The next morning, we slept in. Late. Resting. Refueling. When we did wake, we had no plans. No agenda but to let Paris introduce itself to us. We would wander and it could do the talking. We would gaze and it could do the revealing. We walked to a little market right around the corner from our hotel entrance. It was a convenience store, in a way, but with broken old wood flooring. Dirty. Everything smooshed into a 2 aisle capacity. We entered the place in hopes of finding what we would call breakfast. The tan skinned man sitting behind the counter shouted a thick accented greeting. You could hear the Turkish flavor coating every word. He took but just a moment to respond after he heard us speak, “You're American! Hi Americans!” I smiled at his overly excited observation. I wasn't sure I was so happy I stood out as an American that obviously. I was hoping to blend in a bit better. I wanted to ask what gave us away, but I didn't. His smile remained plastered to his face. Goofy. He watched us as we wandered around his shop. The floorboards creaking and bending under our American feet. We couldn't decide what we wanted. We bought a couple waters and decided to find food closer to our first destination; The Louvre. The waters, I suppose, would serve as hydration, but I believe we bought them out of a sense of obligation to our new Turkish friend. Chris had asked me that morning of the things we knew about Paris, which would I want to visit first. I don't think he had gotten the full question out before I was boldly exclaiming the museum's name “The Louvre!” and my great desire to be introduced to it. I think it made Chris happy that I knew the museum's value and understood it's magnitude. He had visited it many years ago and had talked of how important those hours were to him. How they impacted him. Combining his history with the place and the entire history within it was reason enough to hold it in extreme regard, I thought.
We walked toward the metro. It was light out, so we could see more than what we saw the night before. Well, light wasn't the only change in factors that allowed us to soak up the surroundings freely. But light is all I will make mention to. We took the steps deep into the ground with confidence that last night's mistakes had educated us enough to master the metro system. We bought our tickets and went the right direction without hesitation. There was a man playing the saxophone on the train platform. Now HE could get a tip from me, if I carried cash or change. I enjoyed his talent and smiled inside, I want to say he was playing something lovely like “The Way You Look Tonight”- but in recollecting now, I am not certain that was the title. It was some classic love song, though.
The metro was the fastest moving public transport I had ever been on. It got us from one stop to the next so quickly it skewed my understanding of how far spread out the city really was. The Louvre was only a couple stops away. I had no real time to study the people crowded around me. It doesn’t look commonplace to study other people in France, anyway. (Maybe that’s the dead giveaway that I’m American. I’m too interested in what everyone else is doing.) I can’t remember if I’ve mentioned before how “un-snoopy” the French seem. No one stares at another. They don’t even look at passersby in the eyes. People seem pretty uninvolved in anything other than their own agenda. I say this in a positive light, mind you. This observation was something that popped out in millisecond moments- the bus, the traffic jam, the previous night’s horrid scramble in the mall… Even today’s walk and metro ride- people keep themselves pretty self-occupied and let everyone else do the same. I found myself studying shoes and pants more than anything else. 1- because I was sitting amongst a crowd of standing people and 2- because it seemed so awkward to look at someone’s face. They didn’t smile at you. There was no exchanged of a body language hello. Maybe more of a body language “why are you staring at me?” Thankfully, the ride was short. I was new at this type of people watching, and I felt a bit of an intrusive failure.
We emerged from underground to be greeted by beautiful lamp posts, cobblestone walks and pigeons. Immediately to our left was a curious double-decker carousel. Old. Not running, for the moment. Outdatedly large light bulbs surrounding every ledge. Colorful paint. Lots of gold. It sat so obviously in the middle of a large open square in front of a castle-esque building. I had no idea what the building was til later (once a college, now a government building called Hotel de Ville).
We stood in the open square for quite some time. There was 360 degrees of discovery to absorb. The buildings were all old. The ground was old. The iron gates with their pointy spires were old. I want to say the pigeons were old too. They looked old. There was a huge water fountain with dancing water bouncing about. Behind that- a river- more castle buildings- more deep discoveries.
