When I think of France I cannot help but recall my defunct childhood in cahoots with a young Macaulay Culkin.
"You're what the French call, "les incompétents".
We've just returned from Paris where I guess I would say, it was colder than it was unaffordable. Nevertheless, Giulio accommodated my interminable complaints about the wind as much as he did my demands to indulge in everything that could incite a good froth from my salivary glands- from the best french onion soup in Le Marai, to a browse around the Christian Louboutin boutique, to being the last two patrons standing at the terminal end of visiting hours at the Louvre.
He is a very, very good man.
The last time I was in Paris I skipped the Louvre in favor of clearing out every boulangerie of its pain au chocolat. But this time, I was on a mission to see some of my longtime favorite masterpieces, including the Winged Victory of Samothrace, which has been on my to do list since before I was legally emancipated.
Unfortunately this time, Paris had other plans for me:
en cours de restauration.
But rather than sulking, I decided to focus my attention on all the other
inspirational pieces SELFIES represented in the artwork, practically everywhere I looked. I have always appreciated delicate symbolism and foreshadowing depicted in literature and art, but what patent an example as these projections of smartphone-fueled vanity from long Before Christ!
|"fresh out of the salon" selfie|
|"look I'm doing yoga" selfie|
|"group sufferance" selfie|
(There's more, but I guess you get the point.)
So we satisfied our penchant for body-sized baguettes of pickles and pâté and are now back to being cozily nestled into our manic Milanese life, (naturally) already missing the exalted Paris Fashion Week and 15 euro cocktails. So I guess for now it's au revoir to Jean-Marc Ayrault, (and in the meanwhile, see what you can do about turning the pinnacle of Paris into the discotheque it was obviously meant to be).
Oh! oh! and just to get the very last word...