Stepping inside the glass pyramid, there is a cool chill that trickles down your neck, leaving in its wake a cascade of goosebumps that ripple over your skin, from scalp to fingertips to knees.
This is the Louvre.
Without a map, you would be hapless wanderer in a colossal labyrinth; even with one, it’s an easy thing to lose your bearings, but it doesn’t matter. You simply sweep yourself along, following the art that intrigues you most. You’ll worry about the way back out later. Much, much later. There is so much to see.
It is said that if you spent one minute looking at each piece, it would take you nine months to see them all, and I believe it.
With works dating back to Ancient Egypt and Greece, and collections of pieces by history’s most renowned artists, it is hard not to get starry-eyed and slack-jawed as you meander. Even if you are not a personal admirer of the works, there is something quite overpowering when you see the brush strokes, the layering of the paint, or the flawlessly smooth, carved sculptures and realize that these pieces have endured for hundreds of years.
Silently wandering the cool halls, there is a mixture of aromas – many of which you can’t quite put your finger on – but that’s not why you’re here. It’s simply a small piece of the ambience. Sections are quartered off, and, even in the basement, you can see more halls which you do not have permission to explore beneath you and you can’t help but wonder how huge the fortress-turned-museum actually is.
You can’t help but wonder how many secrets are hidden there.
It’s no wonder novelists can write mystery and suspense novels taking place in her halls – she wears the themes like silken robes, using them to flatter her form with artful seduction that continues to lure you along, and even after you pull yourself away, leaves a lasting imprint, a lasting desire to go back for more.