She rolls her eyes. “Hurry, before Giselle gives us a…regard assassin?* for spending too much time away from the studio.”
Giselle Durand, Head of the Restoration Department at the Louvre, looks precisely like the casting director’s dream of a stern, elegant French woman—silk blouse, severe bun, cheekbones that could draw blood. She’s hard on the outside…and probably on the inside, too. But she knows the craft and treats her team with respect, if not compassion and empathy.
She’s also a French snob, which is why she reminds me at every opportunity that she’s taken a chance hiring theAmericangirl for the delicate Rosalba Carriera pastel. Said American girl has a freaking PhD from UC Berkeley and ten years of restoration experience…but all that is moot when you’re nottrès français?*.
But once she saw how I worked, she calmed down, not that it’s stopped her from warning me every time I get close to thePortrait of the Comtesse de Valois, “Pastel requires delicacy. No hesitation. No heavy touch.”
Regardless of Giselle, it’s a dream come true to work at the Louvre.
I feel a jolt of delight every morning when I slip through the staff entrance by the Cour Carrée, flashing my ID badge like I belong.
Honestly, it’s a miracle I get any work done when half my brain is busy being awestruck. The Louvre is—well,The Louvre.
I pass theWinged Victory of Samothraceon my way to the cafeteria to get a cup of coffee, like it’s just a regular Tuesday.
Yesterday, I took a wrong turn and ended up face-to-face with the Venus de Milo.
This place is ridiculous!
And you bet I get a kick out of crossing those echoing marble corridors where tourists aren’t allowed, breathing in the faint scent of dust and varnish that clings to the air, until I reach our hidden sanctum—the restoration labs.
The studio I work in is nothing like the hushed galleries visitors know. In these rooms, tables overflow with brushes, pigments, microscopes, and angled lamps. Masterpieces the world only knows from postcards sit casually on easels, stripped down and vulnerable, waiting for us to coax them back to life.
I’m in love with the painting I’m working on.
Two and a half centuries of dust, grime, andcareless handling have dulled its glow, but the bones of it—her luminous face, her knowing eyes, the blush on her cheeks—are brilliant.
Every time I touch pastel to the surface, I swear I feel Rosalba Carriera herself guiding my hand.
By the time I’ve scrubbed the dust from my hands and made sure my phone-slash-wallet is tucked into the deep pocket of my boho-chic overalls—the comfortable, paint-splattered pair that practically screams “art nerd at work”—Cece and Jean are already waiting by the door.
Jean is another restorer. He’s tall, charming, and perpetually dusted with marble powder from his sculpture work.
We walk out into the Paris sunshine and cross the Cour Napoléon to Café Marly, tucked beneath the Louvre’s arcades with a perfect view of the glass pyramid.
Like I said,ridiculous!
When we reach the café, the terrace hums with a mix of tourists and effortlessly chic Parisians.
Inside, red velvet banquettes and mirrored walls lend the place an air that’s both historic and faintly decadent.
It’s the lunch rush, and the air is rich with butter and garlic. A waiter glides past, carrying a plate of escargot, the shells gleaming under the lights. My mouth waters.
We squeeze into small chairs around a round table.
There are many things I love about living and working in Paris, but as a food lover, I appreciate that Parisians take their cuisine seriously. Lunch isn’t a sad desk salad or a sandwich eaten while working. It’s an event. My colleagues don’t “grab lunch”—they sit down, order a proper meal, and always,alwaysa glass of wine, because apparently that’s fuel, not indulgence.
Cece gets steakfrites—way too much food for me in the middle of the day. Jean goes for steaktartare. I don’t blame him; I had it a couple of days ago and fell a little in love myself. But this is lunch, and I’m not that Parisianyet. So, I play it safe with asalade niçoise.
Between bites and laughter, I realize how comfortable I’ve become here.
I had expected Parisians to be snobs, as everyone warned me before I left,butI’m surprised to find they’re friendly and congenial.
Jean and Cece have become more than colleagues; they’re my friends now. Tomorrow evening, they’ve invited me to join them for dinner and clubbing after we attend the reception at the Pyramid—drinks andhors d’œuvreswith the Louvre’s patrons and, more importantly, the family loaning the Carriera I’ve been contracted to restore.
Cece snaps a picture of her steakfrites, and Jean follows suit, both already planning their next Instagram post. We’ve had the social media conversation before—my lack of it, their disbelief. It’s not my thing. The whole idea is awkward to me, like invitingstrangers to peek through my windows. My younger sister, Marisol, on the other hand, can’t breathe without documenting it on Instagram, so I’ve had plenty of practice tolerating people like Cece and Jean.
“I still can’t believe you’re not on Insta.Everyoneis on Insta,” Cece says, setting her phone down and lifting her glass of red wine.
