“Several of them. But not as much as I always intended to,” Strange admits. He’s still glancing down at the small ridges and borders of New York under his fingers, as if he can look down at the globe and see the very city itself (and perhaps, in some way, he can). Then he looks back up at the other man.

“I was always too busy, or told myself I was too busy. Living here, you would always think, oh, I’ll go see that museum exhibit some weekend, and then you blink and the exhibit’s done and over and you missed it. Or you only ever get to see things when you’re showing around a visiting friend. Or you decide one weekend that you’re finally going to see a play, and then someone comes knocking to say they’ve got a problem with a haunting, and then you’ve got to go take care of that instead. I got… busy,” and he waves a hand vaguely at their intensely mystical surroundings, the books and artifacts humming contentedly with magic, the twisting winding hallways of the Sanctum which seemed to rewrite themselves every morning.

Neither a life as a surgeon nor a sorcerer had left him with much left over for himself. Forgetting to check out a gallery at the Met was the least of it.