On Museums, Windows, and the Consequences of Terrible Decisions

I think everyone has been through this at least once in their life. Even so, it's not the kind of thing that happens every day.

It was a Sunday, one of those mornings when you wake up with the light already pouring through the window, and you stretch out good and long and say, "ah, what a beautiful day!" Because it really was a beautiful day.

I popped right out of bed, ready to make the most of those hours of leisure ahead of me, hours of doing nothing and at the same time doing everything I want, or almost, because almost always you never get to do everything you want.

The fact is, I was up, did my morning rituals, and decided to visit a museum. A quick search online helped me narrow it down to a few options, and after about three seconds in front of the closet I went with my favorite combination, the one I usually wear on pretty-unpretentious-leisure days: a pair of pants and a short dress. Actually, I wear it on other occasions too, but never mind. What matters is that the day before it had been freezing cold — yes, in the middle of January — and who ever imagines they'll be cold at the height of a Brazilian summer?

So I wasn't about to be fooled twice, and I figured I was making a very smart choice by going with the wool dress — yes, wool — and thick leggings with a double waistband.

Yes. In January. Don't start judging me yet.

Of course, five minutes into the fifteen it takes to walk to the subway, I was rethinking my choices, not to say EXTREMELY REGRETTING them, but I figured that heat was just the effect of walking and, since I'm Brazilian and I never give up, I kept going and thought: it'll pass soon enough, and I'm going to thank myself for making such a smart choice.

Well. As you can imagine, that moment never came. Of course the air conditioning on the subway was broken. And of course I thought: ah, but this one's broken, the museum's won't be; and I'm going to thank myself for making such a smart choice. Once again, history repeats itself, and after walking under a scorching sun through downtown, I get where I wanted to go and find out that, as tends to be the case with museums housed in old buildings, there's no air conditioning. But that's fine, I told myself: I came here to have a good time, so that's what I'm going to do.

So I ignored my own situation as much as I could and in the end there I was, actually having a good time, just a girl distracted by the beauties of the nineteenth century, lit up by the sunbeams flooding the room through those tall, wide windows — like art within the art.

I'm sure I looked perfectly serene to anyone watching, but on the inside every molecule of my organism was churning and screaming as if in some pre-combustion stage.

And I was looking at the exhibition in front of me, trying to focus on the minutiae and the details of those priceless works hanging on the wall, but what I was really conscious of was every stretch of my skin bathed in sweat, every drop running down my back and settling at the base of my waist, right there, where the waistband was — did I mention it was double? — of the leggings, and right in that spot the skin, under the sweat, under the waistband, under the wool, was begging for mercy.

That's when I saw a door marked RESTROOM. It was like a vision of paradise. The prospect of some air, running water, and the possibility of shedding all those layers, even if only for a little while, was irresistible.

I went in, shut the main door, tore my clothes off, and splashed water on the back of my neck, my face, my chest. I stood there, air-drying, no clothes on, in the museum restroom, reflecting on and enjoying my outing (so what if I’m miserable, I came here to have a good time, after all).

It was almost educational, actually. I learned empirically that cold floors and walls really do cool a room down, and that in old buildings even the restrooms are beautiful (I don't know if you've had the chance, but if you're ever in São Paulo, go see the one at the old Casa das Rosas mansion!).

The restroom I was in, specifically, had this window from the photo: enormous and Victorian; with a view that was unexpectedly calm considering it was downtown.

And there I stayed for some good, cool minutes, admiring the view and waiting for my body temperature to drop below boiling point.

And then, with the rest of the museum still to be conquered, I decided it was time to get dressed. I looked at the two pieces in front of me: very short dress and leggings, and I went with the dress (going with just the leggings would certainly have drawn more attention), and since there was no other remedy, I walked out, happy, though still a little hot, with my notebook and pants in my hand.

Yes, in my hand, because of course I hadn't brought anything to put the thing in. It may have caused a bit of a stir, but the breeze on my bare legs was the greatest reward I could have asked for.

Besides, as my grandmother used to say: people are going to stare at you and judge you no matter what, so do what needs to be done (not true, she never said that, but take it as poetic license).

Today I looked back on all of this and remembered every bit of it, because once again I couldn't resist the dress with leggings. But relax. It's not wool. And today it is, in fact, raining.