The Museum

It was a cold, sunny Friday morning and I was taking my first trip in months. I was going to the Museum, formerly known as the Children's Museum (and still very popular with that demographic), in downtown Kitchener. The plan was to take the bus there, tour the exhibits, and return home. An additional and negotiable goal was the special Planetarium showing at 11:30 am. Reading the advertisement which described it as a special portable planaterium, I had vision of stars swirling across a lofty ceiling, myself feeling magically transported not to a distant galaxy but somehow, more magically to me, the Ontario Science Centre.

But first I had to get on the bus. It was the first time in a long time I'd taken one. I was amazed at the processed of waiting. This happened a few weeks ago and I've since taken the bus several times (see "Museum of Natural Sciences") but on this day it was a whole new bag of confused impatience. Years of cycling, walking and the occasional car ride left me mystified at the amazing patience people displayed simply standing by the side of the road, freezing their assses of, enjoying the inspiring vision of rushing traffic, waiting for a large vehicle stuffed with other human beings the sole purpose of which was to ferry people around, but not quite on their own terms. Miazaki's Cat Bus would have been almost less strange to me. In the long feeling minutes that passed while I waited, my mind circled, again and again, the marvel of public transportation.

At long last the bus appeared and I nervously mounted the step. I found a place at the rear and was delighted to look out a darling oblong rectangle of a window, which framed the sights at every stop with an extremely arty edge. It was like the public transportation system had become an Instagram generator, making the less than glorious sights of what city planners are trying to convince us to call Midtown look, if not fresh, then a least intriguing, even if we'd seen them a thousand times (the doctor's offices, the pine trees, the bus stop benches, the Victorian houses turned therapist offices).

I got off the bus in front of City Hall and walked the next two blocks to the Museum, filled with the glory of adventure. Snow scudded in gusts at my feet, old shops revealed bright signs and dingy windows, while new facades yelled, "People do technology here, and also we have our own CBC radio station! The future is NOW!". I could certainly feel the energy of Kitchener's rebirth, like little tender shoots amid the soil.

A slightly anxiety-producing young man appeared to be following me, but I was pleased to note he did not turn into the Museum entrance way with me. I congratulated myself on not becoming agitated but in fact remaining committed to the mission.

At this time it bears noting that the Museum has an adorably small door next to the large main doors which is clearly designed for children, reminiscent of it's days as a museum devoted completely to them. I did not enter via this door, as I felt the adorableness of doing so would be overstimulating and might trigger my anxiety.

Inside, I paid an amount of money to visit a space I doubted I would spend more than 30 minutes in which normally I would grudge on full night out with only the hesitation that the girl at the counter would judge me for being wasteful when I exited in what she might feel was an inappropriately short amount of time later. I remedied this probably unecessary worry by asking her if I could go in and out, and promptly made up a story in my head that I worked in downtown Kitchener and was here on my lunch break, and would for some reason come back later. She said yes, I could, I had my hand duly stamped, inquired where the Planetarium was, was informed of it's location and then also that the Sex Exhibit was on the fourth floor, accesible only by elevator.

The Sex Exhibit! Yes, of course. Generating controversy throughout Canada as it toured the past several years, the Sex Exhibit had finally made it's way to Kitchener to stir delight,  to arouse, to educate and agitate in Old Berlin.

Making my way through the main floor children's play area, I directed myself to the second and third floor, to find the Planetarium. Coming onto the third floor, I saw what looked like a small, black, inflatable igloo. A young man wearing a museum pinafore was standing out side the impossibly tiny entrance with another man and a child. The first man appeared to be talking about the Planetarium. The second man, and child, appeared as though they had not the slightest desire to enter the tiny igloo via the tiny door. As for me, I took one look and decided that although bravery and courage and adventure were les mots du jour, no one could possibly expect me to get into that small, dark, sweaty space with two strange men and a child. I could picture the stars on the ceiling and the likely delight of them, but they were accompanied in my mind by the feeling of sweat on my neck, induced by anxiety as well as shared body heat. I imagined it to be an educational sweat lodge in which my worst nightmares might come to the surface, with only Museum Pinafore and Unenthusiastic Dad and Kid as my guides, while I tried desperately to escape the primal womb to which we all long to return, except when it is sweaty black plastic inflated by a generator.

