A Night of Culture

Last Saturday, on the 83 bus, Abbey and I had an in-depth discussion regarding the amount of personal growth that I have undergone this year abroad. One minute, we were admiring my oft-mentioned shattering of preconceived gender-related behaviors such as purse-carrying and tight-jean-donning and the next we were discussing the effects of a year of intensive study of the Middle East and Islam at an international university among diverse peers on my American Protestant worldview. We even remarked on how admirable and cultured it was that we were on our way to enjoy an intriguing retrospective of the life and work of Yves St. Laurent and his impact on the world of high fashion and culture as well as society at large.

This was an activity encouraged by Paris’ Annual “Nuit des Musées” where museums are opened to the public free of charge for all those who wish to engage their intellects at a reasonable cost. Events like this, I believe, are highly beneficial to society as they encourage the populous to engage in communally centered cultural activities (it at least denies those who do not participate the fiscal excuse). As we disembarked we eagerly anticipated the life and work of Yves that we would soon immerse ourselves in, alongside our fellow Parisians. We got to the front of Le Petit Palais, but noticed that there would be a short wait to enter the exhibit.

As we walked past the first few people in the line, we realized the wait would not be as short as we had anticipated; however, it would be well worth our wait. As we sauntered past the “estimated time: 2 hours” sign, we began to do some mental math. A few moments later, we neared the Champs Elysees and came to the realization that we had not yet reached the halfway point of this line. The line went right – towards the Obelisque that Napolean was umm given by Egypt. Abbey and I turned left.

It was, after all, 21h30 (that’s how French people write 9:30PM). We watched the sun set (yes, it sets rather late) behind L’arc de Triomphe, walked hand in hand through a park and meandered around the Champs Elysees area before heading back towards our bus stop. But wait. We saw another museum that had no line. We were going to be cultural after all! We proudly walked up the stairs, received our free tickets from the gentleman with the moustache at the welcome station, and proceeded to fix our gaze and attention on the display in front of us. Neither Abbey nor I were entirely familiar with the subject of the exhibit, which made it even more exhilarating, enlightening, engaging, and several other polysyllabic words beginning with the letter ‘e’ than Abbey and I could have hoped for.



We saw all different sorts of Dinosaur poo and learned about how archaeologists are able to differentiate hardened feces from normal rocks and how they can learn about the digestive process of animals that have been extinct since the great flood when Noah kicked the poor Pachycephalosauruses…or is it Pachycephalosaurii?...off of his ark!

What?

No, of course I didn’t touch the poo.



Fine. I touched old Poo. I also saw several substantial piles of poo.



And for those who don't trust me, but prefer to rely on the translator of french curators:



On the way home, Abbey and I had another in-depth discussion regarding the phenomenon that, no matter how much change one undergoes during the course of a year, there are one or two personality traits that obstinately refuse to part ways with the otherwise matured and enlightened individual.

Turns out it may take more than one year in Paris for me to cease to be amused by giant piles of poo masquerading as a scientific exhibit…it may take similarly long for me to avoid imitating said dinosaurs in public while my wife shakes her head in embarrassment…and takes a picture.



Thanks for reading