Museums are curious places. Building dedicated to answers that manage to evoke such emotion, it causes a person to question everything.
The first exhibit that we saw (and really the only one that I cared about) was the Rosetta Stone. As a writer, I think it’s almost a law to go visit and thank it. So I did. But, at the end of the day, the Rosetta Stone is still just a rock. Here’s where the curiosity comes in.
I thought it was cool – I snapped a picture and turned to go. But what struck me, what will stay with me, was the reaction of my roommate, the history geek. I turned to her at the sound of a soft gasp. Her hand over her heart, eyes slightly cloudy. All because of that rock. What I wouldn’t give to have that kind of openness.
The other guests here are just as entertaining, if not as endearing. Everyone is so focused on seeing as much as humanly possible, completely oblivious to the real world around them. Yes, history is magnificently important, but it’s over. This is now. By keeping their noses pressed into a brochure, they miss so much. Like the look on a dear friend’s face when they spot something she loves, or the contagious giggles of eight year olds finding the sword collection, or even the look of utter bewilderment on the face of the woman who ran into a statue and couldn’t figure out what went wrong.
The amount of life in a place of death is astounding. How curious a place to be, indeed.
Ticket to Write 