42- Daniel in other life

Once, when I was not too little to be considered a child, but not old enough to be
treated as an adult, the history teacher decided it was a good idea to take the
entire class on a guided tour of the museum. The other option, which I voted for
and no one else did, was to visit the local artisan ice cream factory, but since the
overwhelming majority decided to laugh at my wish, the teacher had no choice but
to accede to their requests. And if there is something I want to make very clear, it is
that I did not decide to vote for the opposite option just to swim against the current,
or because I did not feel passionate about Greek history, it is just that, when you
literally have the name of a Greek mermaid, and you live in Sicily, it is almost
impossible that you do not feel inclined to seek by your own means the origin of the
civilization that gave life to the name you carry. By that time in my life I had done
as much research as I could on ancient Greece, but since my classmates had
taken to traversing history they had never been interested in before, I had to
endure an hour and a half listening to the same ancient myths I knew by heart.
The museum in question was in a particularly busy part of town, so getting there
was not as easy as anyone might have thought. We had to pass at least three
traffic jams before we could stop in front of our main destination. I wasn't too
excited, however, as soon as I looked out the window and saw the front of the
place, I must admit that I did feel a little nervous tingle in the pit of my stomach.
One good thing about that place was its wonderfully extensive collection of statues,
busts and Greek engravings (all copies, of course), things that always managed to
capture my attention. Although I knew that the teacher would give us the most
typical tour of history (the myth of how Chronos the Titan devoured his children,
and then they bravely and heroically chopped him to pieces and threw him to the
bottom of Tartarus), I told myself that I could escape for a few minutes and
contemplate the statues of the Naiads and Sirens, something with which I felt much
more identified. Much happier with that prospect, I got up from my seat and
followed my companions into the museum.
-Here, as you can see, we find an oil painting that perfectly represents the moment
when Cronos, the titan father, regurgitated his children....
It only took five minutes for my prediction to come true. Just as I had predicted, at
that moment we were only at the beginning of an endless and tedious walk through
the same old story. However, when we reached the oil painting, I saw my chance
to escape. As soon as the boys, eager to see blood and torn limbs, and the girls,
disgusted but equally curious, crowded in front of the exhibit, grabbing the attention
of both the teacher and the museum guide, I slipped away from the group
undetected and went to the other end of the gallery, where statues of the Naiads, Medusa, Hecate and so many other women, who often used to be under the
omnipotent shadow of the machismo that permeated all Greek myths, myths that
always insisted on highlighting the bravery and courage of men, always men, were
on display.
For quite a while, while the class continued their tour across the room, I
comfortably wandered through a part of history that I used to feel much more
comfortable and identified with. I looked at statues, engravings, and old writings
that dated back many, many years, but were still very well preserved. I was soaked
and entertained to my heart's content, and I would certainly have continued to do
so until the end of the visit had it not been for the fact that, shortly afterwards, the
teacher came up with the wonderful idea of taking a head count of all her students.
I was deep in concentration looking at paintings of the ancient lords of the sea
(those who used to rule over the waters before Poseidon became the God of the
sea), when, suddenly, I heard behind me a shout that made my hair stand on end:
- Seila!
I knew instantly that I was in trouble, but even so, I did my best to put on an
amused, angelic smile as I turned around and walked back to my group. As should
be more than obvious, it was to no avail. It turned out that the teacher had noticed
long before that I was gone, and scared out of her wits at the thought of having lost
one of the teenagers in her charge, she started looking all over the place for me
like crazy, before realizing that I was almost at her side. I, of course, tried to
explain my reasons, but she was so furious that she wouldn't even let me speak. In
between screams, she promised to send me a warning for my parents to sign, and
if that wasn't enough, after that she held my hand until the tour came to an end, all
to make sure I wouldn't get lost again.
When I got home that same afternoon, I considered it kind of lucky that my parents
were still at work; as strict as they were, they would surely make sure to give me
an exemplary punishment for the reprimand I carried with me, so, before they
arrived and could take away what I liked the most, I grabbed my towel, my
swimsuit, and ran out to the beach. One of the advantages of living so close to the
sea was that I could visit it and swim a couple of meters every time I wanted to,
which happened quite often. Whether it was because of the meaning of my name
or some other factor I didn't know, I felt much more comfortable in the water than
anywhere else. I loved swimming, and I was addicted to the feeling of
disconnection that came over me every time I dove a couple of feet down. It was a sort of ritual that I did every afternoon, without fail, when I got back from
classes...but, of course, I couldn't do it just anywhere.