Sixty seconds worth of distance

Sleep was broken, I'd decided. And in a city like Amsterdam, sleep is more important than you think. It can mean the difference between a moment caught and lived, and a fleeting glimpse of blurred shapes.
I was in the Van Gogh Museum, feeling wired from too little sleep and too much caffeine.
I was brought in by the lure of the great works of art but was failing to catch their beauty as they deserved. I had too much wine the night before and found it difficult to sleep. My tour of Europe was coming to an end and, while it had been the epitome of everything I had hoped it would be, it had been lonely as well. Carousing from one great work of art or breathtaking scene or all night party to the next had been everything I wanted, but in the electric glare of the museum lights it all seemed empty and devoid of that spark of something I had been searching for.
It was that special spark of intimacy with another person when you knew that they were seeing exactly what you were seeing and in exactly the same way. It was that recognition of what it was in myself that I respected and loved in another.
Because that may be the problem with a Grand Tour of Europe; so many people, each searching for different things in different ways, but all in the same place, the same space, the same time.
And then I saw the painting. It was there, hidden in pain sight in the Symbolism exhibit. Island of the Dead by Arnold Boecklin. A small white figure on a boat approaches a ruined, imposing, mysterious island, where darkness predominates and tall trees reach for the sky.
And in front of the painting were headphones with a note urging the viewer to listen, and listen carefully. I paused, momentarily wary and cautious, of what I have no idea, and I could make out a shape to my left approach the headphones and put them on. I did likewise and stared at the painting as the song began again.
Just a simple song really, acoustic guitar, a woman's voice, maybe hidden somewhere in the background another woman singing.
The outer world faded away, I was in the painting, of the painting, a fellow traveller on the tiny boat heading to god knows where for who knows what reason. Just me and this shape besides me, each lost in the music that only we could hear, missing in this painting that only we could see, catching this moment that only we could feel.
When the song finished I took off my headphones and turned to look at her. She took off her headphone as well and smiled at me.