Friday, at the Met – a wonderful ritual that a friend and I have developed over time.  In sub freezing weather or on a summer evening, the glories of the Met are a siren call to us.  Much of the Met we know but, somehow, we always seem to find a new cabinet of jade objects, a special textile, an old friend of a painting or sculpture. Our footsteps often echo walking the marble halls – the museum is so vast and there are so many rooms that hardly see a visitor – and even in opening exhibitions, Friday evening is a a peaceful time.  It’s a long week, the pressures are non-stop, the computer a fixation; how nice to amble through Southeast Asia, sit in Astor Court to catch up on family news, breathe in the rarified air of Dendur.  And then there is always the mezzanine gallery where the Friday quartet plays a lively concert while happy museum goers stop for a glass of wine and a light bite.