The air was chill in the garage when we got out. We crossed over through the parking lot and up toward the elevator doors. They parted and we entered the elevator. I noticed my friend grinning wryly, staring at the floor beside me. As I turned my head to him he tilted his in turn and asked again what the occasion was. I explained promptly that we were entering the Getty Villa, a modern reconstruction of an ancient Roman villa, fully furnished with a museum and garden.
The elevator stopped suddenly and then we were in full view of the gravel walkway. We strode through security and past several banners hanging off the massive walls. We were all grinning as we went up the stairs, and as we ascended those gritty concrete steps it was as if we were entering some starry kingdom of old, as already golden butterflies had taken to the air and behind us lay the bluish coast of Malibu.
Soon we were standing in the actual museum, gaping up at the floral ceilings and curling pillars of marble. Each hall was a sort of labyrinth, housing its own collection of sculptures and general paintings. I passed ornately decorated floors, bronze busts of Hellenistic rulers, clay pots adorned with ribald portraits. Each statue held a vaguely lost quality, as the features had grown dim, grown rough with time.
At length I came across a very special statue of a man with his hands held up over his head. Beside it was a brief description of the parable in which this character was contained: he had foolishly boasted that he was a better musician than Apollo, and after losing a contest with the god he had been hung from a tree and flayed of his skin as punishment.
Outside, there was an immense pool with glowing gardens placed beside it. I wandered through the crowd of other tourists, smiling, noting how each garden was perfectly contained and kept. Neatly shrouded hedges surrounded the pool, with little statues to adorn it. I walked slowly through the painted halls and walkways, the full sun upon my back. Far behind me I could smell the ocean swaying madly in the breeze.
Eventually we turned and went back to the car. Perhaps twenty minutes later and I was standing on the shore, locking eyes with a very precious seagull.
