Posted by: 2girls2europe | July 28, 2011

Mona Lisa? More like Don’t-a-Lisa.

Seeing the Mona Lisa is a humongous, steaming, smoldering crock of crap.

A little harsh, perhaps.

I had low expectations going in, as every savvy traveler really should. I expected a painting the size of an embarrassing 8×10 school photo surrounded by a bunch of weirdo tourists clamoring to get a shot of it with their iPhones.

And uh, I found just that.

But let me back up just a second and clarify: we essentially had one day in Paris. We spent part of it on a Sandeman tour (see Jessie’s post) and the rest at the Louvre.

Aw look so excited for the Louvre!

So we dipped inside the museum as two typically art-unsavvy individuals ready to take on the bastion of the art world. Sorta.

I should mention this as a very practical tip about the Louvre: don’t go in the main entrance.  You know, the one by the big glass pyramid you saw in the Da Vinci Code? That’s the dum-dum entrance.

No, readers. Go in the LION ENTRANCE, RAWRRRR. (I think it’s actually called the Porte de Lions entrance, but whatever.) Seriously though, we saw not another soul try to enter there. We didn’t even have to “queue,” as our British tour guide so cutely informed us. And finding the Mona Lisa from that entrance only took about 5 minutes.

Speaking of the Mona Lisa, we found her. Thanks to the Louvre’s oh-so-helpful “Louvre-for-Dummies” map and the little arrowed signs on the wall stating, “Mona Lisa this way, you uncultured piece of manure.” Ok, they didn’t really say that. But they should have.

We ventured into the room, preparing ourselves for madness. Because of her high placement on the wall, I could see that smirky betch easily above the bobbing heads, even from across the room.

My first impression? Wow, she looks the same as she does in textbooks and on TV and in magazines and documentaries and posters and calendars.  This is just like the time I saw her a million times before. Nevertheless, I walked onward.

Before we allowed ourselves to become swept up in the writhing cacophony of “Lisa Fever,” as I’d like to call it, we deemed a meeting place at the far corner of the room. That way, if we got separated and I didn’t come back in 5 minutes, Jessie would know I had been trampled by fanny-pack wearing, massive-camera toting, by-George-there-she-is, crazy ass tourist.

Luckily, I became bored with it quite quickly (as I tend to do in art museums—sorry snobby readers) and backed out of there, trying not to run over the short people grunting behind me.

As we left the room, I looked over my shoulder at the clothed orgy of people pressing themselves in on the little painting.

I sighed and shook my head. Crazies.

Then we looked for coffee, feeling accomplished.

Gina

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