Ephesus and its magnificent Library of Celsus took root in my brain as one of those significant childhood memories that I like to revisit every now and then. I first explored the ancient city's streets as part of a school trip in the fifth grade, and I remember that I had bought some strappy leather sandals as souvenirs with the spending money my mother gave me— my goodness, how I loved those sandals! When I closed my eyes to listen to their plat plat on the ancient marble, I was transported to Ancient Greece— I was Athena herself, golden helmet and Medusa shield, my little owl on my shoulder.
Everything seemed so grand— the folds of fabric in the statues, the intricately carved capitals of the library's columns (which I learned were composite, and took great pleasure in pointing this out to my classmates, most probably to their annoyance). I was in heaven.
Twenty-six years later, all I need to do is look up and I'm that scabby-kneed girl again. The tourists disappear with my worries, and I'm left with this terrific feeling inside.
I suppose it's hope.