Rabbit among the swallows

Sorry, busy April.

So to begin where it really began, let’s go back to my Northern California trip last fall, when I took an unexpected detour to the Soledad Mission (or Mission Nuestra Señora de la Soledad, if you prefer). It wasn’t the first mission I’ve been to—that would be Santa Barbara—but that’s where I saw a display with models of California’s twenty-one missions, and that got me thinking: why not see Capistrano, where the swallows famously return on St. Joseph’s Day each spring? For a better view of that model, however...

...let’s jump ahead a few months and about 330 miles south to the model at Mission San Juan Capistrano itself. The mission—the only one in Orange County, in fact—has quite the history of triumphs and setbacks: It was founded twice, on a site consecrated by the Franciscans in 1775 but soon abandoned due to native unrest, then reconsecrated a year later. After that, things went well for a time, with the mission establishing California’s first vineyard and expanding to include the Great Stone Church you see on the right there. But then the latter was devastated in an earthquake, and once Capistrano was secularized in the 1830s, it was used as a private ranch until Abe Lincoln returned it to the Catholic Church in 1865. Even then, it was another thirty years before anyone attempted to undo the disrepair the mission had fallen into, and longer still—1910—before Father St. John O’Sullivan arrived and effected a permanent restoration.

And that’s the short version. So how does the place look a century after Father O’Sullivan stepped in?

Well, none too bad, considering; I can see why it’s called “the Jewel of the Missions.” This is the plaza area—you can see one corner of the main quadrangle on the left, and on the right, a surviving wall of the Stone Church. Fire up some Ink Spots, then let’s start with the latter.

So this is what remains of the Great Stone Church. Due to the mission’s initial successes, a magnificent sandstone cathedral was commissioned to supplant the original chapel in the main quadrangle; construction began in 1797 and completed in 1806. With its Byzantine influences, it was unlike anything in America at the time (and even called “the American Acropolis”), but it only lasted six years—on the Feast Day of the Immaculate Conception in December 1812, a 7.0-magnitude earthquake struck, collapsing the bell tower and most of the nave, killing forty congregants and the two young bell ringers. Time and neglect did the rest; restoration efforts have seen limited results, to the point that only the sacristy and sanctuary are largely intact, though the transept and nave walls are partially standing as well.

Even less remains of the bell tower, however—just the footprint, where the two largest of the mission’s four original bells, also damaged in the quake, now sit. Each bell was named after a saint, so here we have San Vicente and San Juan; surprisingly, they remained in use for decades despite their cracked tones, until finally being replaced with replicas in 2000.

As for San Antonio and San Rafael—and Vicente/Juan 2.0—they remain in place in the campanario, the bell wall connecting the Stone Church and the quadrangle, and are still rung on a regular basis. In fact, they’re having a bell-ringing ceremony today to welcome the swallows back—guess I’d better hurry to the plaza side of the wall if I’m to catch that, huh?

Aw, the crowd beat me to it. Everybody present cameras...and go!

Ladies and gentlemen, your rhythm section.

But did the bells summon the birds, you ask? Honestly, my expectations were low because fewer swallows have been reported in recent years, probably due to the area becoming more urbanized and the birds having more options for nesting sites than the mission’s eaves and archways. And I mean, if I’d just flown in from my Argentinean migration, I’d probably want a little more privacy too. Still, there were a few viewing stations set up with binoculars zeroed in on existing mud nests, such as this fourplex under the roof tiles, in case they decided to grace us with their presence.

Nothing yet.

Nonetheless, the mission holds festivities on St. Joseph’s Day for people hoping to see the prospective swallows, with food, crafts, performers, and other such fare—it basically goes back to O’Sullivan himself, who used the tradition of the swallows to drum up interest in the mission. Hey, whatever means a good opportunity for me to tour the place while the crowd’s distracted. Well, and sneak in a shot with the cutouts.

And where better to start my solo tour than the Serra Chapel? So named because it’s the only place Junipero Serra is known to have held Mass, although it’s also notable as the oldest extant building in California to have been in continuous use since its construction in 1782; after the collapse of the Stone Church, services resumed here and continue to the present day. Granted, there were a few lost decades where it didn’t serve as a chapel—when Father O’Sullivan arrived, it was actually being used as a granary—but that counts toward the record, and more importantly, he was able to make it a cornerstone of the mission’s restoration, from installing a new roof to touching up the colorful wall ornamentation.

