The man’s hair was scraggly; pen scribbling in a ratty notebook. I watched him watch people, the Swiss and Spanish and German and Norwegians with gorgeous children strapped on their backs. I had to know what he was writing; I had caught a people-watcher in the act.

He wrote in English, I saw, but I wouldn’t blow my cover yet. “Monsieur, vous ecrivez sur quoi?”

Ten seconds of conversation and he’d switched to English with delicious American twang. Jim, originally from Boston, now manages an art dealership in Paris and is writing a book about how people react when they look at art. Moved to the city 20 years ago, went through cooking school, then got hooked on art. Studied art history at the Louvre School immediately afterward, and memorized every darn painting in the entire city. Most importantly, Jim memorized every darn painting in the Louvre: we had found ourselves a tour guide.

You’re supposed to avoid Americans in Paris, all they want to do is drink wine and make out in front of the Eiffel tower; they get ripped off buying crepes, and can’t pronounce the names of foods or streets or paintings. This American in Paris was different. He couldn’t pronounce French for the life of him, but he’s a wealth of knowledge when it comes to Parisian culture.

“Oh, I was done working anyway,” he brushed off our fears that we were taking time he had allotted to writing. “I come down here all the time,” he said, “whenever I need a place to write. It’s sort of like home by now, you know?” The Louvre like home. Wow.

“Museum closes in 20 minutes, girls.” He rushed us to Canova’s Cupid and Psyche that I told him I was dying to see. “Walk all the way around it. You have to when you’re looking at sculpture.” I could just see his mind whirring as we did the walk around. We were becoming subjects for his book!

Next came Lorenzo Bartolini’s nymph sculpture, as flawlessly creamy as Canova’s. Jim made us look at the detailing on the statue’s toes. “Ok, now the Mannerists.” Michelangelo statues with elongated bodies that rebelled against popular realism. Then Baroques with softly intertwining limbs.

Soon museum guards turned us out onto the streets, but we weren’t too sorry. Jim’s a regular at a nearby cafe; he treated us to post-museum hot chocolate.

“Oh good, they lit it!” Night fell and the Louvre’s facades were spotlit; Jim showed us how Louis the 14th’s clean-cut columns replaced the curlicue stuff you can still see in some spots on the third story. He walked us along the Place du Palais Royal, down tiny streets, up stairways, past neighborhood bars and designers’ storefronts filled with high heels and dresses. “Look at this stuff—it’s all art.”
He dropped us off at a boulangerie, and suddenly Jim was gone. Our American blended back into Paris.