Mona Lisa’s Smile

The museums of Paris showcase some of the world’s most creative and irreplaceable works of art. They guard most of them with the sort of twine you’d use to string up a badminton net, strung at ankle height about a foot from the wall. The level of trust startles you. You walk up to paintings daubed before Shakespeare ever penned a word, realizing you could easily run your fingers or a jelly donut across them. Your mind screams for bulletproof glass, laser beams, Indiana Jones-type spikes conspicuously tensed on springs to defend the art. Some works, of course, get more protection than others. The Mona Lisa has smiled from behind bulletproof glass since the 1950s. The cake thrown by the wig-wearing man last May was wiped off in minutes. For most paintings, drawings, and statues, however, you could easily reach out and touch. The rarity of patrons destroying masterpieces should restore some faith in humanity.

Meeting Paris

I don’t know why I feared the French. Mon dieu, they’re lovely. They may not be sweet-tea-syrupy, y’all-come-back-now-y’hear Southerners, but neither do they sniff with distaste when Americans walk near. As we walk into shops, exhibits, or restaurants, we hand each other a bonjour and a smile. We sprinkle merci and au revoir liberally, fall into English for the rest, and have received kindness and grace at nearly every turn. Laura and Tina are already looking at real estate here.

Europe 2022: Travel Day

Last night, my son Jake asked when we were leaving for the airport. “8:30,” I said. He asked, “What time’s your flight? Noon?” I admitted that yes, we were flying out at noon, and muttered a few defenses about international flight and checking in and making sure everything was squared away. He laughed at my anxieties.

At 4:17 this morning, I awoke. Doom-scrolling kept me in bed until 6:00, when I gave up on more sleep. As I headed to the bathroom to shower, Sherry gasped, “My side hurt all night. I think I have to go to the hospital.” Another kidney stone? For a split-second, she got me. Then I laughed. Not falling for it. And then we shared the laugh. The battery in her Jeep died while she was running errands yesterday, so my son Russ and I had to tag team a battery swap in a parking lot. One chronological catastrophic coincidence, she could pull off. Not two.

Culture Nudge

In Europe, “Fast service is considered rude service,” per Rick Steves¹. In France, “It’s often frustrating to get even minor issues resolved,” claims blogger Diane². Before Karen and Chad got ugly with customer service in America, Americans got ugly in Europe. Life moves at different paces, or so I’ve read. Different continents. Different cultures. We have learned that we should expect life in Europe to be different.

We haven’t arrived in Europe yet, and haven’t experienced any culture shock . . . yet. But we’ve gotten a little culture nudge that indicates we’d better reframe our expectations. Twice now, we’ve received email cancellations for events we’ve booked. Both times, luckily, they’ve offered us alternate times for the same experiences, which we have thankfully snatched.

Not Our First Rodeo

We’ve traveled together before, the four of us. Three years ago, we flew to Las Vegas to celebrate a chronological milestone for Laura. Since Laura and I share a birth year, they tacked me on as a celebrant. Neither Laura nor I seem to care much for being feted, but we like parties and people so can handle the price of puffing out a few candles. I inherited my aversion to the spotlight from my mother — I recall a surprise birthday party at Olive Garden her church friends threw. She entered an event room packed with people yelling, “Surprise!” Flustered, she immediately declared it a shared party for all, pointing to others and announcing their birthdays. She spread that moment over an entire year before the first round of breadsticks arrived.