On the way up the aisle, between the Stations of the Cross, we find the mission’s namesake, San Juan Capistrano, originally known as Giovanni da Capistrano of Italy, a 15th-century theologian famous for going into battle armed with only a cross and a flag. Ballsy. Actually, even this painting has some crazy history behind it, having been lost for years until it turned up in a flea market in Mexico, where it was bought and returned to the mission. What were the odds?

But the obvious centerpiece of the chapel is the 400-year-old retablo, a stunning Baroque altar of gilded Spanish cedar that was shipped over from Barcelona in nearly 400 pieces, then reassembled here, requiring that O’Sullivan have the sanctuary deepened and the ceiling raised in order to accommodate it. Kind of hard to quibble with the end result, though.

One other noteworthy feature of the Serra Chapel that I’ll mention: the Peregrine Shrine, dedicated to St. Peregrinus, patron of cancer patients and, more recently, AIDS patients, where worshipers can come light a votive and add their prayers to a book. I wouldn’t normally do this, but with a couple of people I know dealing with ailments at the moment, I couldn’t very well not make an entry of my own. Hopefully Peregrinus can make out my paw-writing—I do the best I can without thumbs, you know?

Then right outside the chapel is the campo santo, the mission’s cemetery, where some 2,000+ people are buried, including the native converts who died in the Stone Church’s collapse as well as Father O’Sullivan himself, who was the last person to be interred here. Rest well, Padre; your work continues, with your mission still standing and still beautiful.

I also swung through the quadrangle, where many of the rooms are on display as recreations of their original functions—kitchens, pantries, workrooms, or in this case, soldiers’ barracks. Probably most notably, the soldiers stationed here had to fend off an attack from Hipólito de Bouchard, “California’s only pirate”...and lost. To be fair, they were outnumbered four to one, but I guess we should just be happy Bouchard’s men left the place standing at all.

Fun aside: You know how historically, people tended to be shorter than they are today? Look at this shrimpy little doorway—for reference, I’m 1’2”, including the ears.

I also stopped by the California Missions Resource Studio, AKA the kids’ room. Among other things, they have a display of the cattle brands for all twenty-one California missions, which I immediately jumped on—might as well add to my rubbings collection, right? Although instead of Capistrano’s brand, I chose the one that was closest to my initial, which belonged to Mission San Gabriel Arcángel. A future stop? We shall see.

All the while, though, I kept one eye skyward whenever we were outside, always looking for swallows. No such luck—birds, I saw, but crows are what I specifically heard. Big deal. I can hear those at home any given day!

So for lack of any other avian payoff, I went ahead and stopped by the gift shop, where I...bought a swallow charm. Yeah, it’s not remotely the same. Better luck next year?

Of course, that’s all the more reason to come the day of the festival—even if I don’t see a single swallow, at least I can still spend the afternoon eating my weight in churros. So I suppose I’d best get started on that; never know when the vendors might start running low on cinnamon sugar, right?

Three missions down, eighteen to go! Uh, eventually.

Temple run

Who says nothing good comes of reality TV? On last season’s premiere of The Amazing Race, the contestants started out at Hsi Lai Temple in the foothills of Hacienda Heights, and I thought, “Rob and I should go there to close out the Year of the Rabbit.” So: cue the dramatic opening shot!

And in fact, Hsi Lai—pronounced she lye, which translates to “Coming West”—does hold a large Chinese New Year’s celebration, but with my ears still ringing slightly from last year’s festivities, I thought I’d play it safe and wait for a quieter day, especially since parking’s a bit limited. And crowded further by these statues of mini-monks demonstrating their calisthenics and inviting the visitor to join in.

I’ll spare you those photos. Rabbit anatomy makes some things...awkward.

Anyway, the temple, which opened in 1988, sits on a fifteen-acre lot in the shape of a bodhi leaf and is one of the largest Buddhist monasteries in the Western Hemisphere. As an American branch of the Fo Guang Shan order, it’s dedicated to spreading Humanistic Buddhism, which seeks to unify the teachings of the eight Mahāyāna schools in China with a particular emphasis on service and outreach that’s codified in its mottoes:

Give confidence to others.
Give hope to others.
Give joy to others.
Make things convenient for others.

Sounds welcoming. Let’s see what lies beyond the big gateway, shall we?

