“Hey,” I call back to Jean-Luc, as I march along a bridge called Pont du Carrousel, on our way to the Louvre. “Why don’t I just meet you back at the dorm?”
It shouldn’t have taken us this long to get here, but ever since we got off the Metro at Palais Royal, we’ve been stalled by his constant need to fall back and take photos of whatever catches his eye. I know he’s got a project to finish, but it’s not like I’m ever going to see it, so I don’t need to stand next to him while he takes shots of streetlamps or people lined up for a bus. I’ve got places to be! I appreciate that he’s come this far, but it really does seem like it would be easier for both of us if we just went our separate ways right now. I guess he doesn’t agree, though, because here he comes, expensive camera around his neck, mumbling an apology as he jogs to catch up as we come off the bridge, walking along Place du Carrousel toward the courtyard.
I’d like to say that I’m wowed by my first sight of the Louvre, but there’s not much to see this morning — the whole place is shrouded by the fog encircling Paris like a giant claw. We cross the courtyard, to the great glass pyramid in the center. And of course, Jean-Luc stops again. Looks at me with that expression of his — lips pursed, the angles of his face looking sharp enough to draw blood, his eyes narrowed like everything he says is deep and meaningful. I think to myself that he couldn’t look much more French if he had a neat goatee and was carrying a baguette. Then I wonder if it’s okay that I’m thinking in such stereotypes.
But I’ll bet he’s thought of me as a “typical American” at some point already today.
“Serena …” That accent of his seems to get stuck every time it hits one of the vowels in my name. “You must stop. Look. See. This is the Pyramide du Louvre.”
I don’t stop, look or see. I rush across the stone courtyard with the confidence of someone who has been here many times — or someone who has watched and rewatched a bunch of virtual tours on YouTube. I join the line for those who have prebooked, standing behind a couple who sounds German, scarves pulled up over their faces to protect them from the windchill. Just like my guidebook predicted, this close to Christmas means the line is not all that long (directly opposite, on the other side of the pyramid, is a much longer line for the More Impulsive Tourists, without reservations — or, as I call them, Crazy People).
“I know all about the pyramid,” I tell Jean-Luc, as he joins me in the line. “Designed by I. M. Pei, completed in 1989. Made up of 673 glass panes — not 666, as some people like to think. I’ve read everything I need to read.”
He shakes his head at me. “You cannot absorb Paris from Wikipedia,” he says.
“I’m not here to ‘absorb’ Paris,” I tell him, as the line shuffles forward a few feet. I’m getting a weary sense of déjà vu — like I’m back at customs in the airport. Just, you know, with an icy cold wind whipping my face. It’s annoying and kind of painful, but in a strange way it’s almost nice to actually feel something. The floating sensation of jet lag — or maybe something else — had been starting to worry me. “I only have one day here, remember? So I have to be quick. There are six pieces of art that I have to see and get photos of for my scrapbook. Once I have them, I’m out of the Louvre and heading to the next spot.”
I look over my shoulder and catch him peering at me, again — neither totally horrified nor outraged, just mildly contemptuous. It makes me feel oddly embarrassed, self-conscious — but it would take too long for me to explain to him that while I do appreciate art and culture, it’s not my priority today. I’m here for a different reason. I raise my hands in a gesture that says, Seriously, dude, you can take off anytime you like. But he’s not looking at me now — he’s checking out the Crazy People line, obviously trying to calculate how long he’s going to have to stand there to catch up with me.
He must really, really like the Louvre.
“I have an extra ticket,” I tell him. In fact, I have two, because I prebooked for me, Mom and Lara) weeks ago. “You can take it, if you really want to go in.”
“Merci,” he says. “But … do you really mean to run from painting to painting?”
“If I have to, to keep to my schedule.”
“How will you remember what you have seen, if you are always running?”
I say nothing. Think to myself: I’m not here to remember for me.
Jean-Luc is still talking. “You will not have an experience if you don’t slow down.”
I’m not so sure I agree with that. I’m here to walk in my parents’ footsteps, to follow the trail they once took through the city, at a time when they were young and in love. I’m here to understand their experience, not have one of my own. So what if I do it a little fast?
Jean-Luc’s still talking, but I’ve missed some of what he’s saying: “… absorb the art, its meaning? How can it” — he clicks his fingers, I guess trying to find the words in English — “move you if you are the one who is moving?”
