Today was a sleep-in day. Our clocks reset partially to European time, and we (mostly I) thought this would be a perfect morning to sleep late. Doolies would have none of it. She woke up at five this morning, and poked me repeatedly to a semi-conscious state. We ordered room service for breakfast, at the overpriced fare, and slept. We didn’t leave the room until noon.

Our first stop was the Louvre, a must for any Paris tour. The Louvre is huge, and our 3-day museum passes—which we acquired through much research and ticket sellers turning us away because of telephone calls—let us in with no line. Of course, since this is winter, there was little line to speak of, but Mr. Steve told us to buy the pass outside the museums, and we would never dare question Rick Steve (I’ve been misnaming our illustrious guide—his real name is Rick Steve, not Rick Stevens). The Louvre consists of three major wings, and we toured the Doron wing because that’s where they house the Mona Lisa, and you can’t say you’ve been to the Louvre until you see the most overrated painting in history. Did I say that? I’m sure art historians can explain its significance, but to me it was a crowded piece, both dark and lackluster, like most of the paintings of that era, which, I theorize, is caused by either aging or the dearth of colorful pigments for the artists.

I used to appreciate the art of the Renaissance (I’m assuming their Renaissance—my history, like my knowledge of art, is highly suspect) because of its realism, and while I still enjoy the sculptures because of their size and forwardness, I find most of the paintings boring. I’m convinced that the paintings of this era were the TV and movies of their time. If we knew the stories as well as the people of that era, they would be much more entertaining. Regrettably, I don’t and without knowledge of the story, the paintings appear less interesting. As it is now, most art historians study the paintings for their composition and artistic technique, which, while important, is less entertaining to us laypeople. Overall, I appreciate the modern and abstract art over the classical. With photography and computers, the medium has become less important, and the artistic skill has moved from the technical to the innovative. At my insistence, we skipped the pots, pans, and furniture because of my previously revealed abhorrence for ancient kitchen and living-room ware.

We took many pictures in the museum. I don’t know when they changed the rule, but whenever they did, nobody told me, and I didn’t figure it out until today. It seems they allow photography, even flash photography, in museums. The flashing of old paintings is discouraged with an invisible plastic or glass cover, which bounces the flash into frame. Had I known, I would have taken many more pictures yesterday. We plan to return to the Pompidou and flash away. I’ve also lost some of my distaste for locals identifying me as a tourist by showing my camera. I admit I was silly for thinking that way, but as part of NEQID, I’m trying to find my faults and move on. This is not to say, of course, that I’ll show my camera in NYC. That would be wrong because I’m a local there.

After returning from the Louvre, we walked over to Angélina, a chocolate restaurant near our hotel. They sat us in the middle row of three two-person tables, making us feel like the unlucky passenger in the middle seats of an airplane. We ordered the house specialty: a hot chocolate unlike any hot chocolate I’ve drank before. Imagine melting milk chocolate and drinking it. They served it with unsweetened whipped cream, and it was almost too thick to drink. A good experience, but I wouldn’t order it again unless they added a couple of shots of caffeine. Now that would be delicious.

An older couple was sitting next to us. Since they squished the tables together, I had no choice but to eavesdrop. The man and women were old friends, and from their accent (obviously they spoke English or I wouldn’t have been able to relay any of this) they hailed from New Zealand or South Africa, or somewhere other than the states. The woman spoke most of the time, which was annoying at first, but she did tell a couple of things that I thought worthy of note. She traveled as a salesperson and compared the people of NYC with Paris. It seems that New Yorkers, while seemingly rude, are actually much friendlier than Parisians are. For example, she said that a tourist who looks confused in NYC is more likely to receive help than a similar person in Paris. While I like to imagine us New Yorkers as cold people, it turns out we’re only energetic and busy; we don’t share the cold heart of the Parisians. Okay, that’s probably unfair, but I thought it funny.

There was an archway near the Louvre named the Arc du Carousel or something like that. I figure taking pictures of that removes the need to photograph the Arc du Triumphe, which we saw from a distance on Friday. When you see one Arc, you’ve seen them all.

After I finish writing this (assuming I can wake Doolies from her David-writing-induced nap), we’re leaving for our early evening sightseeing. Our plan is to visit the D’Orsay museum, which roughly translates as Museum of Horsies, or at least that’s what I’m telling Doolies. Once we see the horsies (or impressionists, which, when you think about it, are closely related to horsies), we’ll head back for our evening dinner with GWEC.

Oh, and if my sister Randy reads this (which is unlikely), Happy 30th Birthday!