Hsi Lai is as much a cultural center as a working monastery, with classrooms, an art gallery, an auditorium, and a dining hall to accommodate the community events and conferences it hosts, but since I’m here specifically for the temple, let’s go straight to the main entrance in the Bodhisattva Hall. The architecture is a blend of Ming and Qing styles, with the outer shrine commanded by statues of several bodhisattvas—beings who’ve attained enlightenment and transcended mortal suffering through love and compassion—and further embellished with the text from the Diamond Sutra in gilded characters up and down the walls. A cheat sheet for supplicants right in plain sight—nice!

Outside the shrine, some people stopped to light an incense stick under the watchful gaze of deified general Guan Yu, AKA Chien Lan Bodhisattva. I followed suit, as a personal homage to the people we’ve lost in the last year. I didn’t linger long since smoke in the fur is a bad thing, but at my size it’s still an easier gesture of remembrance than pouring out a 40.

And then beyond the main entrance is this statue of Venerable Master Hsing Yun, founder of both Hsi Lai and—way back in 1967—the Fo Guang Shan order as a whole. Seemed a good time to pay my respects, as not only did he make this place happen, he’s recovering from a stroke he suffered this last December. A Buddhist master isn’t above accepting the well-wishes of a rabbit, right?

Outside of the shrines themselves, the most striking parts of the temple’s public areas are the two enclosed gardens set just off of the central courtyard. On one side is the Arhat Garden, populated with statues of Buddha’s first eighteen disciples. Gotta love the rabbits that hang out with them, but the geographically incongruous pink flamingos must be a reference to Buddhism’s roots in India rather than China. Or maybe the Arhats have a double-wide out back. I suppose it could be both.

Also, if you look closely at the rose-covered arch on the right side, you’ll see a small bell hanging from the center. The goal is to hit it with coins: One hit brings you good merit; the second earns you wisdom; the third means your wish comes true. I didn’t do so hot—not a single hit—but it’s hard to do when Rob only had 39 cents on him. Stellar planning, Rob; now go find a change machine.

Forty dollars in wasted donated quarters later, we swung by the Avalokiteśvara Garden, where Guanyin, bodhisattva of compassion, holds court with the Four Guardian Kings, the four Dragon Kings of the Seas, and various attendants. It’s very tranquil, but unfortunately, there’s no interactive component to this one. Which is a shame, because suddenly I’m in the mood for an Asian-themed miniature golf course.

But the headliner is, of course, the Main Shrine. By the time we finished with the guided tour and had a little lesson in basic meditation—it’s all in the breathing—the clouds had blown off, so here it is without my big head obstructing the view. See that circle up on the left side of the colonnade, just above the white railing and to the right of the flag?

That would be the ginormous temple drum, suspended from the ceiling like a massive ōdaiko. And then at the opposite end is...

...the equally large temple bell. Apparently, both are loud enough to resonate into the valley below, but luckily for this rabbit’s ears, they’re not generally used because of the residential areas directly beneath the monastery. Lucky me!

Also in front of the Main Shrine is this giant censer, giving people another opportunity to light a stick of incense before heading inside. Good thing I stopped to do one out front—I don’t see a stepladder, and I can’t imagine that nun over there would look kindly on my grappling hook.

Sadly, they don’t allow visitors to take photos inside the Main Shrine, so I’ll try to describe it as best as I can. It’s a huge single room about two stories high, with rows of floor cushions for worshipers and walls that are set with more than 10,000 small alcoves, each measuring only a few inches and holding a miniature Buddha statue within. But the stunning centerpieces of the shrine are the Triple Precious Buddhas, three bigger-than-life statues of the Buddhist triad housed in alcoves that are studded with more tiny Buddhas and flanked by a pair of large illuminated stupas with still more miniat...

Okay, you know what? I went to the gift shop and found a workaround. It looks like this.

Back outside, we took a stroll along the upper level, watching the devotees making their rounds and finding more monk statues, including this one that appears to be reading a sutra to a hare and a tortoise. Points for trying, little guy, but I don’t know if even Buddha himself could put an end to the age-old racial strife between my people and the accursed shellbacks.

Then at the far end of the upper level, we paused to take in the view of the city below. For a moment, looking over the temple rooftops almost made me believe I actually was in China, especially since China has McDonald’s and Starbucks too. But then I noticed the TV dish on a lower level, and that brought me back to reality. Why would people here need basic cable? Well, I suppose Real Housewives would remind anyone of his ascetic vows.

I kid, of course. The Buddhists I know are more into Breaking Bad.