Pretty nice wordplay for a guy using his second language. Although, Lara said he’s half-American, so I guess he probably grew up speaking both. “I’m not here to be moved,” I say, as we finally walk through the pyramid doors, putting our bags through the security scanner. “I’ve got to see six things and hope that there aren’t walls of people in the way, so I can get my photos. And then, I’ve got to move on to a bookstore called Shakespeare and Company, because there’s something I want to find.”
He peers at me again, looking pained. Or offended. Maybe both.
I’m really wishing he would leave.
I turn away from him as we take the escalators down to the atrium, to signal that my focus is now solely on the museum — getting in, getting my photos and getting out. I say what I should have said back at the dorm, or at any point between there and here. “You really don’t have to join me.”
What I don’t say: Why do you want to join me? My own mom and sister (who I wanted to do this trip for) both chose to skip it, so why are you so eager to tag along? You can take photos anywhere.
And, like, seriously, Lara? You didn’t think that your easily distracted photographer buddy might not be the best person to pair up with your super-organized sister?
Another click — probably the fortieth time I’ve heard it since we left the dorm. He’s taken my picture again, not even trying to hide it at this point. I’m too agitated about keeping to my schedule to think much about whether this is okay.
He lets the camera hang down, looking at me intently. Then he shrugs and says, “Why not, ah? I have never actually seen the Mona Lisa.”
I try not to scoff. He was so outraged when I said I needed to get in and out of the Louvre — and he hasn’t even seen one of the pieces of Great Art that’s supposed to move me. How much “absorbing” does he do, if he’s never laid eyes on the most famous painting in this entire museum? Maybe he’s like the New York hipster I’ve met occasionally — usually, guys that Lara is loving and leaving — who are too busy Keeping It Real to ever actually go and visit the Statue of Liberty …
And they are very, very eager to tell you that.
I shrug at him again, trying not to think about how many times I’ve done that today, on what is supposed to be a great romantic tour through Paris. “Whatever,” I tell him, as we reach the twin booths, handing over our tickets for inspection. “Just do me a favor and try to keep up, okay?”
*
When we pass the checkpoint, the first thing I notice is a tiny image of the Mona Lisa, pinned to a wall. It’s black and white, on what looks like a sheet of loose-leaf paper that’s been put through a typical printer — like the kind we’d use in high school or in the library at college — with an arrow that directs you to the painting itself. We follow these low-tech signs through the Louvre, and every other piece of art that we pass seems to recede into the walls, like, Yeah, we know what you’re here for. Go say hello to her, it’s fine — we’re not going anywhere. You can see us after.
It doesn’t take long to reach the right gallery, and we go inside, caught in the slipstream of the other rushing tourists. The room is vast, the ceiling is high and even though the conversations are muted, they echo loudly. This is not the peaceful experience I assumed it would be. The crowd is three-deep at the Mona Lisa when we get there, and I have to tiptoe to get a glimpse of her — which is hard, because, well, she’s kind of tiny. I don’t know why, but I expected her to be bigger than me. On the bare wall behind a glass case in a room that’s as big as some of the lecture theaters back at Columbia, she seems so … small. And the colors are all muted browns and blacks, so it’s not like the painting pops and draws the eye, no matter where you stand.
I figure maybe she’ll look more impressive when I’m up close. I keep my eyes lowered until I can get a good look, a real look — saving the experience for when I can really appreciate it.
It takes a few minutes to shuffle forward so that I’m close enough to get within range to take a photo for Mom’s scrapbook. At first, I hold the phone up over my head, but no matter how many times I try, I can’t avoid the hills of bobble hats, baseball caps and shawls between me and the painting. More than once, half the space in my photo is robbed by someone taking a selfie — someone grabbing some proof that they were here, in the Louvre.
I shuffle forward some more, trying to get to the front. I’m not one of those dainty girls whose nonexistent body weight allows them to magically move through crowds, and I also don’t want to tread on anyone else’s experience by asking them, “Hey, would you mind?,” so this process takes longer than I would like. And when I finally do make it to the front, just a retractable belt between me and the Most Famous Piece of Art Ever, the first thing I notice is that it’s impossible to get a decent photo, because no matter where I move my head, I can’t escape the green glow from the exit sign on the opposite wall, reflected on the protective glass placed over the painting. It’s so annoying, I half-expect Mona — or is it Lisa? — herself to throw up her hands and ask one of the guards, can they do something about this?
I have to crouch down and take the photo from underneath the belt. Then I stand up and put my phone away so that I can get a “good” look — experience the Mona Lisa, the beautiful lady with the facial expression nobody can agree on. Leonardo da Vinci’s masterpiece.
