“I guess we should see the Mona Lisa,” I said to my wife.

“We still have time.” 

I looked at my watch and noted The Louvre was closing in an hour. “Not really. They’ll be a crowd trying to get a last look before they leave.”

With all respect to Nat King Cole, I think the Mona Lisa is overrated. Art cognoscenti say it’s a masterpiece and they’re probably right but, prior to being stolen in 1911, it wasn’t well known outside of the art world. DaVinci’s talent might’ve created the Mona Lisa’s enigmatic smile, but it was the true crime media circus following the theft that made his painting famous. Then again, I’d feel like a rube if I left Paris without seeing it. 

Heading down the former palace’s wide hallways, we passed by paintings which I thought were much better, but then again, I still mourn the passing of the Rigid Tool Calendar so I’m the last person to opine on what constitutes great art. Noting the makeshift signs plastered on the walls reading “Mona Lisa” with a pointing arrow, I figured they were put up by museum staff sick of giving hapless tourists directions in multiple languages. Following the crude guides, we eventually ended up in the right place and there she was. Of course, one hundred people snapping pictures were in the way. 

“Close as were gonna get,” I said to my daughter. 

“I can’t see it.” Reaching down, I picked her up, causing my right leg to screech in pain. “See it now?” I grunted.  

“Oh yeah,” Natalie, said, unimpressed. 

“Want to get closer?”  

“No, I’m good.” 

“So am I.” I’ve read some people faint or have a psychotic break upon seeing the Mona Lisa but, despite having seen pictures of it all my life, I was unmoved. Hobbling out of the gallery, I found a bench, sat down, and began to massage my leg. I went on a five mile run that morning, only to get lost and quick march an unwanted two extra miles back to my hotel. Then, after walking spending the day walking around the Eiffel Tower, Notre Dame, the Champs-Élysées, numerous arrondissements and walking up the countless steps of Montmartre to see Sacre Coeur, I might have overdone it. When I glanced at my phone app walking into The Louvre, my step count was hovering near 40,000. 

“You okay, Daddy?” Natalie asked. 

“I’ll be all right,” I lied, aggravated my body was showing its age. “Go along with your mother. I’m going to rest a bit.” 

Natalie toddled off and I let my mask of parental invincibility drop and groaned in pain, ruefully grateful I finally got to see Paris at fifty-six. If waited any longer, Natalie would be pushing me around in a wheelchair. Feeling depressed, I closed my eyes and tried willing my body’s endorphins to up their game. As I waited for the throbbing to subside, I watched the visitors shuffling into Mona’s gallery, their faces beaming with anticipation. Would they be underwhelmed too? 

Life, when you think of it, can be underwhelming as well. Most of the time, engaged in the daily grind of school, work, or raising a family, days tend to pass by unremarkable and forgotten. Small wonder we wonder where all the time went. Now grey haired and older than most people around me, I often feel like I’m stuck on a sandbar while the river of time flows past me. I get a kick out of these “live your best life now” people for whom everyday has to a wonderful experience. They’re in for a rude shock because it cannot be done. Besides, there’s something to be said for the rituals of ordinary time. After two weeks living out of a suitcase while touring Germany and France, I was already pining for the familiar comforts of home. 

No, life is sameness and routine occasionally punctured by moments of joy, wonder, fear and sorrow which, when you think about it, is how we internally mark time. For me, my life is divided by such moments into discrete eras; seminary and after, between 9/11 and writing my books, from when I met my wife and had a child to getting cancer and when my father died. Contained within those topsy-turvy times, there have been days which have been pure masterpieces but now, feeling old and worn out, they all seemed far away. Looking at the art gracing the walls, I also wondered what reminder of me would survive after I departed the earth. Unlike the centuries old masterworks being appreciated by the people surging around me, I was fairly certain no one would be reading my books a hundred years from now. Shakespeare it ain’t. Shaking my head, I wondered if I was experiencing some version of Stendhal Syndrome but chalked it up to exhaustion, hunger, and the Olympic security fever tightly gripping the City of Lights. Then my cell phone buzzed. 

Pulling it out of my pocket, I saw I’d received a text from a former client who had a question about her subsidized housing. After typing back that I’d look into it, I resisted pulling my mind back into vacation mode and emailed a couple of agencies to work the problem in my absence. This particular person had been a project of mine for years and, although she wasn’t officially my responsibility anymore, I’d made it a point to keep an eye on her life while riding herd on her caregivers when they dropped the ball. When I met this woman, she was disabled, without prospects or support and living in a bad situation. Though it was outside my official job description, I got her classified, hooked up with funding, medical care, job training, and moved her into her own apartment last year. Of course, this all took years and was often a pain in the ass but, when I was discussing the case with a social worker a few weeks ago she told me, “Now she’s thriving. Thank God she met someone like you.”  

“Just trying to shave off a few days of my time in Purgatory,” I replied. 

I’m not above patting myself on the back, but I tend to deflect praise for my work because it’s exactly that, my work. But then, aching in pain while surrounded by beauty captured in colorful brushstrokes, I was reminded of something I told my daughter when we visited Notre Dame. The cathedral was closed but, as we looked at the photos of the people involved in the edifice’s restoration on the worksite’s barrier walls – the crane operators, stonemasons, architects, historians, glaziers, carpenters, and innumerable others – I told Natalie, “These people are very lucky. Years from now, they’ll be able to point to this church and tell their grandchildren, ‘I did that.’” They’d saved a masterpiece from destruction and, in doing so, created one of their own. 

It was then I realized that, if I died tomorrow, my former client would probably be my masterpiece. It would never be displayed in a museum and, like all flesh, one day be consigned to the flames of time – but those few in the know would be able to point to her and say, “Steve did that.” Would it reduce my time shoveling shit in the afterlife? Probably not, but it couldn’t hurt. Then looking back at Mona, I remembered that DaVinci painted many masterpieces in his life. Did I have a couple more in me? Time would tell. Then my wife returned with Natalie, and we began the trek back to our hotel. 

By the time we got back to our arrondissement we were hungry but most of the restaurants we walked by were closed. Luckily the owner of a shuttering café took pity on us, sat us outside and brought me a very welcome and medicinal beer. The waiter, an old hand, didn’t speak any English but seemed happy to serve us and we muddled though the menu and ordered dinner. By the time the food arrived, the heat of the day had been displaced by a cooling breeze and, as I sipped my second beer, I looked at my daughter as she happily ate her dinner of grilled fish. Normally a picky eater, Paris has done wonders for her palate. Then, the pain in my leg subdued, I felt my exhaustion being replaced by something close to contentment. Fishing out my phone, I showed my wife a picture I snapped of Natalie by the Eiffel Tower. 

“That’s a really good picture,” Annie, who’s an excellent photographer, said. 

Looking at Natalie’s captured smile, I chuckled to myself. Another masterpiece. Another day of beauty puncturing ordinary time. Relaxing, I realized there would be more to come. “I’m going to frame it and put it on my desk,” I said.   

DaVinci, eat your heart out.