I decided instead to tour the Russian History exhibit, which was was completely innocuous to me on every emotional level, and thus at the moment, quite soothing. I also viewed a large carved orca display. I strove to appreciate the artistic message of environmental activism behind it, but found myself only able to focus on how much it reminded me of the dinosaur museum and how happy that made me, in the way the simplest things can when you are in a new environment.

The third floor being more or less viewed, I stopped to ponder the choice to view the Sex Exhibit. It was located on the fourth floor, only accessible by elevator (gah!) and it was extremly unclear where the exit was (double gah!). Nothing ventured, nothing gained. If I could not face the sweaty black igloo, I would face the elevator. I took a deep breath, entered, and patiently waited as it rose up one floor. It opened, and I exited almost directly before a desk where a young woman sat, guardian of sex information. She informed me I could not take pictures, and I wondered if that could possibly be her only function there. Asking her about her function seemed akin to asking about sex information from a random although sympathetic and likely trusthworthy adult when you were a child - unthinkable. I asked her where the exit was and she said, "It is through the exhibit."

Through. The. Exhibit. Oh dear me. I might as well have been Sarah, standing outside the Labyrinth. The Sex Exhibit (of which all I could mostly see at this point were larger than life sized naked people photographs) was the painted set spanning the distance through which I could choose to nagivate to safety, or, equally frightening although less terrifyingly uncertain, return via elevator. A force of will rose in me, and I decided to venture on. My strategy: get through the labyrinth, and then double back and be educated about sex at a more leisurely pace.

The entire exhibit was lit by a lurid purplish glow. As I navigated corridors of displays, bodies, body parts and words you don't normally see in large print flashed out at me in sparks of information and sensation. I was a mouse in a sex education maze, intent on the exit, my whiskers and peripheral vision picking up titillating and unexpected stimulation responses. My focus was impressive. The first thing I can recall clearly seeing was five metres from the exit - a display of dildoes from ages past. I was filled with joy at the sight of these dildos, framed in the warm, reassuring light of the exit doors behind them. I went to the doors, opened them, reviewed the path to the stairs, and relaxed into curiousity about the exhibit.

For the next several minutes, I toured back and forth and around, learning nothing new about sex and generally being disoriented by the French and English side by side, which was once such a common place for me when I lived in our nation's Capital, but felt completely strange after 15 years in a city where the second most common language is either German or possibly one from an Asian country, and French is reserved more or less for foreign films and the dedicated bookshelf at the library, or the occasional couple speaking it in the street, which happens so rarely that it makes you wonder what on earth would have induced those persons to move to southwestern Ontario where they would have so few people to speak to in their preferred language, when so much of that language was available in other and in fact much more interesting areas of the country. I interacted with one display only, in which I pushed a button to watch a cross section of penis becoming engorged. It reminded me somehow of a Muppet and I appreciated the foamy quality of the moving parts. The engorged penis, historical dildos, larger than life naked photos and full sized white plastic models of lounging naked men and women are literally all I remember of the displays, but it was still worth the effort, if only to prove that I could run the maze with a degree of confidence. Although there had been some moments of mild panic, when deciding how much time to spend on reading the information and how much to allow myself to just move forward to completion of the exercise, I was glad to have overall been able to remain ok with any anxiety I was experiencing, and continue to calmly move forward.

Back downstairs and feeling extremely pleased with myself, I stopped and removed my shoes to play a step-on piano, sent a photo to L., and took a photograph of a display of Justin Bieber's hat and shoes. I wandered around a few more displays and then moved back down to the first level. I had a strong urge to go and lie down in the sensory room where the babies play, but felt that a 34 year old woman lying down among strange babies on a Friday morning would invite unwanted attention or judgment. Instead, I checked out the gift shop, which was really just three shelves of museum type gifts near the front door.  I then exited the museum with the anxiety that the counter girl was judging me for wasting too much money on too little time in the Museum. The feeling passed quickly in my happiness at having achieved my mission with a surprisingly low amoung of anxiety. I spent the remainder of the morning visiting a couple of bookstores, chased what I thought was my bus transfer across two crosswalks only to discover it was my receipt from the bookstore, experiencing a moment of great excitement to see a cop on a horse, and then non-enjoying all the common irritation of a crowded bus on the way back home. To simply be irritated - what delight, what success! For what is irritation, but anxiety that one feels confident in?