I’d been to France before. By age 6, I was a platinum traveler. I’ve seen the Louvre, the Parthenon, Buckingham Palace. If you ask me about each one, I could probably rattle off a story. Probably involving how exhausted I was, or much my feet hurt, or how much I wanted to go to a European McDonalds. My parents, however, were relentless. They dragged me to sites I took for granted, reflected upon now with a proud, “I’ve seen that!” as teachers and presenters display photographs of the world’s most beautiful pieces of history.

Sick of my whining, but intent on my cultural exposure, my parents took me back to France at age 13 with my best friend. Tourist sights were only briefly visited on this trip, as I had seen them all, but she was leaving the country for the first time. Old enough now to acknowledge my ignorance, I explained to Brooke that I had climbed the Eiffel tower, but don’t really remember. But she wanted to, to say she had, so we did. When in Rome, I suppose… er… Paris.

Our venture to the Louvre held a similar purpose for us. You’re in Paris. You go to the Louvre. As we descended the stairs of the massive marble building, we were confronted by a virtual Nikon Camera catalog. “Why?” I asked my sister. “What are all these people taking pictures of?” “This.” She gestured behind her to a 6 foot, 2 inch mounted, headless statue with wings and pretty drapery. “But why, Taylor? Why this one?” “Because it’s the statue of Nike.” This explanation was not enough for me. She went on to explain that when it was a famous sculpture of Nike of Samothrace, sculpted in 200-190 BCE. First thought: that’s old. Next, okay, so how had I missed this? How was this universal knowledge for camera owners across the world, and I hadn’t known?

And then, I found out. They didn’t. At least most of them didn’t. The message, THIS IS IMPORTANT had been relayed to them by postcards, museaum memorabilia, and other camera owners. “When in Paris!” was the general international consensus.

When standing there, looking at this incredible statue that didn’t blow me away, I decided to transform my definintion of “When in Paris.” I stopped trying to make marble speak to me. I stopped feeling guilty for not being swept away by the 31 by 20 inch Mona Lisa. I allowed art to do what it would. Guiltlessly, shamelessly. France and art and culture became about the time I got lost in a subway station and got out with my discovery of a map, and application of my limited French vocabulary. In my 12 trips to the Louvre, I have yet to take a picture of Nike, or the Mona Lisa. Postcards do it better. They handle that for me. Being able to say, “I’ve been there!” is a privilege I hold less dear. I can however, tell you how many bakeries there are on the way to Shakespeare’s Books. Or how to avoid a Gypsy. And I’m thankful that, after all these years, my negligence of art came to contribute to my appreciation of real travels, real culture, and real art.