But now with the sun setting and our restaurant reservations on the horizon, it was time to head out, though first we made sure to spoil our dinner with some hong dou bing cakes, made to order right on the griddle downstairs. Three custard-filleds to go, please!

And as Rob and I exited the Bodhisattva Hall, I dropped a dollar in the kitty for some “dharma words”: “Consideration of others enlarges your world. Detachment from desires enhances your spirit.” Huh. How will I become a bunnisattva if that doesn’t tell me anything I didn’t already know?

Oh well, I’d be a poor Buddhist anyway—I like having stuff too much to renounce any of it, so the only nirvana I’ll be attaining is Nevermind. Better luck next incarnation?

Contributing to the meme

I give in.

Don’t worry, we’ve gotten a new computer since that last photo was taken.

Gods, mortals, and kitchenware

Took us long enough: Eighteen months after our excursion to the Getty Center, Rob and I finally made it to its sister facility, the Getty Villa. Set downhill from J. Paul Getty’s home in Pacific Palisades, the Villa occupies an impressive campus, with the terrain landscaped to create a multilevel entrance intended to echo the different tiers of an archeological dig.

Well...just go with it.

Originally, the Villa—then simply “the Getty Museum”—was the sole focal point of Getty’s art collection, but with the creation of the much larger Center in 1997, the bulk of the art was moved to Brentwood, allowing the Villa to be renovated specifically as a showcase for the Greek, Roman, and Etruscan works when it reopened in 2006. Sort of a no-brainer, since the Villa was—in a nod to Getty’s kindred spirits among the art connoisseurs of both the Neoclassical era and Ancient Rome itself—largely based on the Villa dei Papiri, a 1st-century Herculaneum house that was buried by the eruption of Vesuvius and (partially) excavated in the 18th century. Hey, it’s a good look no matter what tectonically unstable area it’s in!

Fittingly, there’s kind of a subdued intimacy to the Villa’s atrium compared to the bustling Getty Center entrance. From here you can traipse straight through to the Inner Peristyle or the East Garden, or backtrack to the Herb Garden, which provides some of the fruit and herbs used in the on-site café and makes a pleasant little stroll on its own. Or you can hook a left and go past the Information Desk...

...which is what I did, because I like an audio tour. Well, audio and video tour, rather, since it’s on an iPod. We’ll see how well I manage this thing with paws. So here we go—everybody remembers Greek Mythology 101, right? If not, well— there’s always Wikipedia, right?

First stop: the TimeScape Room, which provides a handy timeline for the three featured cultures, complete with examples of their distinct and evolving art styles. It’s easy to gloss over an exhibit like this when so much else awaits, but what can I say, I try to take notes. I won’t really get into the differences between Geometric, Archaic, Classical, and Hellenistic art here anyway, but it never hurts to be a better-rounded rabbit.

Just my luck, the Gods & Goddesses gallery was closed during our visit, but one of the highlights, the Marbury Hall Zeus, was moved into the atrium for the duration. At nearly seven feet tall, it’s pretty imposing, so I can only imagine what it would’ve been like if Getty had commissioned a recreation of the statue that probably inspired this one—Pheidias’ behemoth Zeus at Olympia—for the entryway. There’d be a lot less roof, for one thing.

Another cornerstone of the Villa, the Lansdowne Herakles, gets a small room mostly to itself. It’s presented as an example of Neoclassical restoration work: When it was discovered at Hadrian’s Villa in 1790, chunks were missing from head to toe, and since that was considered unsightly in that era, new marble was grafted in. About 180 years later, the pins holding that stone in place had corroded, but rather than simply revert the statue to its found state, they were replaced because it was felt the statue would look “marred” without them—by then, the restoration had become a part of the statue’s history in its own right. What time doesn’t heal, it adapts, I guess.

Fun behind-the-scenes factoid: The one doorway to this room is fairly narrow, so in taking this photo, Rob inadvertently rockblocked an entire tour group from entering. Sorry, guys—done in a sec!

There are more objets d’Herc in the Mythological Heroes room, but also of Theseus, who was practically as accomplished as Herakles but often remembered only for the Minotaur gig; Perseus, who actually was a one-hit wonder; and even poor Bellerophon, who, like Icarus, had a single bad idea and was sent crashing down to earth for it. But the centerpiece is this terra cotta trio, believed to be Orpheus with a pair of sirens, possibly during his Argonauts tenure (and thus the sirens). However, a closer reading indicates this could be a funerary monument, with the deceased—a poet, perhaps—in the guise of Orpheus, and the sirens present because they signified death. A whole other interpretation, based on subtle clothing cues that suggest it’s not Orpheus per se. Who says art history is an easy major?