I’m starting to think that I must be missing the point because, apparently, people come see this painting and have reactions to it or something. But I’m not having one at all. I feel like I’m missing whatever there is to get about this piece. Sure, it’s nice and all, but it’s just a portrait of some lady. She might be smiling, she might not be — I don’t really get what difference it makes either way or why so many people seem to think it matters.
What has possessed all these people to endure being squashed together like tweens at a One Direction concert? I’m starting to feel a bit claustrophobic. I see Jean-Luc staring right at the painting, his expression as unreadable as Mona’s. He seems to sense me looking at him, stares back at me for a moment, then looks down at his camera, as if he hadn’t been totally transfixed. Whatever. I got my picture, so I can leave. I’m about to tell him this, when I realize that there’s, like, eight people between us, and I really don’t want to be the Loud American shouting over other tourists. So I just point to myself, then over the heads of the people arriving at the back of the group. I’m moving on to the next piece.
I don’t need subtitles to understand his expression: Already? Are you serious?
I really don’t have time to get into a mime-off with him, so I just tap the watch I’m not wearing, then shrug and smile apologetically in what I hope translates to: Thank you so much for getting me here, have a good day, and I’ll see you back at the dorm … maybe.
Then I turn around and weave my way through the human tide. I have five more pieces to see, and then I can get out of here. If I run, I might just make it to Shakespeare and Company by a quarter after noon, which would be close enough to on schedule that my jaw might start unclenching.
“Serena …” He’s actually following me. I stop to let him catch up. “You are not impressed?” he asks.
“I’m not here to be impressed,” I tell him. “I’m just here to get some photos.”
“You are here just to be here.” What, in an American accent, might sound no more meaningful than a line from a Coldplay song, in a slightly French accent, it sounds like the kind of Big Thought had only by, like, serious guys in the nineteenth century who wore monocles and had epic beards and smoked pipes as they hunched over parchment with quills. The way Jean-Luc says it, I feel like he’s expecting me to respond, but — whether it’s jet lag or the stress of being behind schedule — I don’t have anything to say. I’m here on serious business, but not that kind of serious. I don’t care if it makes me shallow in his eyes, I’m not doing this to experience art, not looking to expand my mind or grow or whatever he thinks might happen if I gawk at some painting long enough. I’m here for different reasons. So what if I’m trying to get through the Louvre in under an hour? The way Mom always tells it, she and Dad didn’t spend all day here — I bet they actually saw everything they intended to see, because neither of them would stall repeatedly. Getting here was one of Dad’s lifetime ambitions, but he was still the type of guy who would come here with a plan, one that he would stick to. Mom would have been the same — they wouldn’t stop just so they could bicker about whether or not the other was moved by something.
“Serena?” Jean-Luc’s looking at me again — not offended now, just curious.
“I don’t know why everyone goes crazy for that,” I say, pointing back to the Mona Lisa, barely visible through a forest of selfie sticks. “I mean, look at this …” I turn to the piece that is hanging on the wall directly opposite da Vinci’s. It’s a giant painting, and I mean giant — I’ve been in swimming pools that are smaller — depicting what I at first think is meant to be the Last Supper. But then I notice that there’s a whole party going on all around Jesus and the Apostles, and I don’t know if I remember that from the Bible. “Look at this. Or that —” I don’t point at anything specific, just the numerous paintings that, now that I’ve seen the Mona Lisa, seem comfortable stepping forward and asking for attention. “There’re things happening in these paintings. The Mona Lisa is just sitting there, smirking. Or maybe not, obviously, but still.”
I notice that he’s looking at me now. I can’t read his face, but I don’t think he’s being haughty again, although his eyes are narrowed.
“Look,” I say, “museums are not really my thing. You want someone to be moved by art, ask my sister if she wants to come here next semester. She gets this stuff much more than I do.”
“You wish she was here with you?”
I make a face, like I’m not bothered either way, but my heart clenches to let me know it thinks I’m a big liar. Museums, art — that’s much more Lara’s type of thing than mine, and the reason the Louvre was first on the itinerary was because I was counting on her to guide me through it. I was counting on her to know what Mom and Dad connected with twenty-five years ago. Lara was supposed to tell me what they saw in this place. Without her, I’m feeling nothing, except a sadness and a sort of shame that I’m feeling nothing. This place meant something to Mom and Dad — it was special. But why?
