Friday night - Parisian style

Friday night in Paris is, well, crowded. If I was with a friend or twenty years younger, I might say incredible, but I am alone, and middle aged, and divorced, and unemployed. I know some people consider me outgoing and brave, while others consider me shy and judgmental. As with all of us, I guess the truth is somewhere in between. Maybe not in between as much as swinging violently one way or another. I do know that going to a bar on Friday night without a wingman in a foreign country does not work for me. I can eat alone. I have enjoyed so many solitary meals here that I am comfortable with my “table for one” status. I still need my book as a prop while I’m waiting for my food, but I now put it away when the meal arrives so I can savor every bite. But my book doesn’t really work in a dimly lit bar, and I’m not fishing for romance anyway. This may be incredibly helpful to the men out there. In general, I believe that women my age do not go to bars for any reason other than to get laid. It’s not the same as a man. I won’t settle for whoever is still there when the lights go on. I can’t imagine picking someone up and actually having sex, but I’m there to establish a connection.

Since I’m not looking to meet a man, I decide to go the Louvre on Friday night. It’s open until 10:00. I bask in the high minded culture of it all. Me? Friday night? Oh yes, I was at the Louvre… I assume that I will have the place to myself to peruse the collection at my leisure. I could not have been more wrong. The museum was packed. Like the only bar in a college town packed. Like the funnel cake stand at the Ohio State Fair packed. I opted for the special exhibit ticket to see some Venetian painters from the 16th century on loan from the British museum. (For those of you who are familiar with my travels will understand the irony.) There was a line to get a ticket into the museum. Then, there was a line to get into the temporary exhibit. The exhibit was like a kegger at Sigma Chi during homecoming weekend. There was elbowing and highbrow shoving. The French would gesture wildly in front of each painting and discuss the merits of the art with their companion, all the while blocking their territory so I couldn’t get any closer. While I was a little bored, they all seemed enthralled. I was completely out of my element. The only thing that I found truly interesting was the artists, who were essentially hired hands painting portraits for rich families, painted the families at the last supper with Jesus. No, it wasn’t Peter, and Paul. It was the Giraldi family, including the dog. WTF?