The habit started in my late teens when I had discovered that the Met Museum’s entry fee was “by donation.” I had no idea what that meant so the girl behind the desk explained, “You can pay what you want.”
I still couldn’t wrap my head around the concept so she had to drive it home for me: “You can pay as little as one dollar.”
My eyes bugged out of my head. I had a $20 bill (a king’s ransom for a 17-year-old in 1987) burning in my pocket. I had expected to give half of it away to the Museum’s coffers, but now she was telling me I could keep the lion’s share? I felt like I had won the Lotto.
I thought nothing could exceed this joyous news––until I entered the Museum and saw something I didn’t know was possible: I saw people sitting along the low stone walls in the glass wing that houses the Temple of Dendur.
It was my first time at an art museum. I had only seen museum-goers on TV and they were always on their feet, moving through a museum. I didn’t know it was possible to sit and think. And more importantly in my case, pass the time.
I had nothing to do in those days. I was young and broke and struggling to find my way in life. Unsure of what to do with myself, the only thing that felt meaningful was sitting at the Temple of Dendur––for hours. So I came week after week.
Those visits gave me purpose. I’d write in my journal about how one day, I would come here with Someone I Love; one day, I’d be a published author. I fantasized about getting married in front of the Temple, with champagne-toasting guests standing all around and floating lotus tea lights in the reflecting pool.
I grew to love the Temple for giving me a place to sit, a place to dream, a place to come into myself no matter how slowly and awkwardly it took. For what its stone silence gave to me when I was a lost and lonely youth, the Temple of Dendur remains my favorite place in New York City.
