I do love going to museums, though, and with that in mind, I answered: “Yeah, I love looking at art. I tell myself that I should really read up on its history and the artists I felt drawn to, but like with a number of other things in the same vein - learning how to play the piano or learning how to draw - I never got around to it. I’ll be honest with you - I know nothing about art besides some random bits of trivia I managed to pick up from reading novels. “It’s nice to see such a young lady be interested in art,” Wyndall said, pulling me back from my reverie.
My hands, wrapped around a Nikon D330, twitched as the urge to take a picture overcame me - but Wyndall drove on and I missed my shot. We passed by the Albert Whitted Airport and I was impressed to see several biplanes parked out on a field in front of a hangar. I could see us approaching the Waterfront, the shades of blue peeking out across the horizon. I filed those names in my memory for future consideration. Wyndall did most of the talking for the remainder of the drive, offering other suggestions for museum trips such as the Museum of Fine Arts and the Chihuly collection of blown glass at the Morean. It felt a little less like business and a little more like pleasure. This assignment, then, had become a good excuse to travel St. Back in Boston - the “walking city” as it was advertised to me - I could spontaneously leave my house and venture out into the city, catching the train to whichever stop I pleased to take in the sights. Being a recently transferred international student with no car (nor any acquaintances I felt comfortable enough with to ask for a ride) meant that I had settled into the “Eckerd bubble” and as a person with constantly itchy feet, it was a relief to stretch my legs. It was the first time I ventured off campus (besides a quick trip to Walmart, of course) since I arrived at Eckerd. My migraine subsided enough that I finally registered the significance of this trip. Definitely slower paced down here - but it has its charm.” Boston, huh? Coming down here must be some kind of culture shock then. “Boston,” I answered automatically, glossing over the fact that he probably meant where I was from from. “I’m pretty new to the area, so I’m looking forward to it.” “So you’re headed to the Dali Museum, huh?” he asked, inputting the address into his GPS. His black head of wind-swept hair had already begun to show signs of gray. From his face, I would guess that he was in his late-30s. The man behind the wheel introduced himself as Wyndall. The silver Chrysler stopped in front of me and I climbed in, greeting my Uber driver with a timid voice. On display at the Salvador Dali Museum in St. The Disintegration of the Persistence of Memory by Salvador Dali.
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