We crossed the bridge over dark water. It wasn’t pretty looking water, but everything up and down The river was so beautiful, it was one of the first times I wasn’t studying the body of water in the scene. (I’m quite attracted to water.) The old giant buildings with towers standing like string pillars under spiky roof tiptops lined the dull quiet water. Curious stone warehouses some empty some restored into who knows what. I wanted to know WHAT. I wanted to know names and places and dates and information- like- right now! I wanted instant history to filter into my brain to give my eyes the lense they needed to see properly with. I wanted to be able to look at a building, and instantly be able to recall tidbits about that ancient mysterious structure to cause my imagination to run to exciting places of past lives and deeds. I wanted to know the depth of what I was seeing. But, I had no such soupçon spewing tour guide and I wasn’t about to google everything in my eye’s sight line. So I looked. Trying to appreciate what I saw in a real way that would not be easily forgotten. I would not stand for an out of sight out of mind experience due to the lack of fore-knowledge.
It was overwhelming to do this and walk with the fast pace of the unsnoopy Frenchmen. They did walk with a pace quite quicker than mine, even on a determined day. Give me something to study and I was just a road obstruction to them. I waddled, clumsily at times, still studying every architectural wonder my eyes could focus on. I decided it was ok if my imagination told me fake things about what I was seeing. But I allowed this within a reasonable amount. I did not want to let fantasy take over reality here, I wanted to embrace reality so deeply it burned a permanent memory in my heart or brain- whichever organ promised to hang on the longest . I wanted this to stay real long, past my return to the states. (This may be a recurring struggle in my mind- to cling to what is passing by so quickly.)
We crossed the bridge and headed left. We were greeted almost immediately with an open square spotted with small clusters of people here and there. An artist sat out of traffic but in the mix enough to capture the entire scene on canvas. I didn't spare the minute or two I normally would have taken to study what the artist was painting. Too many moments had already been wasted on small, mundane details. I wanted to attack this entire square with my intentional mind's study. But, then again she [the artist] was a beautiful part of the square. Just as the cobblestone ground and the homeless man curled up on a heat vent with his dirty blanket were contributing to the fascinating thing that was the square, the artist would have been worth absorbing. I wonder if she was a full time artist with a loft and gallery shows and fancy friends. Or maybe an artist by hobby, working some unrelated job and spending her time off trying to unlock herself on paper. In the middle of this square of happenings. There were a group of blind nuns asking for money. They had a memorized script and a flyer to hand out to you as you pass. And by hand out I mean wave viciously in the direction to which they heard your hustled movements. I'm sure ignoring their pleas guarantees one’s place in the underworld, but we didn't give them anything.
I was starving. It was closer to lunch time than it was to breakfast and I had had neither. One trait about me, Chris seems to frequently get flustered with, is my need for every meal. I stand by my many arguments that it is not good for you to skip meals and eat once a day (which he would happily do if he didn't have to worry about the grumpy-blood-sugar-wreck-of-a-monster he frequently travels with). As much as I wanted to immerse myself in the architectural masterpieces around me, I was looking for FOOD. Completely across the open square I could see at least one restaurant sign and a few others tucked deeper down the block. My determined pace heading in the food source’s direction obliged Chris to follow. Usually, it is he who leads the troop, except in an instance such as this. He didn’t want to eat at the first place we saw, though. He wanted to explore the area thoroughly for the best cuisine and prices. I wasn’t much of a sport for research at that particular moment, I just really wanted to eat. We circled a large area over a half hour and realized that the best place was back at the original street corner, the first place we had spotted. (Of course it was!)Cafe Palais Royal.
By now, it was lightly raining and very much lunch time. The tiny restaurant could have housed 8 to 10 tables inside and about 4 outside, comfortably. There were at least double that amount squished inside the raw brick walls and low lighting. There were people at nearly every table. There were some larger booths in the back, but otherwise, each table was about the size of a tv tray with 2 chairs. They were arranged so close together that you could easily bump elbows with a stranger once or twice throughout your meal. The waiters had some serious talent weaving in between the large amount of people within the small amount of space. They had to hold their trays high, at shoulder level or higher to avoid hitting heads of those sitting. I applauded their grace in my mind, but also hoped I wouldn’t get food spilled on me by an overconfident waiter. We were seated at the one and only open table- right in the middle of the room. Right in the middle of all the chaos. The bar was about 4 feet from the left of me (I probably could have touched it had I wanted to cause a serious disruption to the constant traffic in and out of that little pathway) and the very next table was only a short 10 inches from the right of me. Thankfully, the table next to us was occupied by a single woman. She was sitting closer to Chris. My elbows would be safe. We looked at the menu, proud of ourselves for studying our French so well prior to the trip. Thankfully, we were able to “check our knowledge” with the English translations written below every menu item. We were mostly right.
