Five Senses: One Worcester

Tucked away in a nearly hidden Worcester neighborhood, Higgins Armory Museum rose from the ashes like a cold steel phoenix among the surrounding abandoned buildings almost a century ago. On this particularly raw and cloudy day the building loomed over me, drained of all color. As I got closer to the entrance, I could see my own reflection in the glass windows, but like the windows of an interrogation room, I could not see through to the other side. The exterior was as fortified as the armor within.

Expecting to open the front door and enter into a medieval adventure, I was greatly mistaken. I was instead introduced into complete and utter chaos. All around me was screaming. It was February vacation week. I felt the boiling excitement of every tiny rugrat running around the lobby as well as the anxiety of every parent to keep track of their newly knighted cavalier. After paying for my ticket I summoned all my strength and shoved my jacket into an exceptionally congested coatrack, where most of the jackets were only a quarter the size of mine.

The elevators opened to the third floor with a fresh breath of air as my eyes feasted on the high soaring ceilings of the “Great Hall.” I ran my fingers along the dark honey colored stone walls. The uncanny gothic architecture could almost fool someone in its authenticity if it weren’t for its smooth stone touch, which is far too intact, and with it I was brought back in to my twenty-first century reality. The inclined massive walls reach an inverted peak at the very height of the ceiling where a tin chandelier of sorts blinds my eyes, creating the sensation of an artificial and unfavorable spotlight over the entire hall.

Cold faces shielded by metal peered out from every corner of the third floor, their eyes vacant but at my back as they stood at attention. My fingers traced over the fabric of a chain mail shirt made for an Islamic solider, with the word “Allah” pressed into every link. The blades of each sword displayed inscriptions of lost foreign languages, indented and embellished with a beautiful gold finish. The intricate designs of each sword held stories centuries old. The decorative inscriptions were depressed into the metal, forcing the gold and silver to stand apart from each other as starkly as night and day. The embossing in the handles left me wondering how many hands these swords have passed through. As the elevator hummed to my floor at the demand of the lighted button, I was welcomed into this century, leaving the timeless armor behind.