He’s twenty-three, and his name has forty million results.
I saw a man whomighthave been Matt Damon at a restaurant in Cambridge once. That’s the extent of my celebrity exposure up until now.
We reach the main entrance, flanked by twin columns. A group of tourists slows as they walk by, headed in the opposite direction, all staring at Otto.
Again, he appears oblivious to the attention. Or very used to it. In Germany, he must get recognized everywhere.
Repeatingc’est magnifiquefeels redundant—and I don’t know any other impressed French praises—but the entrance to the Louvre is as dazzling as the exterior.
Boston is full of historical buildings. But history is relative. When you’re walking into a palace that was built in the thirteenth century, events of the 1700s sound comparatively recent.
The Louvre is a work of art, housing works of art.
We wander through gallery after gallery, filled with priceless paintings and sculptures. Between rooms, I peer at the mapprovided by the woman at the admission desk, trying to navigate through the numbered maze.
When I mentioned to Otto I wanted to visit the Louvre to see a specific painting, him offering to accompany me never occurred to me. Him actually coming seemed improbable. But here he is, reading placards and pointing out signs so I can orient us on the map.
Finally, we reach the right room.
I stare atLes Murmures de l’Aube, struck by the strange, surreal sensation of familiarity amid foreign. I’m far from an art aficionado, but I would recognize this particular painting anywhere. A framed print of it has hung in my parents’—now my mom’s—bedroom since before I was born. The English translation isTheWhispers of the Dawn, according to Otto. For someone who claims his French isn’t that great, he seems awfully close to fluent.
I peer as close as I dare to, under the watchful gaze of the docent stationed in the doorway, afraid to accidentally activate a sensor and set off the alarm.
Les Murmures de l’Aubeis simple, comparatively, to some of the other works we’ve walked past today. A woman in a pale blue dress stands, barefoot, at the edge of a mist-covered lake. Her face isn’t visible, gaze fixed on the horizon, where a church spire is barely noticeable through clumps of fog that veil a flock of birds in flight. The palette is muted, the brushstrokes precise. It has the haziness of a memory, the scene salient yet half remembered. I asked my mom once what the woman was waiting for, and her answer stuck with me.
“Maybe she’s not waiting for anyone. Maybe she’s simply standing in the stillness.”
“Are you named after her?” Otto asks. He’s looking at the card that lists the name of the painting and the artist—Claire Marquant.
I nod.
“Did she paint anything else?”
“Nope. Just this.” I stare for a few more seconds, then step back. “Okay. I’m ready to go.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.”
I’m also starving, a fact that becomes obvious when my stomach gurgles in the next gallery. We practiced for two hours this morning, and then I scarfed down a quick lunch before meeting Otto.
Otto hears it, smirking as he suggests, “Dinner?”
“Dinner sounds good,” I say, secretly thrilled that he’s suggesting we extend our outing.
I’m not sure it’s that secret at all actually. I think anyone who looks at us would be able to tell that I’m giddy around him.
We wind up eating at a hole-in-the-wall Greek restaurant Otto claimed was excellent—he was right. Then we stop for gelato—sorbet for me—and walk along a lit street that runs parallel to the Seine with our dessert.
Twinkling lights illuminate the bridges. Lush leaves sway overhead, dancing in the warm breeze.
It reminds me a little of the path along the Charles River, where I like to run. I tell Otto about it, and he asks me more questions about Boston.
We finish eating but continue walking. There’s something magical about being in Paris, but it’s infinitely more special to be exploring the city with him. We could be anywhere, and my stomach would still be filled with bubbles and butterflies.
An older man is playing the violin right next to one of the pedestrian bridges that crosses the Seine.
“Want to dance?” Otto asks as we approach the music.
