The outside was a grimy gray, weathered by years of exposure to harsh winters and—as I can attest to personally—sweltering summers. The interior is white.

Blinding, austere, striking white. The total absence of color is jarring. I feel like I was just dropped inside a snow globe.

I walk deeper into the museum, disregarding the tour groups and pamphlets. I assume there’s an admission cost, but no one stops me as I pass through the winter wonderland into a cement hallway that matches the aged exterior. Priceless oil paintings hang on walls that look straight out of a medieval castle.

I veer left into the first gap in the wall, which turns out to be a small gallery. There are about ten people in the tiny room, all looking entirely absorbed in the artwork displayed. I don’t think anyone who knows me would describe me as an art buff. I took an art history class freshman year and was bored to tears; mostly because the class was filled with pompous overachievers. You know, the type who swishes red wine in the glass and talks about notes of cherry and wood.

Suffice it to say, I’m not one to drop terms like brushwork or composition in casual conversation. But the room is absent of any know-it-all commentary, so I take the time to lean close to each painting and study the intricacies.

There’s no sign of the sort of abstract pieces hung in modern art museums where you look at one line of paint on an otherwise blank canvas meant to portray the human experience and think I could have done this.

Many of the paintings portray scenes like the ones I just saw outside: cobblestone streets, canals, and cathedrals. Others show countryside scenes with sheep, streams, and distant mountains.

I move into the connected room. This one has more variety. There are a few vineyards, some sailboats, lots of portraits of people I don’t recognize, and one painting I spend a long time staring at. It’s simple: a field of wildflowers. Shades of green grass and purple flowers. The level of detail is masterful. I feel like I could reach out and touch the blades and petals. The artistry is exquisite, but it’s also got an intangible quality to it, as though the entire painting is a mirror or a mirage. There are smudges and smears you have to look closely to see, and they mar the scene, keeping it from being too perfect. The longer I look, the more I see.

It’s a puddle.

Simply a reflection of a perfect scene.