Shadow Play

2

I may have been open to all types of museums, but that didn't mean I wanted to be stuck working in the American Windmill Museum back near my West Texas hometown. Not to say it didn’t have its place, but a job there would likely involve more dusting than negotiating the acquisition of new exhibits. I wanted to work in a dynamic museum that updated displays regularly and engaged the community. While New York City wasn’t the only American city rich with museums, if I was going to make a move, I was going abroad. As my best friend Ashley would say, go big or go home. I had spent my childhood traveling and it felt normal to pack up and relocate to cities where I didn't speak the language and knew no one but my parents. My mother was an artist who found inspiration in new cultures and my father was a writer who could work from anywhere. Growing up, every penny we had went into traveling. I spent Easter in Beijing and summer in the Alps, with only as much time as necessary back in Lubbock to regroup and save enough money to hit the road again. My mom’s mantra was 'a life lived in fear is a life half lived.' I may not have agreed with all her philosophies, but that one resonated with me on a deep level. I couldn’t miss out on life just because I was scared. I searched the internet for job listings in international museums, intending to focus my search in Italy for its rich history in art and culture. Despite those intentions, I found myself scouring listings for Irish job ads. When I discovered the assistant curator posting for the Ulster Museum in Belfast, my eyes locked on the laptop screen and my pulse pounded in my ears. The job was well above my qualifications and I had no idea what on earth made me think I had any business applying, but my gut told me to give it a try. I wrote down all the contact information for that position and information on several other jobs in various locations. By the time I had gathered a list of prospects, the museums in Europe were closed so my phone inquiries had to wait until the following morning. When the front door was flung open and my smiling best friend and roommate, Ashley, walked into the apartment, I panicked. Ash and I met when we were placed as potluck roommates by the university, but we quickly settled into an easy friendship. If I was sad, she was there with cookies to wallow with me. If I was overwhelmed, she was the first to ask what she could do to help. If I had great news, she was the first person I wanted to tell. I shared everything with her, including my wardrobe. However, my seemingly sudden career change felt like a betrayal. As much as I wanted to share it with her, I was heartbroken at the idea of leaving her and couldn't force the words past my lips. “Whatcha up to?” she asked midway into changing into our standard evening loungewear leggings and a t-shirt. I could hear myself giving her the scoop on how I'd quit my job and was looking for work overseas, but instead I clammed up. “Not much, just checking email and putzing on the internet.” “You know what night it is!” she called out in a sing-song voice. “You know I do!” I forced energy into my voice and dedicated myself to having a great evening with my best friend. We were junkies for reality dance and singing competitions, and fortunately for us, there were plenty to choose from. “You have a good day at work?” “Not bad, finished up a mystery novel that has some real potential.” Ash was an English Lit major and had the good fortune of landing an entry-level position at a New York publishing house just before we graduated, her first foray into the working world. We had thrown all our worldly possessions into a U-Haul and made the drive to the Big Apple. Both of us grew up in small towns, and despite all my travels, I had never actually lived long-term in a big city. We wanted to experience the diversity and lifestyle that came hand-in-hand with being a New Yorker. I wanted to get lost in the halls at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, meet people from all over the world, see Broadway productions and try new, exotic foods. Unfortunately, all those things required money and slaving at the diner hardly paid for my rent, let alone dinner and a show. “You know mysteries are my fave, you'll have to let me know when it's through edits so I can check it out.” “Will do. We have any food?” she asked while rummaging through the fridge. Ash was not a cook so it was generally up to me to provide meals. “There's some lunch meat, think that's about it. Grab that and some cheese and we can eat while we watch.” We spent the rest of the evening curled up on our small sofa watching TV and swooning over our favorite stars. The following morning, the first call I made was to the Ulster Museum. By some stroke of luck, Fergus Campbell, the head curator, answered the phone. His Scottish brogue was enthralling and I had to listen carefully to understand him over the phone. His flare for the dramatic became evident as he waxed poetically about Americans and their penchant for small dogs and healthy appetites. Our conversation flowed naturally as we discussed my background and the city of Belfast. Eventually we came around to the position posting. “Och lass, I know it's not standard procedure to hire someone without meeting face-to-face, but I think you'd be a great fit here. This job requires more than book smarts, you have to be able to work with people too. Life's a balance and I can tell you are good with people.” “All of my traveling has made me comfortable with all types of people and situations.” I didn’t want to overdo it but I knew that I needed to sell myself. “Tell me, what was your favorite place that you've been to?” “Definitely Florence. We spent a summer there when I was a teenager and I loved every minute of it. The art, the people, and oh my goodness the food was to die for.” I closed my eyes remembering the amazing couple of months we had spent in a small villa on the outskirts of town. My mom painted and my dad wrote, leaving me free to explore the town, including one of the boys who had lived nearby. Giovanni Lorenzo had been a year older than me, lanky with dark hair and eyes, and oozing classic Italian charm. “You forgot something though, those Italian men—nothing like them in the world.” His voice had lowered and I could tell there was a story behind his words. I wagered that Fergus had enjoyed his time in Italy about as much as I had. “Absolutely, they know how to charm, for sure.” “Och, nothing like the brutes here. You’d think they were raised by goats, you would. Not to discourage you from coming, I’m sure there must be a decent one out there somewhere.”