We ordered a house wine and a lasagna dish to share. The wine was a local wine and it was incredible. It had great, full flavor, a fantastic blend of refreshing and sweet tastes. The waiter had boasted it would be a fine choice. It certainly was. He had given us quite the history on the wine and the location from which it came. I pictured some beautiful French vineyard in the country with a country house and a country family making the wine from their country barns and buildings. It was a pretty picture; likely untrue. But that was my interpretation of what the waiter said of the wine’s origin. The lasagna wasn’t worth writing about. The waiter had come to ask us if we wanted dessert and the woman next to us tried to briefly grab his attention. He immediately brought his hand up to his mouth to shush her and said “Wait” and something else in french. It was an interesting thing to see a worker shush a customer and tell them to “WAIT”. “WAIT”--- Americans would never hear such a thing. They could be as rude and demanding and impatient as they want and they would unlikely hear “WAIT”. I liked it. It was, in my mind, how it probably should be. A minute or so later, the waiter went to her table to help her and she was on her cell phone. He abruptly said “I will return” and left. She tried to scramble and put the phone down, but he didn’t hesitate or look back as he walked away. I’m sure at some point she’d get this dining thing right, but for now, this girl was not eating any time soon.
We didn’t spend more time than we had to in the overflowing diner. It was too loud and crowded to have any sort of leisure. We had to evaluate carefully how we would be able to exit the place. People were pouring in at an obnoxiously rapid and crammed pace. People looked intertwined together like awkward human spaghetti, all trying to move foward through an opening unwilling to allow everyone at once. Arms and legs and shoulders and hands all crammed together so closely I couldn’t tell what head belonged to what body. It was a humorous sight, until we had to push through them in the opposing direction. But the moment we hit the open air, the rain explained the situation well. Pouring just as strong as the crowd, it was no where near as obnoxious, though. Paris rain. It was invigorating. We headed into the large entrance wall of the Louvre. Just the wall, the entrance to what was supposed to be the area of focus, was beyond my comprehension. The thick stone pillars, the arched entry way with different angles and carvings so ornate it would take days to really SEE each little picture within- it overwhelmed my senses almost immediately. The smell of the rain, the brisk air as we walked. The iron gates hidden in dark tunnels leading off to magical places that no tourist was granted access to. My brain wanted to be in the present and the past all at once. Picturing what historical stories were told and unfolded in just this little part of a huge fortress around for centuries. Public and private. Worker and guest. What was here? Who touched these pillars, or walked the worn stairs? What was said in low voices or yelled down the long tunnels? My imagination added ghosts to the present day stone and iron.
We made it to the courtyard of the Louvre,
greeted with more rain, a beautiful fountain and the famous glass pyramid.
The line just to get into the museum was awful long, and the rain was only getting more intense. We took very little time in making the decision to go back through the wall, find a gift shop and buy an umbrella. It wasn’t a quick detour, but a worthy cause detour. We returned to a just as long line and even more rain. We made it inside and despite our trusty new souvenir, we were not dry.
Once inside, there was a large plaza with food courts and ticket booths and information areas. There were large banners hanging over the entrances to each wing/corridor showcasing what themes or items were in that area. We had to choose wisely where to start and where to end. There was not enough time left in the day to do it all. It was so hard to choose. I couldn’t even say what I wanted because I didn’t know WHAT I wanted! I had done no research (per Chris’ specific instructions so as to preserve the childlike wonder and awe at something new and exciting) and I really only had about two pieces of prior information about the Louvre- the Mona Lisa lives there and lots of other cool, old paintings and statues reside there. That’s it. And that’s a pretty bare description of what’s in the 650,000 square feet of the once fortress and palace. I rotated in circles trying to study the staggered banners to decide which would be the most intriguing wing to enter first. History roulette- which era is more intriguing than any other? I couldn’t really answer that. They all fascinate me for one reason or another million others.
