It is an unquestioned fact that the first Sunday of every month means free admission for the day at all national museums in France and Paris is a city filled with them. My roommates and I decided that we should begin our museum explorations at the Louvre.
So at noon we piled into the RER and made our way to the stop that would lead us to the metro leading directly to the museum and, after a few wrong turns and wrong escalators, we were finally making our way past the vacant ticket counters and into the first gallery: Greek statuary.
A man with a Louvre nametag briefly stopped me to say good morning and ask if I was just beginning my tour. He asked in French and I responded with a "Ouai." He said that he wished it was a good tour and I said thanks, a little bit confused.
And so we passed more than 3 hours wandering around the exhibits and looking at the artwork and sculptures as tourists scrambled around us to take pictures of every piece from every exhibit at every angle. It seemed as if it was all a rush to get it all in photos lest the museum should somehow rearrange itself in the blink of an eye. Meanwhile I went around and took photos of the things I found interesting: Atalanta missing a finger, Diana's dog without an ear, a bust of an unremembered person.
This is what the museum is to me - a few pieces to resonate with for their imperfections or missing stories. They mean more to me than a glared photo of the Mona Lisa behind glass ever could.
So at noon we piled into the RER and made our way to the stop that would lead us to the metro leading directly to the museum and, after a few wrong turns and wrong escalators, we were finally making our way past the vacant ticket counters and into the first gallery: Greek statuary.
A man with a Louvre nametag briefly stopped me to say good morning and ask if I was just beginning my tour. He asked in French and I responded with a "Ouai." He said that he wished it was a good tour and I said thanks, a little bit confused.
And so we passed more than 3 hours wandering around the exhibits and looking at the artwork and sculptures as tourists scrambled around us to take pictures of every piece from every exhibit at every angle. It seemed as if it was all a rush to get it all in photos lest the museum should somehow rearrange itself in the blink of an eye. Meanwhile I went around and took photos of the things I found interesting: Atalanta missing a finger, Diana's dog without an ear, a bust of an unremembered person.
This is what the museum is to me - a few pieces to resonate with for their imperfections or missing stories. They mean more to me than a glared photo of the Mona Lisa behind glass ever could.
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