9/13/2011
Ah, the Louvre. So this day is set aside for the Louvre and the Arc de Triomphe. I originally went to the museum on a Tuesday and in true scatterbrained, Brittany fashion, didn’t even check to see if it was open. Indeed it wasn’t. So I walked around for a couple hours just exploring. Saw some touristy areas that were annoying and some not so touristy areas that were nice. However, I parked it for most of the day in the gardens adjacent to the Louvre. Incredible. There are cute little fountains, statues, perfectly manicured bushes, and chairs and benches galore. So I sat and read for a few hours. And I watched a couple episodes of 30 Rock. And I people watched. Holy cow, there is some good people watching to be done in Paris parks.
Speaking of 30 Rock, I stole the title of this blog from Tracy Morgan’s character...well the “Musings” part anyway. He writes a column called Musings (this is in the episode where Liz and Jenna think he is illiterate because he never reads from the cue cards and goes out the emergency exit). “Wild Nights” I stole from Emily Dickinson. I’m not sure if it is considered blasphemous to have a title simultaneously inspired by Dickinson and Tracy Morgan, but it’s pretty representative of my character, so there you have it.
Back to the Louvre. I enjoyed the Louvre. The Venus de Milo was impressive and Napoleon’s apartments were insane. However, the Mona Lisa? Kind of lame. I hope the art gods don’t strike me down for saying that...but you can’t get close to it, and there were a million other paintings that I found infinitely more interesting. Like the one of the sisters taking a bath together while one of them is pinching the other’s nipple. Weird, but interesting nonetheless. So, Mona, get over yourself. You got lucky, girl.
After I perused the Louvre, I went outside to take a nap on the lawn. This is where it got weird. Before I begin, I’ll say that most people over here do not guess me as American. They mostly guess Australian and a few times people have thought I was Dutch. As I’m laying on the lawn outside the museum napping on a beautiful day under a pristine sky, a French guy walks up and says in heavily accented English, “are you Australian?” “No, American, sorry.” was my reply. He sits down next to me explaining that he used to live in Australia so he was excited to talk to someone from there and I look like I’m from there for some reason. He proceeds to take off his shirt and sunbathe. My puritanical American self is embarrassed at this, and I start to get nervous, and he strikes up a friendly conversation. At this point I have a death grip on my bag, because I think he is creating some sort of diversion so I can be burgled by his partner hiding in the bushes. That didn’t happen, but he did notice my tongue ring and proceed to tell me that he heard it was nice to kiss someone with a tongue ring. My reply was “I wouldn’t know.” Then he grabbed my face and kissed me. I was so taken aback, because at this point I felt sure there was some maniacal plot behind this all and cameras or crime was involved somehow. I shoved him away, sputtered some choice words, and I’ll be darned if he didn’t look completely shocked that I hadn’t just swooned over his little stunt. Sporting little more than a bruised ego and feeling affronted, he told me all about how I don’t know how to enjoy life. I need to learn to live in the moment, I’m in the city of romance, I don’t know how to have fun, I need to appreciate the fact that a handsome man (if he does say so himself) wants to kiss me in beautiful Paris in beautiful weather. At this point I was disgusted by his arrogance and his patronizing attitude as if I should be on my knees thanking him for kissing me. What a moron. So I agreed to meet him the next day in that spot. Of course I didn’t go. And as soon as he left I checked my bag to make sure I had all my stuff. So, it’s possible I missed out on my future husband by being paranoid in a Paris park. But if that was him, I’d rather be single. City of Romance, my ass. The little boy that Sam looks after loudly proclaimed as I was walking through the living room one day, "T'as des grands lolos, toi," which loosely translates to "You have big boobs." This came from a 3 year old. God bless French men.
Sam was amazing throughout my whole trip though. Between taking me dancing until 3 AM to Questlove, cooking an amazing Ratatouille, and having quintessentially French picnics with delicious moldy cheese and wine, and introducing me to pastries galore, she made Paris awesome. I will have to go back to take her on a movie date to see Wuthering Heights, fa sho.
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