I didn’t realize I’d always wanted to go to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame until I was standing in its front yard.

This is the first time I’ve been in Cleveland.  I’ve followed along on one of Lino’s week-long business trips here, and I figured, hey, why not? The museum is literally right down the street from our hotel. And I knew that if I didn’t go, I’d be kicking myself for ages.  It’d be like going to London and not seeing the Tower.

After navigating the (thankfully free) downtown trolley system and walking across the Interestate overpass, I found myself standing in front of the fabled glass building.

Now, I’m not a music freak by any stretch.  I have bands/artists I like, ones I’ve grown up with and others I’ve discovered over the years, but I was totally wowed by this place.

I will say it’s smaller than I’d imagined.  I thought I’d be lost in displays of Bowie and Madonna and Springsteen and Chuck Berry.  But the curators did a great job of taking the memorabilia and arranging it for maximum impact.

It took me about an hour to tour the place, taking my time but not watching the little movies sprinkled throughout the museum.  I did stop to watch the Elvis Costello induction video, though.  And read all the past inductees’ signatures.

But by far, my favouritest display is on the fourth floor: almost entirely devoted to Pink Floyd’s The Wall.  I spent a year of my life (14, for those interested) listening to the remastered album over and over, likely saying a lot about the adult I’ve become.  Seeing part of Roger Waters’ story written on the back of the wall itself really struck a chord.

I walked away from the Hall of Fame like I’d just left some kind of tryst.  All warm and fuzzy, feeling uplifted and hopeful for some inexplicable reason.  I kept peeking back over my shoulder as I made my way back to the bus, as if I’d see something more.  There weren’t any signs from the rock gods, but I can always find them in the music.