Generally relegated to my annual trip above 59th street or as a backdrop for sweet but awkward dates, the Met is my one that got away. I've lived here for 9 years now and I'm sure I haven't been in as many times. Since my 9-5 life faded to black in September, I've been wanting to go for an afternoon but nothing is as easy to put off as 3 hours of getting lost in thought uptown. I finally went in search of inspiration of the floral variety, found some, ate a macaroon and pondered the peculiars of solo museum scouting.
Changing out of one's slobby real-life clothes is a necessity. The Met is packed with out-of-towners, so a little extra eccentric goes a long way in keeping you and the camera clobbering masses apart, never mind the fact that you are also camera clobbering and just as prone to wearing ripped jeans. A lady doesn't pay the full suggested admission but she doesn't pay a quarter, either. While you're at it, if you're going to be walking on fancy floors, you might as well wear fancy shoes. A hat works wonders as does wandering aimlessly. I stayed until a handsome security guard needed to escort me out of the visual storage section and then stumbled to the subway through central park, eyes glazed over in an unmistakable painting coma. It was delicious.
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