My mother was an inordinately thorough tourist. It could be 6pm after a hellish 5-hour visit to some museum reading every. single. panel in every. single. exhibit. But then Mom would’ve remembered our AAA guide book said, “Oh, that house where some obscure author slept one time in 1957 is just 16 more blocks away.” So we went.
She’d drag my whiny ass everywhere. And I do remember complaining; like…the entire time.
I swore I’d never be the same. I feel empowered by walking out of a museum within 90 minutes because, let’s face it…nobody has that kind of attention span. Or hip flexor strength. Or stamina in their shoulders to hold a backpack of fruit snacks and water bottles while staring at dinosaurs/paintings/historical re-enactments for 4 hours.
But folks…I did it, today. I’m in London with my partner (after two months solo in NYC). But he’s still working all the time as his two shows are prepping for opening night. So it’s still just me and the boys. Except we’re in London.
So today we went to the British Museum to see mummies – per their request. We saw mummies. Mummified adults the size of my 5yo, mummified cats, alligator, a mummified eel (wtf?) The boys were horrified/fascinated/traumatized. But mostly bored. Seriously – we saw one mummy and my 3yo says, “I’m bored. Let’s go home.” Admittedly, he might’ve been overwhelmed by the 3,000 students mobbing the room of 3,000 year-old mummies. But really, I think he was like, “There’s nothing to TOUCH in this museum? This place blows.”
But we were in the GD British Museum. We weren’t gonna leave without seeing some more priceless stolen treasures. (I kept saying “And the British stole that, and the British stole this, and that…” Curiously, neither of them asked “why?” or “but stealing is bad, Daddy.” They just begged to leave and didn’t demonstrate a modicum of moral rectitude.)
So I dragged them to see the Samurai armor because my older one read a book about ninjas. Zzzzzz.
Hey look, boys – a 3-story tall statue of Buddha!
Daddy? Can we go to the cake pop store? (Starbucks)
Shut up and look at this amazing stolen Roman thingy.
Daddy, my stomach feels angry that we are here. Can we go?
Are you gonna throw up? Look at that sarcophagus.
No. I mean, yes, I’ll throw up. If we stay here.
Can it, kid. Look at these stolen friezes from ancient Greece.
And then we turn a corner. The Rosetta Stone. I mean – the translator that opened humankind up to a trove of another rich civilization. Guys, this is one of the most important archaeological finds in all human history!
I mean…the ROSETTA STONE.
Okay, okay. So they’re only 5 and 3. I should cut ’em a break. But we’re in the BRITISH MUSEUM for stolen’s sake!
Look guys! Sphinxes and obelisks and some old stolen temple, oh my!
Daddy? Can we buy a present?
No. Look at this medieval metalwork. (I’m boring myself, by this point.)
I hate it, here, Daddy. There’s nothing to do but look at stuff.
Right, but you’re growing smarter by the second. I just know it. You’ll pass that test to get into the G&T program and I’ll never have to worry about you being dumb. I’ll just worry about you being a drug dealer at ivy league schools. And that’s preferable to you being stupid.
Daddy, don’t say stupid.
And then, it happened. We stumbled into a room of such gorgeous (stolen) splendor that even my sons couldn’t avert their eyes. They were transfixed, they were enlightened, they were stimulated. My nagging and dragging had been worth it. They were changed beings from near-toddlers to almost-tweens. Such magic a little T&A can do…even for little American, uncultured troglodytes.
One more minute of giggling and they were back to…Daddy, this is boring. I wanna go.
And we did. We’d been there an hour. Pretty good compromise, if I do say so, myself.