Returning to the Musée Dapper a few months later with my African American friend Phyllis, I told her the story of my quick exit from my first visit.
We entered the bookstore to the right of the entrance, which made leaving easy. Literally five minutes after walking in the front door, lights went our, alarms rang, and Phyllis and I were ushered out onto the street as doors were locked.
The adage is three strikes and you’re out, and this is my story. I returned to the Musée Dapper a few years later with my partner and his son.
By this time my unusual chemistry with African artifacts was known to my family, and we entered the building prepared to leave immediately. That was not the case. In fact, we spent at least 45 minutes wandering through the small rooms on a crowded day and were on the second floor when the alarms went off.
Was I a witch? A high priestess?
This is the end of my Parisian African art museum story. The Musée Dapper moved to new quarters at a block away and I have no magic powers there.
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