Even though it’s right next to the train station, in the midst of perpetual crowds, my favourite museum is almost always empty.
I like to stop by in the late afternoon, after work; I recognise the guards who spend all day on folding chairs, chatting among themselves in front of mosaics, friezes, frescoes, tiled floors.
The museum features a number of houses from antiquity. They were excavated, pried from their surroundings, removed, relocated, displayed to the public. They’ve reconstructed a few bedrooms, with walls painted red, or a dark hue of yellow, or black, or sky blue. Rooms in which, centuries ago, people slept, dreamt, were bored, made love.
The most beautiful room—it belonged to an emperor’s consort—has a garden painted onto the walls, teeming with trees, flowers, citrus plants,…
