La Joconde, Much Coveted

Today I saw the Mona Lisa. But I didn’t actually see her. What I really mean to say is, today I was in the presence of the Mona Lisa. That’s all you can do really, be in the presence of it. There’s no such thing as actually seeing the Mona Lisa, not when there’s tourists involved-and in this city there always are. Let me describe what a trip to see that famous gal really entails.

I walked into the room where she is housed, by chance really, thank God I didn’t set aside time specifically to see her. It was a stunning room, not as lavish as some of the showstoppers in the Louvre but stunningly dressed with luxurious paintings by this and that famous painter (not that anyone in the room actually cared). I walked slowly around the room, stopping every now and then to admire the works that really caught my eye. I read a few plaques here and there while mentally preparing to dive into the obnoxious glob of tourists crowding Mona. After seeing basically everything else there was to see, I decided to finally play tourist.

One: good thing about going to see the Mona Lisa, you literally cannot miss her. Mona, she’s a petite little beauty, but the huge swarm of buzzing tourists crowding around her like a hoard of famished animals ready to pounce is kinda hard to miss. People are squeezed into this small roped off section, which just exacerbates the whole animalistic feel of the visit and makes you wonder if you’re at a world-renowned museum or a zoo. Tourists push, shove, and fight to make their way to the front as if Lisa could at any point materialize into a real person, grow some legs, and walk off somewhere less hellish. I honestly wouldn’t blame her.

Anyway, after being bumped, bruised and elbowed in the boobs a few times (being 5’3” has many disadvantages), I finally made my way up to the front. And for what?

Once I made my way up to “the front” -the front being the little crevice between the heads of two different Asian tourists taking various peace-signed selfies- I wasn’t anywhere near enough to actually appreciate this thing that everyone calls a masterpiece. Even if I had been at the front there would have been no way to appreciate the painting. Mona was barricaded behind a wooden barrier protecting her from peasant paws by keeping them a safe three feet away. A sad and murky sheet of bulletproof glass veiled the painting itself. This massive protective shield ironically made Mona seem insignificant. To tell you the truth, Mona looked like nothing but a blur, a little hiccup of history overshadowed by camera happy tourists, screaming unamused kids, and general chaos

After about two minutes, I had to get out.

I wondered how long it had actually been since someone had actually looked at the Mona Lisa, not snapped a selfie, not glanced for five seconds, not fought other people to get to the front of the line and claim the empty honor of having seen the Mona Lisa but actually looked at her and appreciated her for what she really is. I wondered when the last time was that someone had stood in front of her and had a thought other than “my friends will be so jealous” or “can’t wait to put this on Instagram.”

This inability to actually look at famous works of art is not new to me; it’s one of the struggles of living in a city with a lot of tourists and really important works. The inability to see the Mona Lisa in Paris is the same as the inability to see Van Gogh’s Starry night in New York. It’s sad that these works have such a celerity status that people who actually value art can’t look at what is considered to be some of the best art. I would like to go to The Louvre and have a good look at the Mona Lisa. I would like to have the ability to scrutinize her and decide for myself if I actually think this is a masterpiece rather than just believe it because people say it is so and because of all her groupies. I’m sure it’s been too long since any one could look at her and wonder about her ambiguous face and what she was thinking. But I think this is the sad fate that these bright stars have been condemned to, a superficial level of admiration. I doubt the barricades and bulletproof glass will ever disappear.

Paris, France

The Burden of Choice

In psychology there’s a field called existential psychology. One of its core beliefs is that our mental experiences are directly affected by our freedom to choose and the choices we do and don’t make. Rollo May, a major researcher in this field, believed our biggest source of anxiety is the fact that there are literally infinite choices we could make and because of this we are afraid that whatever choice we make will be the wrong one, and what’s more, will keep us from making other choices that would have made us happier. In other words, we get freaked out because we are constantly wondering, what if?

As you most likely know, if you are in fact human and not a supercomputer reading my blog, this constant threat of “what if” is very much present in our daily lives. In fact, it is so much a part of being human that my acronym-happy generation has stripped Dr.May’s concept of all dignity and eloquently renamed it FOMO. For those of you not keeping up with the cool kids, this acronym translates to Fear Of Missing Out.

Now I, being human (and a painfully intense over-achiever) have most definitely experienced FOMO. This phenomenon is especially prevalent when you live in big happening cities like New York where there are endless opportunities to experience life and conversely, endless opportunities to miss out. FOMO is such a huge part of my life that it even gives me anxiety attacks when I go grocery shopping. Should I buy the coconut Greek yogurt? But what if it isn’t as good as strawberry? What will my life become if I miss out on that Boston Cream Pie one?!

You see the problem?

But in all seriousness, FOMO is a constant when it comes to me. However, never have I experienced Fear of Missing Out more than now that I am in Europe. This is the most first world problem, (brace yourself) but I have no idea what to do here. I want to travel, but I also want to stay in Paris. I want to know a plethora of different countries but I also want to know every arrondissement in this stinkin’ place. I want to be incessantly aware of how single I am in Cinque Terre, but I also want to party and forget it in Amsterdam. Being here is stressful because I want to do it all, and for once money is not an issue (wow, I’ve never said that before). But of course, I don’t have all the time in the world-especially if I want to do well in my classes and not fail out of my excruciatingly expensive school. So I’m panicking, constantly making travel plans and rearranging them, calling my friends for advice, asking my host parents in my broken French what they would do, etc.

The point is, I feel an enormous amount of pressure to choose the right places and do the most fun things and have the best time. Because who knows when I’ll be in Europe again. Who knows if the euro will increase in value and little poor me will never get the chance to roam the cobbled streets of Italy? It’s daunting to say the least.

There’s comfort in knowing that I’m not the only one who suffers from FOMO. The halls at NYU Paris are teeming with excited whispers of future plans and polite envy conveyed with the usual I wish I had time to do that! Not being alone is good, but of course, pain in numbers does not the pain reduce. It also doesn’t help that Social Media is a thing, quite literally a living-breathing thing that influences our lives wayyyy more than it should (a topic that merits its own blog post). Thanks to Social Media the doubt is always augmented. Will my plans be as fun as theirs? Will I have made the best choice? What if I’m missing out on something?

I could make my FOMO go away. I could just relax, take it day by day and be a little more open to the unknown (this will never happen, I have “no chill”). I could just not care, make a choice and stick with it. But then again, what if?

I’m not gonna end this with some insightful example of how I succeeded at life and overcame my fear of missing out because I have no example to offer. The truth is I’ve committed, I’ve bought tickets and booked hostels and done the whole shebang and I’m still biting my nails over the possibility that I made the wrong choices. But in the end, I’m just a little 5’3” Mexican girl and there’s only so much I can do with my allotted time here-and that’s ok. At least that’s what I tell myself. If anything I’m using my anxiety as inspiration to some day come back and see everything I didn’t see (and surely come up with another FOMO-fueled list of things I have left to do). Let’s face it, the FOMO will never go away, but my time in Europe is fleeting so I may as well cram as much as I can into it and make the most of my time here.

Paris, France