This is the kid who, last weekend, when we asked him what he’d like to do Sunday, said, “I’m thinking the Arc de Triomphe!” And here he is in class holding his Giacometti-esque sculpture. Yes, those teachers — God love ‘em — hustled the kids onto the Metro and took them to see an exhibit of Alberto Giacometti works at the Pinacotheque de Paris, then had them do their own art at school. They’re FOUR! I love this but haven’t graduated from entertaining him with bubbles and LEGOs, so thank God for the educators who know how to make the sweet, runny-nosed children we drop off every day into little sophisticated art lovers and artists.
Speaking of art, tomorrow is the first Sunday of the month, which means the Louvre is free and that you can get a solid 10 minutes alone with the Mona Lisa if you know which little-known entrance to use when the doors open. I, of course, have not yet been alone with her, because I’m not keen on making the 8:05 a.m. 72 bus on a Sunday morning to make it happen. The Louvre is the new Grand Ole Opry: It’ll be there when I want to take someone from out of town.
Mr. UN holds out hope every first Sunday that I will get my ass out of bed, but I prefer slothdom on the Sabbath. If ever I do manage to join him and the boys on this adventure, it will only be because I want to go to the Apple store underneath the Louvre when it’s not mobbed by skinny French twenty-somethings who look exactly like Waldo (or Wally in the UK). Except the “Where are Waldo?” books in France are titled, “Ou est Charlie?” Lightning McQueen is different too: Flash McQueen in France. These revisions seem neither French nor better, but what do I know? I’m just a girl who hasn’t yet been to the Louvre.
Nicholas alone with Mona Lisa.