My shoes make a wonderful tapping noise that echo off the intricate white walls. My focus is drawn to how evenly I can make my footsteps sound; one, two, three, four, one, two, three, four. I couldn’t help but step a little harder at the “one.” I glance up at the ancient Roman statues that surround me with half lidded eyes accompanied by a small frown of discontent. Why do people come to this place? I could easily write about the way Julius Caesar looks with a computer and some fluffy socks.

“Hey Becky, you want to translate this headstone? It’s short and seems easy enough.” I walk over to my friend and look at the marble man giving me a slight smirk. I look at Tammir.

“He looks awful smug for a dead guy.” She gives me a look and I look down at my empty paper. I click my pen and begin to translate the text underneath him. Is Liberti nominative plural or genitive singular? I groan in frustration Latin was so ridiculously useless; why translate something that we could look up on Wikipedia?

After translating a second headstone Tammir and I decide to walk around the rest of the museum. The first floor we go through is modern art, of course. On our way up we see a bronze statue of a man seemingly standing on the side of the wall. He has bright blue eyes and looks deeply mysterious. I am immediately excited to see what the rest of the exhibit has to offer. However, I became deeply disappointed by the boring art we see. Painting after painting was random splotches and geometrical shapes. About an hour later we decide it’s time to leave.

This simple task is exponentially harder than it seems. We knew we went through the African exhibit, we just needed to find out where that was. What floor was that on again? What floor are we even on? We sigh as we realize we are completely and utterly lost. On our way to another staircase we pass through the 19^th century art exhibit. These paintings appear to be much better than the ones we had just seen upstairs. We turn a corner and I quickly shield my eyes. Between my fingers I read the description: “Study of a Nude Man, French Painter.” Tammy and I turn towards each other, share a look, and hurry onwards.

Tammir runs a hand through her straightened hair. “That’s it Becky! We have to ask someone for help.” She sighs in defeat. I share her pain.

“Well we could ask that woman over there? She looks approachable.” Tammy’s eyes meet mine.

“Well I’m not gonna ask her,” she says. I give her the most ‘are you serious’ face I can muster.

“Well I’m not gonna ask her, either,” I respond. She rolls her eyes.

“Rock paper scissors says shoot!” Our hands fly out in front of us. My cheeks pull my lips into a smile as I cover her fist with my hand. She makes a disappointed sound and walks over to the lady. In an effort to look busy I turn my attention to a painting on my right. “Circus Sideshow (Parade de Cirque), Georges Seurat.” I walk over to it and push up my glasses slipping down my nose. As I look deeper into the gorgeous colors and faceless faces, I notice a slight movement at the bottom of the painting. I blink furiously and look again, thinking it was a short hallucination. The audience in black tuxedos looks normal. I continue to look around at the mustaches and top hats when I see the movement once more. This time I know it’s happening. I hurriedly look up to see Tammir still talking to the security guard. My eyes are drawn back to the swirling oil. I look deeper and deeper until I’m caught completely off guard by a hand grabbing the front of my jacket and pulling me towards the painting. My feet fly off the floor and I shut my eyes.

Behind closed lids I see static. When the ringing in my ears dissipates I begin to hear music- really wonderful, good music. I open my eyes to see men walking and talking in black tuxedos and mustaches, crowding around a familiar scene. In the middle of the park I notice a man in a deep red jacket and a conical black hat carrying a dull golden trombone. My mouth drops open in shock. Was this actually happening? Am I really inside a painting?

I hear a cacophony of French sentences and fragments of words. I quickly pinch myself as I stand up from the park bench. This isn’t a dream at all. As I attempt to recover from this moment of clarity, a woman in a glorious blue dress and hat passes me by, arm in the elbow of a man. She is stunning, completely ethereal. She glances at me, gives me a questioning look, and tugs the man she’s with. He had begun to talk to two other men, so she worms her arm out of his and walks (beautifully, I might add) towards me. Terror fills my chest and legs. What do I do?

“Pardon” she says to me in a soft and elegant voice, “Qui etes-vous?” I look at her with wide eyes. Desperation fills voice box as I attempt to retrieve the French I took in the first two years of high school.

“M-my, um, my name is Rebecca.” Her bright pink lips turn upwards.

“My name is Anne, it’s a pleasure to meet you. May I ask why you are dressed like,” she gestures to my body, “this?” Panic fills me again.

“I, well, I come from out of town, I just came off a boat.” She gives me another meaningful smile. We talk for a few more minutes; about the night, about the music. She asks me if I would like to accompany her to the Parade de Cirque, and I can’t say anything but yes. We walk into the tent and become surrounded by purples, oranges, and dim, majestic lights. The music sounds even better inside, and people scuttle inwards, trying their best to get to the front.

I close my eyes as I listen. The music is rich and vibrant, just how I envisioned it to be when I looked at it in the Met. Suddenly I understood. This was why people came to museums! No, not to get sucked into paintings, but to really feel and become one with the art.

All at once I felt a familiar sensation; I heard ringing in my ears and I looked to Anne. She grasped my hand and spoke into my ear above the music, “Thank you for visiting; It was a pleasure.” She backs away and gives me a parting smile. I smile back and give a wave before I close my eyes. When I open them, I’m back at the museum. Tammy glances over at me and bids farewell to the guard. She walks over to me, giving me a questioning look.

“I don’t know how we missed it, it’s just down these stairs here,” she points towards a sign that says “exit.”

I give her a grin. “I think we should hang out a bit longer, don’t you?”