In 1998, my sisters called me with the exciting news that they had found airline tickets from LA to Paris for $180 round trip, so we booked it. Since they were bringing their husbands along, I called my dear friend, Eric, and asked if he wanted to join me. A brilliant comedian, Eric arrived at the airport in his idea of a French outfit: a long black trenchcoat and beret. As soon as we checked into our hotels, we headed to our first museum, the Musee D’Orsay. Built in 1900, the Musee D’Orsay was originally a train station so gorgeous, it was called the “Palace of Fine Arts.” As we walked through the exhibits, my little sister burst into tears every time she looked at a painting of a mother, missing her kids back home. I was busy marveling at the ancient Greek statues, and more specifically their eye-popping physiques. Those ancient ones were in excellent shape! And dear ancient sculptors, what skill you had! How do you carve six packs and glutes of steel out of marble?
I floated along the second story, gazing in wonder at the incredible building details, the soaring light, the radiant art, and that’s when I saw it: a red phone on the wall all by itself. I thought, “Oh yes! This museum is full of surprises. What a darling little art installation! I love red phones!” I picked up the phone and put it to my ear, expecting to hear some wonderful story. Instead, someone started shouting on the other end in French. I thought, “My goodness this person is very passionate about art! Maybe it’s some sort of angry performance art.” Then several museum security guards and fully dressed firefighters came running towards me, shouting. I froze, unsure what was happening.
Was the museum on fire? Was there a burglary happening? Finally, my friend Eric said loudly, almost shouting at me (okay, he was actually shouting) “Hang up the phone!” I hung it up fast, like it was a hot potato.
Ooops.
“I’m so sorry! Excuse moi!” I said over and over, adding a bow to show I was extra sorry.
The red-faced men threw their arms in the air in frustration.
I guess this is why my sister calls me Inspector Clouseau and follows me around when I’m baking cookies at her house, catching flying spatulas and dropped cookie sheets.
Eric and I quickly walked away, my face as red as the phone. He said quietly, “Why did you pick up the emergency phone?”
“I thought it was going to describe a painting,” I whispered back.
He cleared his throat. “So, in all the museums we’ve been to, and all the art we’ve seen, we haven’t seen one phone that describes a painting. But you thought…?”
Sigh.
“I don’t know. It’s Paris! The entire city is a living breathing work of art! It makes sense that a red phone in a museum would be art, or describe art, or at least recite poetry. And there is a kind of poetry in six sizzling firefighters running through priceless art towards me. And that red phone worked some kind of magic. Now, every time I think about fine art, I imagine six strong handsome firefighters running towards me, but they aren’t shouting, they are smiling. And carrying cookies.
One Response
Bahahaha!!! Hilarious!!!😘😘😘