We chose to start from the ground up. Original tunnels and foundation areas, the moat, a crazy-creepy dungeon with iron bars and crumbling pillars lurking in unlit corners greeted us first thing. The air was still cold as if we were not really “inside” a museum. It was raw and unclean; great measures were taken to ensure it was kept the way it was found.
The Louvre started as a watchtower fortress in 1190 to protect the city, was later transformed into a royal residence, was destroyed and rebuilt multiple times over the centuries, added to and subtracted from, and even had Napoleon residing in an apartment within its walls all to become a museum (Napoleon inspired) in 1798. The beautiful citadel stood through wars and destruction and revolutionary changes so drastic it was mind blowing it still had presence. The ghosts I entertained earlier in the entry gate walls were becoming less figments of my imagination and more subtle sensations of lurking prescences. A recognition of what actually existed before me instead of a spurious ghost story was unfolding and I could feel how powerful a force it was. Powerful and beautiful, really. My homeland was so young. I had touched no thing so old, nor had I experienced a story so heavy as this. Life is never without some weight (so I know “
weight”), but if all you only experience is your own current baggage, it is quite the trip to feel millions of lives and their baggage and centuries of rule and reign with revolutions and renovations all crammed in one historical time capsule. It’s- dare I keep using this word- overwhelming. People loved and hated and feared and sought comfort in this place for almost 50 generations. 50. I don’t even know who was in my family 5 generations back. But I do know now, what it feels like to be physically in touch with a story so old my logical brain couldn’t retell it. My soul and bones emitted feelings and emotions and energies that couldn’t be described- just sensed. I had to take deep, purposed breaths just to continue on breathing. Maybe if I hadn’t breathed I would have been sucked completely into the story, never to return. Silly. I know I don’t exist in a crazy fairytale with portals and time travel, but that’s how gripped I felt by this 50 generation weight. I’m telling you, history lingers. It doesn’t dissipate because it is old and past tense. It stays. It builds. One happenstance upon another. Just like your own life- you’re built by what happened 10 years ago, 10 days ago, 10 minutes ago- all coming together to form your current being. I felt that lingering, and it was heavier than any real-time impact I’d ever absorbed.
We moved forward through each exhibit that followed whatever path we were winding around. We got lost, retraced steps, probably skipped areas unknowingly and wandered aimlessly through the enormous building the best we could. We managed to see the Egyptian Antiquities,
the Greek, Etruscan and Roman Antiquities
, and Napoleon's gilded apartment
. Just those took hours upon hours. It was nearing closing time and Chris realized we had yet to see the paintings! What a terrible thing to save for last with such little time left. We almost hated ourselves for not leaving enough time to indulge fully in what I assumed would be the most magical area of them all. Sure, the other exhibits and areas had their qualities that captivated me. I, had a personal affinity toward the sculptures. And I loved seeing the ancient artifacts and tools found all over the world from all different time periods. Art and crafts made from times before Jesus was born were beautiful and intriguing, yes, but the paintings were something different. The Louvre Painting Collection not only was intensely large, inherently dedicating an entire wing to the art form, but each painting had a fairly fascinating story to be learned just by studying the picture. Some paintings only warranted a glance or two, but most of them took quite some time to fully digest the detailed content so elegantly depicted. The largest painting mounted was The Wedding at Cana painted in the 16th century and it was 262in x 390in. (That’s over 21 feet tall and 32 feet wide in case those numbers didn’t strike you as INSANELY large to begin with.) My mind was blown at how difficult and time consuming it would be to paint such an intricate picture even in today’s advancements but for the era it was done in? I can’t imagine the dedication. A lot of the paintings took years to complete. And I would assume, that was years of non-stop brush strokes, not an hour here and there after supper or on a lazy Saturday amidst a busy schedule of other life activities. Oh, how I loved the paintings. Even though I felt the anxiety of trying to make it through the entire wing before closing, I still was able to give my insides the time needed to soak up the drawn narrations and the wonder of what I was seeing. I loved the towering picture-giants. The ones that took up entire walls from floor to ceiling, they were so powerful in stature and vibrance. They almost shone with their brilliant colors and told story enough to fill a feature length film. There were fantasy fairy tale ones, war ones with gruesome blood and anger, every day life ones of people talking or eating or loving. There were all kinds of tales told in those halls and walls.