Once the scrapbook is finished, I tell myself, then it’ll be different. And it will be good for Lara and Mom to have something, too. This way, we won’t have to try so hard to hold on to our memories of …
I still can’t finish that thought.
“Then perhaps we should see all the pieces as quickly as possible,” Jean-Luc says, gesturing down the corridor, “and get out of here?”
He’s got a focused look on his face, and his hands are fussing at the camera around his neck. As if, for all his talk of being “moved” by the art, he’s remembered that he left his dorm with a project to finish, and even the Louvre is just a hindrance.
He walks hurriedly past me, and I shake my head.
All of a sudden, I’m slowing him down!
*
Five minutes later, we’re back at ground level, walking through the Greek Antiquities exhibit toward where the Venus de Milo is housed. To get there, we pass a great many sculptures of what I guess are Greek people, whose only interests seemed to be posing naked or fighting — which they also apparently liked to do naked. The ceilings of the Louvre are high and arched, and they seem to trap the constant murmuring, in many languages, throwing it around the room like a game of voice racquetball. I’m not annoyed by it, though — I kind of hope that all the noise will fill my head and drive back the thoughts that are fighting their way to the front of my mind. Thoughts about Dad. Questions about how happy he was here, the day he visited with Mom. The wondering, was he always that happy? Was he happy the day he … got into his car …? I screw my eyes shut and shake my head, as if I can throw these thoughts, these questions, right out of it. As I do this, I make eye contact with Jean-Luc, and I feel a stab of panic that he’s going to ask me what’s on my mind, and that when he does, I might actually tell him, which would be bad because I’m not sure I can do that without crying.
But he doesn’t ask me what’s on my mind, doesn’t make a sympathetic face and ask if I’m okay. His deep brown eyes just regard me as we walk, as if he’s waiting to see if I’m going to tell him why I suddenly, like, shivered. When I say nothing, he just looks away, and I feel oddly grateful not to have to explain myself.
“These hallways go on forever,” I huff, as we weave in and out of clusters of people. Everyone takes up twice as much space as they might in the summer, due to all the winter coats. “Reminds me of those really old cartoons — you know, like, from the eighties and stuff, when characters would be chased down hallways, and you’d see the same things over and over again because the animators had only drawn one or two pieces of furniture.”
Jean-Luc smiles. “It’s how I imagine purgatory,” he says. “A space that looks like it goes on forever but actually goes nowhere.”
Wait a minute — is he saying that being with me is like being in purgatory?
We turn to walk under an arch, and the Lady Venus is instantly visible, standing with her side to us. Seeing her from this angle, so abruptly, makes it hard to feel any wonder at seeing her for the first time. There was no warning, no sign saying, “Be ready, because there’s Great Art in five … four … three …” It’s just … there! The tourists — not quite as many as at the Mona Lisa but still a good number — are gathered in front of or to either side of the broken statue.
Slowly, we move around to the front, accidentally photobombing at least six selfies. Once we’re there, I look up at the statue, and the first thing I notice is not the severed arms or the exposed breasts or the strange posture — what I notice first is something that I’d never really registered all the times I’d looked at photographs of the Venus de Milo.
“She’s got abs.” I mumble this to Jean-Luc, and he gives me another look, as if to say: “Seriously?” I shrug and tell him: “I’m just saying. How’d all those Ancient Greeks and Romans get so fit? It’s not like there were gyms in every village. I run twice a week, and my body fat has never been as low as what I’m seeing here. I mean, is it any wonder so many of them were — apparently — super cool with being painted or sculpted naked?” It’s a stupid thought, from a person who maybe isn’t taking the Louvre as seriously as she should be, but it feels like just the sort of discussion Mom and Dad would have had when they were here. Mom’s so practical, she probably saw the Venus de Milo and felt sorry for whichever poor saps had to carry it from place to place. She probably worried about them getting in trouble for dropping it and breaking her arms.
And what would Dad have said in response? He’d have reassured her, said, no way they’d have gotten in serious trouble, not once people got a look at the broken statue. With her arms, she’s just a normal woman; without them, she’s unique. Yeah, Dad probably said something like that, because Dad never wanted to think negatively about anything. Mom would have laughed, because she always laughed when Dad was so resolutely upbeat. Sometimes, she laughed because she loved his positivity; other times she laughed because she thought he was (the best kind of) silly.
But the point was, she laughed. They made each other laugh. Gave each other joy.
