museum foot
You probably heard of, or even experienced, athlete's foot, flat feet, plantar fasciitis, bunions, ingrown toenails, Morton's neuroma, diabetic foot, claw foot, heel spurs, stone bruises, gout, or foot drop, but nothing brings the traveler more misery than the dreaded Museum Foot, and we have a bad case.
Since we left Seattle on September 12, we have been to nine major museums in five cities. We’ve walked 105 miles since we left, and I am guessing half of those have been in museums (maybe exaggerating). Those SKECHERS® Slip-ins™ never had a chance and were abandoned long ago. Oh sure, when you’re blazing down 8th Avenue in New York City, weaving between the rivers of humanity at breakneck speed because if you don’t you will be run down like a flailing paddling surfer by the crushing wave of footsteps behind you, you feel pretty good doing it. You’re alive! You’re proud of yourself for not dying. Or, how about the mine fields that are the sidewalks of Mexico City? Broken and angled shards of concrete reaching up in hopes of finding your toes, forcing your brakes on suddenly, propelling you onto your knees and palms or at least snapping an ankle. And what of those random holes in the ground swallowing a leg up to your bleeding shin? Ten days of maneuvering that obstacle course without damage is another reason to feel pretty superior. That kind of walking is healthy and has already loosened my shirts and tightened my belt.
But those Monets and Picassos, those Vincents and Gauguins, that 12-foot-tall by 24-foot-long Pollock? Those are the real killers. You are sucked in as soon as you turn the gallery corner. “OH MY GOD, that Greek pottery over there is 6,000 years old,” you say to yourself. You approach it with reverence and bend slightly at the waist to look at the fine detail. You think about how somebody a very long time ago had as much creative ability as you do, perhaps even more. You stand there on your feet for some minutes before moving on. Then you repeat that 100 more times slow-walking at a snail’s pace as you wait your turn to stare at paint strokes and chisel marks, fine weaving, and carved masks. All of it overwhelming your senses. You’re not thinking about your feet in these moments. You can barely believe that you are where you are. There is a Diego Rivera on the wall right next to the Frida Kahlo! (How ironic, I wonder if she would approve?), or how about over there—Van Gogh and Gaugin sharing a wall? (Sorry about the ear, Mate. No hard feelings.) And of course, the massive Pollock painting owns the room while that smaller, but superb Krasner shirks over there in the corner (Even in death?). Periodically the guards remind me that my face is just too close to it all. And my back and my feet will certainly let me know back in the Airbnb or the hotel.
One museum visit is no problem. Even two days at the Art Institute of Chicago, while challenging, is doable. It’s when you get to the eighth, ninth, or tenth museum in so many weeks that your feet start taking revenge upon you. And then you get it: Museum Foot. Worse than plantars, it’s sort of like being plunked in the arch repeatedly with a ball peen hammer.
You get back to your room and take off your shoes and limp across the floor, whimpering. You notice your wife is looking a lot older recently as she is craned over staring at you with a mix of sadness and fear. She looks back at you like you are forcing some kind of artistic Trail of Tears upon her.
Today, being Wednesday, we learned that both the Barnes Foundation and the Philadelphia Museum of Art were closed, but she gives her best performance, “Really? Oh, I’m so sorry.” So, we do laundry instead. It was a mere four blocks away and had chairs. Luxury can be found in the smallest of places.
But there is always tomorrow. Dublin, Paris, Dijon, Lyon, Avignon, Marseille, Taipei. They are all coming and they have that good stuff. And I’ll say, “Can you believe it? We’re looking at the Mona Lisa?” And she’ll agree, and really mean it, as we limp to the next gallery. We’re living the dream.