The final painting we saw, the end of this long tour of art, was the Mona Lisa. It wasn’t as spectacular as I thought it would be. After seeing dynamic colors and energetic, intricate scenes of all kinds, the Mona Lisa was so plain- AND LITTLE. I at least expected her to be half a wall size. No where near that, if you’re wondering. A simple 2.5ft by 1.5ft. I don’t understand why, of all the pictures that existed, this one had such a fuss made over it. I get DiVinci is something to get excited about, but I didn’t get the hype over Mona Lisa. I guess even back then, someone somewhere picked what the mass of people should “like” and then it became a trend to jump on and ride like a wave with the rest of the crowd. The Mona Lisa is just another confusing fad to me- she’s just the longest lasting fad ever. Chris wanted me to take a picture of him as close as he could get to the painting. We squeezed between all the groupies and snapped a quick shot and it was as if with that fake shutter sound click from my phone camera, someone closed the book and said “the end”. It was closing time, they were announcing it over the intercom in many different languages. I felt complete, as if I experienced an entire lifetime from start to finish within that museum.
(On a side note, the picture we took of Chris next to the Mona Lisa was one we hastily snapped. For wanting that picture so badly, he sure didn’t look that enthused in the photo. When we returned home, there was some hype about Puff Daddy and his selfie with Mona Lisa. We looked it up, and well, I guess there’s just something about that boring painting that makes everyone want to look listless next to her. Hilariously similar photos- my husband and Mr. Combs.)
We stood in the open square for quite some time. There was 360 degrees of discovery to absorb. The buildings were all old. The ground was old. The iron gates with their pointy spires were old. I want to say the pigeons were old too. They looked old. There was a huge water fountain with dancing water bouncing about. Behind that- a river- more castle buildings- more deep discoveries. 
We crossed the bridge over dark water. It wasn’t pretty looking water, but everything up and down The river was so beautiful, it was one of the first times I wasn’t studying the body of water in the scene. (I’m quite attracted to water.) The old giant buildings with towers standing like string pillars under spiky roof tiptops lined the dull quiet water. Curious stone warehouses some empty some restored into who knows what. I wanted to know WHAT. I wanted to know names and places and dates and information- like- right now! I wanted instant history to filter into my brain to give my eyes the lense they needed to see properly with. I wanted to be able to look at a building, and instantly be able to recall tidbits about that ancient mysterious structure to cause my imagination to run to exciting places of past lives and deeds. I wanted to know the depth of what I was seeing. But, I had no such soupçon spewing tour guide and I wasn’t about to google everything in my eye’s sight line. So I looked. Trying to appreciate what I saw in a real way that would not be easily forgotten. I would not stand for an out of sight out of mind experience due to the lack of fore-knowledge.
It was overwhelming to do this and walk with the fast pace of the unsnoopy Frenchmen. They did walk with a pace quite quicker than mine, even on a determined day. Give me something to study and I was just a road obstruction to them. I waddled, clumsily at times, still studying every architectural wonder my eyes could focus on. I decided it was ok if my imagination told me fake things about what I was seeing. But I allowed this within a reasonable amount. I did not want to let fantasy take over reality here, I wanted to embrace reality so deeply it burned a permanent memory in my heart or brain- whichever organ promised to hang on the longest . I wanted this to stay real long, past my return to the states. (This may be a recurring struggle in my mind- to cling to what is passing by so quickly.)
