Falling
Justin and I went to Fallingwater--on, as it turned out, exactly the same day as his ex-girlfriend; 'cause that wouldn't have been awkward and uncomfortable or anything. J. always used to call it "a cave", and I admit to being underwhelmed by architecture in general--I can nod my head convincingly and make appropriately appreciative noises, but I feel about architecture the way I feel about children: I am impressed at the achievement but uninspired.
Our guide was a high school senior, nattily dressed in a houndstooth coat, and the weather could not have been more brilliant: sunny, blue skies, still traces of appropriately autumnal leaves on the trees. The perfect day for a picnic, if you had never known warmer climes. Too bad we weren't allowed to take pictures. Or eat. Or touch anything. In fact, they were so virulent about not-touching that three separate people called frantically out to Justin as we entered the lush rock interior and told him he wasn't allowed to carry his little green clam-shell backpack lest he knock over a priceless artifact.
The tour was boring. And long. I'm pretty tactile, and not being able to touch things makes me cranky; Justin has the attention span of a gnat, and not being able to take pictures of things makes him cranky. The tour could not have lasted LESS time for us. In fact, if there had been a way for the tour to take NEGATIVE time, so we could have back not only the time it took but also some other hours selected from various past experiences, we both would have gone for it instantly.
The tour goes on extensively about cantilevering; this is what makes Fallingwater famous. The house is cantilevered over the river, the levels are cantilevered over each other, the tables within the house are cantilevered over their barrel chairs. It's a cascade of right angles and balance.
At one point, near the end of the tour, we passed a nondescript switch set into the wall, a simple on-off switch. Justin raised an eyebrow at me.
"That turns off the cantilevering," I said, authoritatively.
Our guide was a high school senior, nattily dressed in a houndstooth coat, and the weather could not have been more brilliant: sunny, blue skies, still traces of appropriately autumnal leaves on the trees. The perfect day for a picnic, if you had never known warmer climes. Too bad we weren't allowed to take pictures. Or eat. Or touch anything. In fact, they were so virulent about not-touching that three separate people called frantically out to Justin as we entered the lush rock interior and told him he wasn't allowed to carry his little green clam-shell backpack lest he knock over a priceless artifact.
The tour was boring. And long. I'm pretty tactile, and not being able to touch things makes me cranky; Justin has the attention span of a gnat, and not being able to take pictures of things makes him cranky. The tour could not have lasted LESS time for us. In fact, if there had been a way for the tour to take NEGATIVE time, so we could have back not only the time it took but also some other hours selected from various past experiences, we both would have gone for it instantly.
The tour goes on extensively about cantilevering; this is what makes Fallingwater famous. The house is cantilevered over the river, the levels are cantilevered over each other, the tables within the house are cantilevered over their barrel chairs. It's a cascade of right angles and balance.
At one point, near the end of the tour, we passed a nondescript switch set into the wall, a simple on-off switch. Justin raised an eyebrow at me.
"That turns off the cantilevering," I said, authoritatively.