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Wandering along cobblestone streets that look straight out of a storybook, I appreciate the fact that I’ll be spending the next two months living in one of the oldest cities in Europe for the first time.
A canal runs to my right, constrained by mossy banks and filled with stagnant, clear water that reflects the colorful exteriors of the buildings lining its shore. Pointed steeples tower in the distance. Wooden boxes line the street, overflowing with bright blossoms and wild greenery spreading toward the stone road.
Up ahead, the narrow path opens to a bustling square. There’s a market open for business, rows of wooden booths displaying a staggering array of products for purchase. Striped umbrellas shade jam, cheese, honey, flowers, and cured meats, along with every variety of fruits and vegetables imaginable.
A church bell tolls out a booming, commanding sound. I trace the peals to my left, where one of the majestic cathedrals Europe is famous for casts a massive shadow. It’s ten times the size of the small, white-washed chapel Hallie got married in two summers ago.
The building itself is an astounding work of art; the exterior so detailed and carefully crafted that cataloging the complicated texture of the dazzling architecture seems like an impossible task. The cathedral fits perfectly with its timeless surroundings while simultaneously completely overwhelming them.
I stare for a while, trying to reconcile how this stunning structure just exists. Standing here the same way it has for hundreds of years. It also serves as an amusing litmus test for distinguishing tourists from the locals. Those manning the booths barely glance up at the magnificent church, while many of the shoppers browsing are gaping upward or snapping pictures of the sight.
Eventually I move on, stopping to buy a soft pretzel and then continuing along the same street I was walking before. It veers left after a hundred yards, transitioning into an arch bridge that crosses the canal.
The building situated immediately on the opposite side reminds me of the cathedral I just passed. The exterior is comprised of the same dark gray stone, and it shares the same emanation of importance. But everywhere the cathedral was pointed steeples and sharply carved edges; this building is rounded. Circular windows, ornate arches, and a domed ceiling shape the curved silhouette.
There’s a steady flow of foot traffic heading in and out of the stone structure, and I fall in line behind a couple speaking what I think is Spanish. I’d ask them where we’re headed, but my Spanish is no better than my German. Plus, I receive an answer as soon as we walk into the cavernous lobby.
It’s some sort of museum. There’s a long counter that spans one side of the room, covered with glossy pamphlets. Chattering tourists are grouped around signs displaying clock hands in various positions. I can’t recall the last time I was inside any sort of museum—probably elementary school, if I had to guess—but that’s not why I pause just inside the front doors. It’s the stark contrast between the exterior and the interior that has me stalling to a stop.
The outside was a grimy gray, weathered by years of exposure to harsh winters and—as I can attest to personally—humid summers. The interior is white.
Blinding, pure, striking white. The total absence of color is jarring. I feel like I was just dropped into the center of a snow globe.
I continue walking, disregarding the tour groups and pamphlets.
The few museums I’ve been to before have had an admission cost, but no one stops me for payment as I pass through the winter wonderland into a gray hallway that matches the aged exterior. Priceless oil paintings hang on stone walls that look straight out of a medieval castle.
I veer left into the first gap in the wall, which turns out to be a small gallery.
There are about ten people in the tiny room, all appearing to be entirely absorbed in the artwork displayed. I don’t think anyone who knows me would describe me as an art enthusiast. I took an art history class freshman year and was so bored, I barely passed. Everyone else in the seminar took it very seriously, which only exacerbated my own apathy.
I’m definitely not someone who would drop terms like brushwork or composition in casual conversation. But the room is absent of any of the know-it-all commentary similar to the soundtrack of that class, so I take the time to lean close to each painting and study the intricacies.
None of them are the abstract-style pieces where you look at one line of paint on an otherwise blank canvas with a placard explaining it’s meant to portray the human experience as colorful and empty and think I could have done this.
Many of the paintings portray scenes like the ones I just saw outside: cobblestone streets, canals, and cathedrals. Others show countryside scenes of pastures dotted with the fluffy forms of sheep, streams, and distant mountains.
I move into the connected room. This one has more variety. There are a few vineyards, some sailboats, lots of portraits of people I don’t recognize, and one painting I spend a long time staring at. It’s simple: a field of wildflowers. Shades of green grass and purple flowers. The level of detail is masterful. I feel like I could reach out and touch the texture of blades and petals. The artistry is exquisite, but it has an intangible quality to it, as though the entire painting is a mirror or a mirage. There are smudges and smears you have to look closely to see, and they mar the scene, keeping it from being too perfect. The longer I look, the more I see.
It’s a puddle.
Simply a reflection of a peaceful scene.
Once I realize that, I move on. I’ve just entered the next room when my phone rings, earning me dirty looks from everyone else already inside this gallery. I struggle to pull it out of the snug athletic shorts I’m wearing, and the sound is even more obnoxious when it’s free from the spandex. It’s my sister.
I end the call, only for it to ring again immediately.
The middle-aged woman standing closest to me mutters something in German that sounds decidedly unpleasant. Then again, I’ve yet to hear anything said in German sound pleasant. Any term of endearment might as well be a scolding.
I duck out into the hallway and answer my phone with a whispered “Hello?”
“Why are you talking so quietly?” Hallie shouts. And I mean shouts. Her voice is audible enough to catch the attention of the security guard strolling about, making certain none of the visitors attempt a heist. He shoots me a stern look and points to the door marked Ausgang.
I sigh and follow his silent command, pushing through the door that exits into a sculpture garden.
Immediately, I mourn the loss of air conditioning.
“Why are you screaming?” I ask. “You just got me kicked out of the museum. And it’s sweltering out.”