We crossed the bridge and headed left. We were greeted almost immediately with an open square spotted with small clusters of people here and there. An artist sat out of traffic but in the mix enough to capture the entire scene on canvas. I didn't spare the minute or two I normally would have taken to study what the artist was painting. Too many moments had already been wasted on small, mundane details. I wanted to attack this entire square with my intentional mind's study. But, then again she [the artist] was a beautiful part of the square. Just as the cobblestone ground and the homeless man curled up on a heat vent with his dirty blanket were contributing to the fascinating thing that was the square, the artist would have been worth absorbing. I wonder if she was a full time artist with a loft and gallery shows and fancy friends. Or maybe an artist by hobby, working some unrelated job and spending her time off trying to unlock herself on paper. In the middle of this square of happenings. There were a group of blind nuns asking for money. They had a memorized script and a flyer to hand out to you as you pass. And by hand out I mean wave viciously in the direction to which they heard your hustled movements. I'm sure ignoring their pleas guarantees one’s place in the underworld, but we didn't give them anything.
I was starving. It was closer to lunch time than it was to breakfast and I had had neither. One trait about me, Chris seems to frequently get flustered with, is my need for every meal. I stand by my many arguments that it is not good for you to skip meals and eat once a day (which he would happily do if he didn't have to worry about the grumpy-blood-sugar-wreck-of-a-monster he frequently travels with). As much as I wanted to immerse myself in the architectural masterpieces around me, I was looking for FOOD. Completely across the open square I could see at least one restaurant sign and a few others tucked deeper down the block. My determined pace heading in the food source’s direction obliged Chris to follow. Usually, it is he who leads the troop, except in an instance such as this. He didn’t want to eat at the first place we saw, though. He wanted to explore the area thoroughly for the best cuisine and prices. I wasn’t much of a sport for research at that particular moment, I just really wanted to eat. We circled a large area over a half hour and realized that the best place was back at the original street corner, the first place we had spotted. (Of course it was!)Cafe Palais Royal.
We made it to the courtyard of the Louvre,
greeted with more rain, a beautiful fountain and the famous glass pyramid. 
The line just to get into the museum was awful long, and the rain was only getting more intense. We took very little time in making the decision to go back through the wall, find a gift shop and buy an umbrella. It wasn’t a quick detour, but a worthy cause detour. We returned to a just as long line and even more rain. We made it inside and despite our trusty new souvenir, we were not dry. 
Once inside, there was a large plaza with food courts and ticket booths and information areas. There were large banners hanging over the entrances to each wing/corridor showcasing what themes or items were in that area. We had to choose wisely where to start and where to end. There was not enough time left in the day to do it all. It was so hard to choose. I couldn’t even say what I wanted because I didn’t know WHAT I wanted! I had done no research (per Chris’ specific instructions so as to preserve the childlike wonder and awe at something new and exciting) and I really only had about two pieces of prior information about the Louvre- the Mona Lisa lives there and lots of other cool, old paintings and statues reside there. That’s it. And that’s a pretty bare description of what’s in the 650,000 square feet of the once fortress and palace. I rotated in circles trying to study the staggered banners to decide which would be the most intriguing wing to enter first. History roulette- which era is more intriguing than any other? I couldn’t really answer that. They all fascinate me for one reason or another million others.
We chose to start from the ground up. Original tunnels and foundation areas, the moat, a crazy-creepy dungeon with iron bars and crumbling pillars lurking in unlit corners greeted us first thing. The air was still cold as if we were not really “inside” a museum. It was raw and unclean; great measures were taken to ensure it was kept the way it was found.
