Barbarian at the Louvre

I was walking among the 17th century French paintings in the Louvre Sunday and joking to Marina about somebody who was running around smelling of salt and grease like they'd rolled in potato chips, until I realized it was the flat loaf of fougasine in my backpack that was stinking the place up.

I'm a barbarian, what can I say? If it hadn't of been the first Sunday of the month when most Paris museums are free I probably would have been at the cheap matinee of a movie theater watching cars blow up and American actors speaking dubbed French.

That's not entirely true. I've been to the Louvre before, and paid full price for it. The highlight was the trip to the Islamic gallery where I drooled over the tiles and pottery, and amazing enamelwork. That was years ago, when I was deep in one of my plan B's, this version meant building a studio off in the woods somewhere and making mugs or something.

Sunday, we passed the wing going up to the second floor, and I felt nostalgic for the days when that's all Islam meant to me: pottery, art, culture, a moment in the history of Spain, when the Castilians and the Moors were swapping territory in various waves, the Moors leaving behind every useful thing that started with "al" like alcohol.

They got evicted for the last time in 1492, the years Columbus discovered America, and the catholic kings decided those Jews might as well go, too. It's all been downhill from there.