When I was in high school, I never knew what to do with my three-month summer vacation from the Chapin School. This is what we call a quality problem, but at the time it seemed like a hassle. I ended up committing the weeks to various academic and practical pursuits: perfecting my French with a bunch of people six years older than me at Columbia University, elbowing my way into administrative work at a few contemporary art galleries in Chelsea, and pestering Philippe de Montebello with annoyingly specific questions on his day off. This last bit was pulled off while interning for the Metropolitan Museum of Art in a competitive program for graduating twelfth-graders. A few lucky of us were chosen from a rather intensive application process to spend our days doing supportive labor in various departments – mine was to re-shelve heavy books in the Watson Research Library – in exchange for easing through our Mondays in the Museum’s gloriously empty galleries. Each Monday, when the Museum was closed to the public, we got to flash our glamorous intern badges to duck into the Education Center where we would learn about our adventure for the day. These few weekly hours of behind-the-scenes fun were so formative in my early development as a die-hard lover of the fine arts, that they comprise some of my most vivid memories over a decade later. First of all, Monday is when the lovely maintenance men climb up extremely high ladders to replace the enormous urns of fresh flowers which greet the masses at the visitor desk. I’ve always likened these massive arrangements to the stoic stone lions protecting the main entrance of the New York Public Library. Somehow they seemed unflappable and eternal, so I surprised myself to be so taken aback to see them emptied out with flowers strewn on the ground below, with a maintenance man leaned over and half-hidden in the gigantic pot. It was a sort of hilarious and alarming sight that became the usual Monday-morning vignette soon enough. Each Monday was carefully arranged by our program director, and no minute was wasted. One afternoon we got to pepper Philippe de Montebello with questions. I remember him asking me to lower my hand because I’d asked too many questions, at one point; but oddly enough I primarily remember that his shoes did not match his belt, which truly shook my ideal of his persona. Another afternoon was spent sitting in front of the Gauguin exhibit staring, listening, meditating on his colors and intention. I remember having one of my first exhibition epiphanies – the realization of which I don’t recall, but that isn’t the point – it was one of the first big intellectual breakthroughs that I stumbled upon after hours of absorbing and appreciating an artist’s creations, and it taught me to always be open to and patient for that golden feeling. Yet another Monday afternoon was spent traipsing after a curator from the Photography department named Jeff Rosenheim, who had put together an exhibition including works by Man Ray. Unfortunately what I remember from that afternoon was his rather condescending attitude to my fellow students, rather than the fruits of his years of curatorial labor. This was in fact a valuable lesson because it made me acutely aware of the barriers of entry in the world of fine art that I and others would encounter over the span of our entire careers. He’s actually, nonetheless, a brilliant and generous curator… At this point I’ll ask my reader to suspend judgment and stifle your giggles… my most beloved memory of my summer at the Met was the employee cafeteria, which is graced with the presence of the most wonderful woman cooking up custom fajitas on the spot. The Mexican Food station was so heavenly, so satisfyingly fabulous in that cool museum basement canteen, that I remember it fondly to this day. Nothing compares to those fajitas. I love now visiting the Met like any other tourist civilian and knowing that a few floors below the entry lies that delicious hidden treat known as the employee cafeteria.