The Louvre started as a watchtower fortress in 1190 to protect the city, was later transformed into a royal residence, was destroyed and rebuilt multiple times over the centuries, added to and subtracted from, and even had Napoleon residing in an apartment within its walls all to become a museum (Napoleon inspired) in 1798. The beautiful citadel stood through wars and destruction and revolutionary changes so drastic it was mind blowing it still had presence. The ghosts I entertained earlier in the entry gate walls were becoming less figments of my imagination and more subtle sensations of lurking prescences. A recognition of what actually existed before me instead of a spurious ghost story was unfolding and I could feel how powerful a force it was. Powerful and beautiful, really. My homeland was so young. I had touched no thing so old, nor had I experienced a story so heavy as this. Life is never without some weight (so I know “weight”), but if all you only experience is your own current baggage, it is quite the trip to feel millions of lives and their baggage and centuries of rule and reign with revolutions and renovations all crammed in one historical time capsule. It’s- dare I keep using this word- overwhelming. People loved and hated and feared and sought comfort in this place for almost 50 generations. 50. I don’t even know who was in my family 5 generations back. But I do know now, what it feels like to be physically in touch with a story so old my logical brain couldn’t retell it. My soul and bones emitted feelings and emotions and energies that couldn’t be described- just sensed. I had to take deep, purposed breaths just to continue on breathing. Maybe if I hadn’t breathed I would have been sucked completely into the story, never to return. Silly. I know I don’t exist in a crazy fairytale with portals and time travel, but that’s how gripped I felt by this 50 generation weight. I’m telling you, history lingers. It doesn’t dissipate because it is old and past tense. It stays. It builds. One happenstance upon another. Just like your own life- you’re built by what happened 10 years ago, 10 days ago, 10 minutes ago- all coming together to form your current being. I felt that lingering, and it was heavier than any real-time impact I’d ever absorbed.
We moved forward through each exhibit that followed whatever path we were winding around. We got lost, retraced steps, probably skipped areas unknowingly and wandered aimlessly through the enormous building the best we could. We managed to see the Egyptian Antiquities,
the Greek, Etruscan and Roman Antiquities
, and Napoleon's gilded apartment
. Just those took hours upon hours. It was nearing closing time and Chris realized we had yet to see the paintings! What a terrible thing to save for last with such little time left. We almost hated ourselves for not leaving enough time to indulge fully in what I assumed would be the most magical area of them all. Sure, the other exhibits and areas had their qualities that captivated me. I, had a personal affinity toward the sculptures. And I loved seeing the ancient artifacts and tools found all over the world from all different time periods. Art and crafts made from times before Jesus was born were beautiful and intriguing, yes, but the paintings were something different. The Louvre Painting Collection not only was intensely large, inherently dedicating an entire wing to the art form, but each painting had a fairly fascinating story to be learned just by studying the picture. Some paintings only warranted a glance or two, but most of them took quite some time to fully digest the detailed content so elegantly depicted. The largest painting mounted was The Wedding at Cana painted in the 16th century and it was 262in x 390in. (That’s over 21 feet tall and 32 feet wide in case those numbers didn’t strike you as INSANELY large to begin with.) My mind was blown at how difficult and time consuming it would be to paint such an intricate picture even in today’s advancements but for the era it was done in? I can’t imagine the dedication. A lot of the paintings took years to complete. And I would assume, that was years of non-stop brush strokes, not an hour here and there after supper or on a lazy Saturday amidst a busy schedule of other life activities. Oh, how I loved the paintings. Even though I felt the anxiety of trying to make it through the entire wing before closing, I still was able to give my insides the time needed to soak up the drawn narrations and the wonder of what I was seeing. I loved the towering picture-giants. The ones that took up entire walls from floor to ceiling, they were so powerful in stature and vibrance. They almost shone with their brilliant colors and told story enough to fill a feature length film. There were fantasy fairy tale ones, war ones with gruesome blood and anger, every day life ones of people talking or eating or loving. There were all kinds of tales told in those halls and walls.
The final painting we saw, the end of this long tour of art, was the Mona Lisa. It wasn’t as spectacular as I thought it would be. After seeing dynamic colors and energetic, intricate scenes of all kinds, the Mona Lisa was so plain- AND LITTLE. I at least expected her to be half a wall size. No where near that, if you’re wondering. A simple 2.5ft by 1.5ft. I don’t understand why, of all the pictures that existed, this one had such a fuss made over it. I get DiVinci is something to get excited about, but I didn’t get the hype over Mona Lisa. I guess even back then, someone somewhere picked what the mass of people should “like” and then it became a trend to jump on and ride like a wave with the rest of the crowd. The Mona Lisa is just another confusing fad to me- she’s just the longest lasting fad ever. Chris wanted me to take a picture of him as close as he could get to the painting. We squeezed between all the groupies and snapped a quick shot and it was as if with that fake shutter sound click from my phone camera, someone closed the book and said “the end”. It was closing time, they were announcing it over the intercom in many different languages. I felt complete, as if I experienced an entire lifetime from start to finish within that museum. 
