort of cryogenic state and thawed out thousands of years in the future.

This is not the terrifying part. No. The terrifying part is when I am asked (by either aliens or mankind’s tentacle-y descendants) about the world in which I lived, and I have NOT A SINGLE ANSWER TO GIVE THEM.

I mean, I have no idea how things work. Like, not even remotely. I don’t really know where computers come from (elves, maybe?) or how they operate (wires have something to do with it, I think. And then you push electricity through the wires and – voila! – INTERNET.)

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You are never gonna believe what this is.

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Rand and I walked through the Museum of Modern Art in Manhattan, holding hands. It was early winter, and he was neglecting his work in order to enjoy the art.

This happens approximately never, so I was making good use of the time by squeezing his hand really tightly.

“Ouch.”

Love hurts, babe. Get used to it.

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For years, The British Museum in London was like a book I’ve cracked open a dozen times, but was never able to get passed the first chapter.

I knew its beginning pages almost by heart. The crowds in front of the Rosetta Stone are mentioned in the dedication. This little one-eyed bird made an appearance in Chapter One:

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But I didn’t know much more than that. Did the two leads who once hated each other finally succumb to their growing passions? Did the weather worn detective ever discover who the killer was? Beaten down by jetlag, I never found out. I just reread the first chapter, and left.

This time, though, I was determined to get through every page of the British Museum. Or at the very least, skim them enough to have an idea of what was going on.

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