We were in a half-lit cafe in Gent, sipping overpriced ice latte and hot chocolate, plotting our budget pilgrimage to Paris via Flixbus. The plan was solid: walk until our legs detach, eat mediocre croissants, and of course—stare into Monalisa's deadpan gaze like every art hoe dream demands. But plot twist: Louvre? Sold out. Musee de l’Orangerie? Also sold out. That little ticket icon on their site might as well have said: "try again in your next lifetime."
So there I was, spiraling in despair that felt disproportionately dramatic for someone who still had a valid metro pass and a functioning digestive system. But when you’ve imagined seeing Monet's water lilies since your Tumblr days, this hit different. I gave myself a pep talk laced in delusion: "I’ll show up at the Louvre and charm my way in, surely there’s a secret Parisian queue that only the chosen ones know."
There wasn't.
I arrived a few minutes before 4PM (TikTok said they sometimes release last-minute tickets. TikTok lied). "We are sold out today," said the mademoiselle at the gate, in the kind of French accent that makes you feel like a tragic side character in a Agnès Varda film. I didn’t even bother checking L'Orangerie after that. I knew the vibe had shifted.
I found myself slumped on a bench at Jardin du Palais Royal, staring at tourists taking photos under the black-and-white columns. I asked myself: why did I need to see the Monalisa? Was it genuinely about the art, or was I chasing some symbolic pilgrimage? Or worse: was it about feeding the grid? That curated square on Instagram that screams, "look mom, I’m cultured"?
Then I remembered that scene in Knives Out 2, where the Monalisa gets burned. I remember feeling a pang of grief—for a fictional moment. Why did that hit me? Was it about the painting, or what it stood for? Is Monalisa some avatar of all things precious, fragile, and historically exalted?
Anyway. My coping mechanism hasn’t clocked in yet.
I wanted something and I didn’t get it. That’s it. No philosophical fluff. No deeper meaning. Just a simple human glitch in the matrix.
But in that glitch, I got reintroduced to a few primal emotions: regret, sadness, maybe even anger. Life had been going suspiciously well lately. And now Paris was reminding me that unmet expectations are a feature, not a bug, of being alive.
Was Paris still magical? Absolutely. I saw the Eiffel sparkle like it was flirting with me. I devoured croissant that could make you believe in god again. I befriend with the resident orange cat who clearly believes he owns the one star hotel we've stayed.
But still, a tiny voice inside whispered: "You failed the mission, soldier."
And maybe that’s okay.
As Khloe Kardashian once said in her divine wisdom, “There are people who are dying, Kim.” Yes, my crisis was a textbook first-world problem. Boohoo, no Monalisa selfie. Still, let me mourn a little. Fancy grief deserves fancy staging.
So here I am, still in my thrifted vintage dress, writing a blog post no one asked for. In moments like this, I remember what Gertrude Stein said: "I am because my little dog knows me." Maybe we all just want to be seen—even if not by Monalisa, then at least by someone, or something, the orange cat that knows us.
Let them me eat cake.
