The Red Phone at the Musee D’Orsay

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.

Picture of Marci Darling

Marci Darling

I lie here on my pink puffy bed in my pink silky pajamas, or pink flannel depending on my mood (the only thing you can bank on is that there will be chocolate smeared somewhere on my attire), with my pink feathered pen, writing my most delicious daydreams. Funny? Sometimes. Scandalous? Hopefully. Inspiring? Perhaps. Full of love? Always. Welcome to my World.

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