The Louvre Gave Me the Chills

Yesterday, I took my friend visiting from London to the Louvre. We both felt like shit, and we know the museum would be filled with unsavory characters, but we pushed our way through anyways because, as Bonnie put, it would probably take her "eight years" to get back.

I made the executive decision to stand in line and get my laissez-passer pass, thanks to my "art history major" ID card. When we finally got in and saw what we wanted to see (ex. for her: Mona Lisa, Venus de Milo. For me: everything by David in the large-format hall. Inescapable: Les Esclaves by Michelangeo, the Winged Victory). We were dragging and tired, nauseous, sweating from fevers, and generally feeling terrible.

I got back and made myself do laundry, because I had literally nothing to wear after two solid weeks of ignoring the amassed pile on my floor. Bed at nine because I was beginning to hallucinate, and this morning when I woke up I couldn't get out of bed, let alone think of trying the RER and then working all day.

So. I took a personal day.

I slept about six straight hours on top of going to bed early last night, and I felt a lot better. So here is what I did with the rest of my day:

It's one of the Christmas displays at Galleries Lafayette. I realize the camerawork is shoddy and the lighting is not professional, but merde! Listen to the song! I don't know what it is, but I've walked past that window FOUR TIMES this weekend because I love those odd little white Japanese puff-balls with their French music. I only got some of the actual singing (and it's not even singing, it's just humming), but there's about three French girls singing along to the bouncy, crazy music. I lurve it, and I plan to go back like... all the time.