Another hero, Achilles, pops up in the Trojan War room, and this time it’s definitely a cemetery relic because it’s a sarcophagus. Thing is, it was never used, as you can see from the unfinished sculptures at the top—had it been purchased, the faces would’ve been carved into porraits of the dead. So what’s Achilles got to do with anything? He was popular, essentially. Although maybe prospective buyers were put off by the fact that he’s desecrating Hector’s corpse on the front of it—even in the age of bread and circuses, I suppose that could’ve been a bit niche.

The Villa’s not all sculptures of alpha males, however—far from it. Here we have a variety of theatrically themed knickknacks, valuable because they’re some of the only surviving representations we have of many classical plays. Yes, we still have scripts by big guns like Sophocles, Aeschylus, and Euripides, but countless others, from the earliest Greek tragedies to later Roman farces, are lost to time. Which is a shame, because you know those Romans were some bawdy cusses.

Due to Getty’s fondness for decorative arts, there’s also a healthy share of everyday houseware here, in posh metals like bronze and silver as well as such common materials as glass (more readily available thanks to advances in glassmaking at the time) and terra cotta. The latter was especially versatile, thanks to glazes that could simulate the color of precious metals to some degree—check out this mug in the shape of a god (probably Dionysus, or possibly Pan or even Hermes), with his bright “gold” skin, ruddy “copper” lips, and “patinaed bronze” of the green leaves. And you thought these sorts of things weren’t invented until the mid-20th century?

But if Roman kitsch isn’t glitzy enough for you, then let’s move on to these Parthian rhyta horns, drinking vessels made from silver and gold with gemstone eyes. Wine back then was harsher than what we have today, not to mention still loaded with stems and seeds, so a rhyton’s first purpose was to aerate the wine a bit and the second was obviously to strain the unwanted bits as the wine streamed directly into one’s mouth.

I think the third was simply to illustrate that even the ancients tried to class up their booze bongs.

And if the room the rhyta case is in draws the eye on its own, that’s because it’s the Hall of Colored Marble, a room embellished with wall panels and a stone parquet comprised of a dozen different kinds of marble from all around the Mediterranean, both Southern Europe and North Africa. Beautiful. Now I want oil money.

Of course, that kind of domestic extravagance can be traced back to the Romans themselves: These wall fragments are from another house that fell victim to Vesuvius, but that was fortunate in the sense that the layer of ash actually helped preserve the delicate but vibrant frescoes for centuries. The audio tour urges us to look closely for the fingernail indentations left in the plaster by the artists, which give them a human touch you don’t see with stone or metal. Just think—today, any such imperfections would be touched-up out of existence almost immediately.

But now that we’ve been indoors a while, how about some fresh air by the Villa’s iconic Outer Peristyle? It’s a lovely view from any angle—I wonder how many kids and nutters they’ve had to pull from the pool over the years?—but if I look distracted, it’s because I just spotted something else of interest...

...the path to this “touch statue,” a 20th-century replica of Antonio Canova’s Venus that’s set out on its own in a remote corner of the Villa and serves as a special exhibit that you’re actually allowed to touch, to get a better sense of the workmanship and the finished marble. No, really, they encourage you to do so. Well—all right, if you insist.

Hey there. Do you feel marginalized and undervalued because you’re a replica of a “real” statue instead of an original work? Being shunted to the side and groped by strangers all day isn’t what you imagined when you were in the quarry, is it? Aww, I’m sorry. I’ll try to visit again when I can, okay?

Going back to the peristyle, it’s very easy to spend a sunny day under the colonnade, just people-watching and enjoying the breeze–perfect time to catch up on some of the iPod’s video clips and review the map to make sure I’ve hit everything I wanted to. Let’s see, I...wait a minute, there’s a second floor? Man, I thought I was almost done. I’m going for lunch, then.

And hey, what better choice than the café’s “Roman Burger”? Gruyère, grilled onions, arugula, and garlic aioli on a brioche bun—just like Caesar would’ve ordered! Or not. Meh, pinpoint historical accuracy isn’t always everything.

Before heading back into the Villa, I figured I might as well stop by the gift shop, which is where I found what just might be the Best Hat Ever. How many of these do you have in stock? I’ve got eight brothers, and I have a feeling they’re not gonna be willing to share this.

