Anne Frank’s house.
I awkwardly ascend the same ladder-stairs she did; my hands and feet go where hers had. I saw the marks (so familiar to so many people) her father made on the wall where he traced the height over time of his two beloved daughters.
I saw pictures of actors and actresses Anne cut from movie books pasting them on the floral wall paper of the walls of her tiny room. She probably dreamed about being in a different place when looking at those pictures.
Anne reminds me that even our heroes are only people, only human (and we would do well not to idolize them). When we place them on pedestals they lose what is most beautiful about them: they make mistakes, they love, get moody, have good and bad days, and they are far from perfect; and this is why I appreciate Anne so much: she was a normal but bright person thrust in to exceptional circumstances who remained decidedly human until the end.
The line up to enter the house stretches out of sight. The house itself is interesting and in as much as I have read about this remarkable person it is quite another matter to walk the oversteep stairs and peer through the curtains for myself wondering what it must have been like for her. I just cannot get past how insightful a person she was (and funny, too).