When I was 17, I read about a museum called the McNay. On a sunny Saturday, Sally and I drove over to the museum. She asked, "Do you have the address?" "No, but I'll recognize it. There was a picture in the magazine."
"Oh, stop. There it is!"
The museum was free. We entered, excited. The people sitting in the hall stopped talking and stared at us.
"May I help you?" a man asked. "No," I said. "We're fine." I didn't want to listen to a tour guide talking about a painting I was not interested in. Sally had gone upstairs. The people in the hall seemed very strange, keeping their eyes on me. "Where do you think you are?" he asked. "The McNay Art Museum!" I answered. He smiled, shaking head. "Sorry, it is on New Braunfels Street." "Then, what's this place?" I asked, still confused. "Well, it's our home." "What?!" I was shocked. I ran to the staircase and called out, "Sally! Come down immediately!"
"There're some really good works of art up there." She stepped down, looking puzzled. I pushed her towards the front door, waving at the family, saying, "Sorry, please forgive us. You have a really nice place."
The real McNay was wonderful, but we felt nervous the whole time we were there. Van Gogh, Picasso, Da Vinci, Monet... This time, we stayed together, in case anything else unusual happened.
On a sunny day 30 years later, a woman came close to me. "Excuse me, did you ever enter a house, long ago, thinking it was the McNay Museum?"
"Yes... But how do you know?"
"Well, that was my home. I was the teenager sitting at the corner of the hall that day. Before you came over, I never realized what a beautiful place I lived in. My feelings about my home changed after that. I've always wanted to thank you."
