A Touch of Restraint

Tuesday's expedition left the lowbrow behind and took the high road. The sandwich was on a baguette and the beans were not just green beans, my dear, they were haricots verts. Of course, such fine (yet cheap, home packed) foods needed exquisite exhibits as accompaniment, and that's how I found myself at the Writer's Museum. There were plaques in there people were expected to read and lots of them, too. Lots of excerpts of poetry and literary masterpieces and whatnot, along with pretty much whatever collectors could scrounge from the inheritances of famous Scottish writers, including lots of locks of hair, pipes and chairs found in the homes of writers that they may or may not have once used, and my favorite, a copy of a marriage contract. Unlike the museums I visited last week, this one had some self-respect and forbid photography, so I could snap was a picture of the entrance of the tiny little house the museum was in. Oh, by the way, Robert Louis Stevenson, the Treasure Island man? Quite a good looking guy. Had a lot of pictures taken of himself, but well, can't really blame him.

There were warning signs all over the house because the stairs were narrow, low, and the steps uneven. It was said that folks liked to have uneven steps so they could detect people breaking in by the sounds of people caught offguard by the steps and stumbling to their deaths. It was also said that the museum let the uneven hazards remain during reconstruction to preserve the house's original charm but, knowing this country the way I do, I'm pretty sure that the people way back then were just too lazy to use rulers and the people a little back then just didn't care enough to adjust the problems. Yeah, after two months here, I'm so qualified to start making judgements like that.

Moving on, I headed to the National Gallery where once again, photography was prohibited. Somehow, I didn't look to the guard like someone who would understand English, because he spoke to me slowly and kept asking if I understood him. Was he explaining anything intricate to me? No, he told me I had to hold my backpack in my hand, that I should turn off the cellphone, and showed me a map. And no, it's not just how he talks. A group of guys about my age came in behind me and he just gave them real quick, brief instructions. But to me, he gestured slowly and made sure I understood the map. You'd think my skin said "Treat Me As If I'm A Moron" on it, but no, it's just yellow.















There you go, proof that I really went to the classy gallery, or at least walked around outside. Man, it was so good to see my friend Degas in there. Did that sound needlessly pretentious and show-offy? I don't actually know anything about art, but I really do like my Edgar, and it was so comforting to see him in such a strange place.

Remember how I said the expedition was about taking the high road and restraint in place of over-the-top displays? Yeah, Eddie Bert can't pull off the show for that long and neither could I. Note how it attracts people to go into the gallery. Not world famous paintings. A foray into the fine arts. A dose of history. No, bar and free admission. That's what they're advertising. Have I mentioned how much I love museums here?