Okay, the second floor. The two largest galleries up here are split between depictions of men and women; both feature rows of busts that read like the Roman Empire Hall of Fame, but I was drawn most to the empress who dominates the women’s room: Faustina the Elder, wife of Antoninus Pius and mother-in-law of Marcus Aurelius. Portrait conventions of the period meant the statue’s body used a generic template (the “Large Herculaneum Woman” model, in this instance), with the person’s head grafted on top. Luckily, Faustina’s recognizable by her distinctive bun, her hair strung with pearls and then piled high on her head. Probably not a look everybody could pull off, but she makes it work.

Upstairs is also where I found the only representation of a rabbit at the Villa. There’s an entire hallway dedicated to animals, but it’s mostly lions and...well, mostly lions. But us? As far as I saw, all we get is this miniscule carved jasper intaglio—it’s right between my ears—depicting a hare being hunted. Terrific, yet another image of us as the victims; as I said at the Getty Center, this is a deep peeve of mine when it comes to human art. Bah.

Anyway: Just as people in the movies hide the family freak in the attic, so too does the Getty store some of its more interesting curiosities on the second floor. This kouros—a statue of a young male meant to represent the ideal of youth and physical beauty rather than a real person—may not look unusual at first glance, but what’s odd about it is that even experts aren’t sure if it’s a true millennia-old kouros or a modern forgery, because of its odd blend of stylistic elements and atypical choice of marble. Early kouroi were highly stylized, whereas later ones showed a better grasp of technique and physique; this one combines fairly realistic proportions with simplified musculature and hair. And then look at its one-foot-forward pose—if you walk around the back and glance at the buttocks, you’ll notice that they’re flat and unnaturally clenched together, with no indication of movement. Compare that to the posterior of the Lansdowne Herakles, which is several centuries younger and shows a better grasp of how the body weight shifts in that position. (This is what Rob’s favorite college professor called “ass-ymmetry.”) Is this kouros merely a transitional work that reflects the evolution of sculpture or a very clever fake? We just can’t be sure.

So why display it, if its provenance is so uncertain? It’s sort of the same thing as the restorations on Herakles—although if it may not be real or original, with time it’s taken on a significance of its own. Even if it’s an asterisked significance. (And okay, just to be all things to all people, we went back and shot Venus’ ass. You’re welcome.)

Elsewhere on the floor is the prehistoric and Bronze Age gallery; plucked from around the Mediterranean, some of these pieces go as far back as the Chalcolithic. This fertility idol may look crude, but in context, it’s actually impressive: For lack of good marble on Cyprus, where this was found, statues had to be made from limestone, which obviously doesn’t stand up to a lot of carving or, well, anything. So this figure had to be carefully etched out with Bronze Age tools and emery, and if that wasn’t difficult enough, the artist chose to carve the face in actual relief instead of merely painting one on, as was the norm then. Primitivism ain’t easy.

Also, it says here that the figure’s twelve toes connote a supernatural element to the idol. Well, as long as it not’s not ten, right?

I saved the most intriguing rarity for last: the mummy of Herakleides, from the Ptolemaic era when Egypt was a Roman province and Egyptian customs caught on with some Romans. That includes mummification, although they put their own spin on it by adding painted portraits to the shroud; one of the things that makes Herakleides special is that his is intact, since collectors would often remove the portrait and discard the body. Tacky. His other odd features are the red wrappings—an unusual color—and what X-rays revealed to be a small mummified ibis, probably signifying Thoth, enshrouded with him. The ibis rests on Herakleides’ chest, which explains the bulge there; the lower bulge is his hands. That’s human males for you, I suppose—even in death and regardless of era or culture, they protect their junk.

So that about covers the Getty Villa, but there’s one last room I wanted to stop in: the Family Forum. This is the activity room for the kids, although it’s pretty clear from what I saw that the adults aren’t shy about joining in. Who can blame them? The room’s filled with stuff that’s fun at any age, including these dry-erase vessels that let you create your own black-figure art. Time to rectify the lack of rabbit representation in classical art with a little family portrait! Okay, I’m not a great freepaw artist, but hey, there was a line to use these things, I couldn’t very well take all day.

Better yet, check out this backlit projection screen that scrolls through several different slides and lets you be the star of your own giant Greek vase. Even with those wooden seats in front, it’s pretty hard to beat this tableau. En garde!

I hope that’s Achilles I’m squaring off against—I’m perfectly positioned to take him out in one shot!