I steal a look at Jean-Luc, while he’s gazing at Venus, see his very serious, thoughtful face, so serious and thoughtful I find it hard to imagine him ever laughing the way I remember Mom and Dad laughing. In fact, I think the only time I’ve seen him smile today was when he said being at the museum with me was like being in purgatory.
I turn back to Venus. Man, how could some sculptor — working more than two thousand years ago — carve a totally lifelike human being out of marble when, in the twenty-first century, I sometimes need two tries to get my eyeliner on right?
*
After I’ve swung by a bust of a satyr with a really creepy smile (Mom and Dad always did seem to find the weirdest things funny), I have gotten every photo I came here to get. I am officially ready to move on to the next stop on the tour — Shakespeare and Company. And, of course, Jean-Luc has wandered off again. Seriously, it’s like having an overgrown, very serious toddler — okay, he might have an enjoyable accent, but he’s not exactly the best person to have around you when you’re trying to keep to a schedule. Although, I do kind of like the fact that he doesn’t talk down to me about stuff — even when I’m asking him, for the eighth time, “Is that baby supposed to be Jesus? Are those guys the musketeers?” Besides, if he wasn’t here, I’d just be a girl walking around by herself, sometimes looking a little confused, other times crying. It’s not what it would have been like had Mom or Lara been with me, but I am kind of glad Jean-Luc decided to tag along this morning.
I turn a one-eighty and find him creeping up on an elderly couple sitting on a bench, holding hands. I sidle up to him and hiss: “What are you doing?”
He startles. Doesn’t say “mon dieu!” or “sacré bleu!,” like I’m expecting him to. But he does give me a look as if to say, “Please don’t do that again.” He turns away as he checks the camera’s little preview screen on the back, nods to himself, then looks at me. “You get your last photo?” he asks.
I tell him I have, figuring he’s not going to tell me what he was doing …
He just nods again. “Then we can go.”
I have to jog to catch up to him. I say thanks for the tour, just to have something to say. When I see him fiddling with his camera again, I feel a flash of guilt at how I’m maybe getting in his way. He does have a project to finish, after all. “I can take it from here, though, if you need to finish up your work.” But I hope you don’t, I add silently. I hope you stay.
“I am happy to keep walking,” he says. It’s hard to tell if he’s being sarcastic. Maybe he is. Or maybe he is just being blunt. He could also be making a more general point about life itself.
Then he goes on. “Just as long as we don’t walk too fast, okay?”
I bite back my response that walking fast is kind of essential when you’re trying to cross off stops on a tour. Although, I doubt Mom and Dad were running around when they were here. They would’ve just been excited to be in Paris, with the person they loved, not some moody French dude who may or may not like them all that much.
I might be walking in Mom and Dad’s literal footsteps, but I am not going to be able to have their experience. I have a brief flash of despair — literally the one thing the Romance Tour won’t be is romantic, so can I really hope to truly understand what this city meant to my parents? Should I have abandoned this whole little mission as soon as Lara told me she was double-booked and had to go to Madrid with Henri?
No. Because, Mom will love the scrapbook I make for her, once it’s finished, and I’m determined to leave here having figured out a thing or two about what love really is.
Once we’re back outside, I turn up my collar to guard as much of my face as possible from the winter chill.
“So,” he says, “to the Left Bank? Shakespeare and Company?”
It’s not my mouth that replies, but my stomach. It suddenly gives a loud rumble that seems to go on forever.
Jean-Luc raises his eyebrows. They’re kind of perfectly shaped. I wonder if this is European genetics or if he has them done professionally. It would be kind of weird if he got them done professionally, right? Or maybe that’s just the “unenlightened American” in me talking. “Perhaps, instead, somewhere for breakfast?”
I feel blood creeping up into my cheeks. “Oh, it’s cool, I can just scarf a candy bar or something while we walk over the bridge.”
He makes a face at me like he’s not impressed. It’s not the first time I’ve seen this expression in the less than two hours I’ve known him. “If you are to have fuel for the rest of the day, you need real food. Not your processed junk. I’ll take you to a café.”
“But I don’t have time —”
“I do not think your parents starved themselves twenty-five years ago. If you pass out from hunger, you’ll miss everything else on your list. You must eat. Come, follow me.”
Which I do, grudgingly grateful that he’s leading me back across Pont du Carrousel. We’ll at least be on the Left Bank, so we won’t be getting farther away from Shakespeare and Company, and my rumbling belly is quite happy about this unscheduled detour.