Mona Lisa Thattaway

Last weekend, two country gals took a trip to the big city.

Bonjooouur, Pah-reeee! Hellooooo, Paris.

My former Greenfire housemate and fellow Birkenstock-wearing friend Christina was visiting France during a vacation from teaching English in Giresun, Turkey. And so it was that we spent a lovely weekend in the City of Love and Public Displays of Affection.

We walked, we sight-saw, we feasted our earbuds on gypsy jazz and jazz standards, and we found Christina her Holy Grail: a steaming bowl of authentic French Onion Soup, complete with a rude French waiter who chastised us for ordering only soup and wine. Thanks for the soup, buddy.

We deftly navigated the Paris Metro, taking the 1 to the 9 to the 4… and I found myself humming Jay-Z’s “H to the Izzo” in between Edith Piaf melodies. [Editor’s Note: “H to the Izzo,” released in 2001, was hip hop artist Jay-Z's first Top Ten Billboard single. The song's lyrics use izzle language (H to the izz-O, V to the izz-A) to spell out H.O.V.A., which refers to one of Jay-Z's nicknames, Jayhova, and his self-proclaimed status as the god of MC.]

That’s neither here nor there, but surely more there than here.

We spent a sunny Friday afternoon atop Montmartre, the picturesque hill that affords a panoramic view of Paris, nibbling on chocolate-pear and rhubarb macarons (egg white and almond powder pastries that look like brightly-colored mini hamburgers and fit neatly into your palm).

Saturday was a typical Parisian day, cloudy and gray, so we followed the famous Rue du Rivoli to I.M. Pei’s glass pyramids, marking the magnificent Musée du Louvre. In front of the larger pyramid, a girl in furry boots approached me with her camera, pointing to herself saying, “Photo? Moi?” with a thick Texas accent. “Sure,” I replied, “And I speak English.” She laughed. “Oh, great! Would you take a picture of us in front of this pyramid thing?”

The Louvre is one heckuva museum. Its enormity is unfathomable for someone like me with the estimation skills of a mosquito. You can walk for hours at a pace conducive to a couple comments per painting and only see a tiny fraction of the collection. Christina and I wandered through rooms filled with ancient bowls and masks looking for the reputed Turkish room, and got sidetracked by ancient perfume bottles and statues of naked gods. You’d think they were trying to out-naked each other, those Greeks.

We wandered right into the Winged Victory of Samothrace, an armless, headless statue of the winged Greek goddess Nike (Victory). Her magnificent wings recall a certain trademarked swoosh, and her right hand, found in 1950, is displayed in a glass case off to the side. The palm faces up and only the middle finger remains, the rest broken off and lost. The wrist is also bent upwards.

A little girl with her hands pressed against the display case was motioning to her mother.

Maman, regarde, Speeder mahn! Look ma, Spider Man!

Bah dis donc. What do you know, Nike’s finger and wrist were perfectly positioned for first-class web-shooting à la Speeder Mahn. Time and time again, American culture makes a dramatic entrance into deep-rooted French institutions.

Scattered throughout this particular wing of the Louvre are laminated signs depicting Her Majesty Mona Lisa, with arrows pointing you toward what is arguably the most recognizable face in art history. The signs seemed as normal as those pointing you toward the W.C., and I’d bet my Louvre ticket that more people visit Mona than les toilettes.

So we followed the signs to Mona’s wall (she gets her own wall) and took pictures of the hoards of people taking pictures. Christina noticed a painting of a seated man with his arm halfway down the front of a seated lady’s dress, hanging on a side wall. She looks less than thrilled, and he is suspiciously expressionless. We joked that they know no one is looking at their wall, anyway.

Zooming past the Eiffel Tower, Champs Elysees, Arc de Triomphe, and Notre Dame… Paris is an ideal city for doing the Tourist Thing. Big and exciting, it’s rich with history, culture, music, and endless winding, walkable streets to discover and consecrate.  

We country gals are getting different but equal experiences. Living in smaller cities, we’ve both repeatedly experienced the kindness of strangers-turned-friends – people who’ve opened their homes and introduced us to regional specialties, and quirks of language and culture that we wouldn’t discover on our own.

And I always know where to find Mona. After all, I saw the signs.