Lost lady

And did she ever return?
No, she never returned,
And her fate is still unlearned.
She will walk forever in the Powerhouse,
She’s the one who never returned.

          [Sung to the tune of “Ghost Riders in the Sky”]

I had never quite grasped the true meaning of “Lost Ladies,” an activity group of Sydney OWN. That is, not until today.

Under the direction of our leader, Annette Butterfield, “Lost Ladies” visits Sydney art galleries, museums and other venues of cultural and historical interest. Today we visited the Powerhouse Museum in Darling Harbour, specifically to view the Great Wall of China exhibition.

Owing to the presence of a multitude of school children, “Lost Ladies” first detoured into a subordinate exhibition on the story of one Zheng He who, had the Emperor of the day been more open to adventure, may have become the first “Christopher Columbus”, such were his maritime exploits.

Now well-primed for the big event, “Lost Ladies” toured the wonders of the Great Wall itself. For another hour, we absorbed all the ancient skills of wall building, recoiled at the terrors of marauding Mongolian hordes [they were the ones the wall was designed to exclude, not rabbits as one wit has suggested], and exhausted ourselves walking the length of the wall across China while being astounded at the dour magnificence of the landscape.

By this time, I, a frail human being at the best of times, was feeling weary. Unlike my more stalwart sisters who were pressing on for more, I made my farewells and slipped away. Then the real adventure began. I tried to find my way out of the exhibition. Exit signs were in several places, but turned out to be for emergencies only. Hoping none of my LL sisters would notice me and feeling rather foolish, I finally asked an attendant for the way out.

Once beyond the exhibition doors, and still naively ready for novelty, I decided to leave the building by a different route. “How dull to rely on the security of the known!” I thought to myself. An escalator beckoned. Stepping on it, I soon found myself before glass doors opening onto a wide out-door café area facing in the direction I wished to go. But on reaching its perimeter and looking for a stairway to street level, I found only high wire fencing. Chagrinned, I returned to the glass doors and re-entered the museum.

I strolled down one of the many gently sloping walkways, past interesting exhibits set in wall niches. “I must be reaching the entrance now,” I thought and walked slowly down yet another long, gently sloping walkway. Strangely, though I could hear young voices everywhere, I found myself alone. As I looked to left and right, empty, yet well-lit theatrettes appeared before me. “Nope. No use going in there,” I thought, grimly, and trudged on.

At the next level, I noticed more signs pointing to exits. I hastened to find one, but they too, were for emergencies only. I tried a short downward staircase only to find myself assaulted by the smell of engine oil and surrounded by silent train engines and carriages looming large above me. I hurried upstairs again, attracted by the sound of children and found myself leaning over a balcony peering down into a display of futuristic robots on the level below. Children everywhere but no door out. I retreated hastily.

More sounds of children. I hurried towards it and came in contact with a plate glass screen. Behind it, children were laughing and playing to the sounds of electronic music. I turned away, despairing. My experience was becoming a Kafka type nightmare. Perhaps my bones would be found one day and I would become a museum piece myself.

I considered briefly breaking out of one of the emergency doors, a demented wailing banshee escaping captivity, but decided against it in the interests of retaining my usual calm, mature woman’s demeanour. “Why couldn’t those information boards which tell me everything except how to get out of here be more helpful!” I muttered plaintively.

Suddenly, another adult human being hoved into view, an elderly man coming carefully down some steps. I opened my lips to ask my question but before I could speak, he said shakily, “Can you tell me how to get out of here?” My heart sank. Wildly, I looked around and then, in this eleventh hour, I spied an attendant in grey uniform complete with identity badge. I struggled to restrain myself from falling on his neck in relief and asked for the way out.

To my dismay, he paused and said eventually, “I think it’s this way.” And pointed up yet another long, sloping walkway.

“You mean you work here and don’t know how to get out!?” I exclaimed. The irony of the situation struck me suddenly as ridiculously funny. I laughed a dry, bitter, laugh.

“Well, I’ve only worked here since Monday and I’m still not sure how the building works,” he said apologetically.

We got to the top of the walkway and…. I saw the light! Salvation! We were saved! Summoning what strength was left, I hauled myself out into the fresh air. I stood there, still and breathing deeply for a moment. At last I knew why my group is named “Lost Ladies” and I had lived to tell the tale.

I turned and trudged my way uphill to the station.