Paris is beautiful in the springtime. Or so I’m told. I’ve been here for nearly a week and a half now, and there’s been nothing but rain. I’m in the strange position of looking forward to returning to English weather. The nights have been generally dry though, so the parties in the hotel’s courtyard haven’t been called off.

It was at one of these parties that I got to talk to a real Parisian.

He was mixed in with the scores of Australian, Canadian, Kiwi, American and English budget travelers. I asked him if all the Frenchmen get together at some secret location and plot against American tourists or if there’s just a sense of paranoia among Americans abroad.

Gilles said, “A person can only answer the same question so many times before he gets tired of hearing it.

“When you hear ‘Where is the Eiffel Tower?’ 20 times a day, you begin to pretend not to hear it.”

This, I suppose, could be construed as rude, but I think it’s also a matter of survival. I’ve always felt sorry for the guy making funnel cakes at Disney World who is expected to be able to answer the question, “Which way to the Country Bear Jamboree?” in 14 different languages. At least Mr. Funnel Cake is getting paid to give directions. Monsieur Paris is just going down the street to get a baguette and a bottle of wine when he’s assaulted with inquiries.

“Others just pretend they don’t understand English, or the very mean people give wrong directions,” Gilles continued.

My first impressions of the average Parisian, however, still apply, at least in my experiences. Most are willing to help, especially if they are approached in French. A “Bonjour, monsieur” usually gets a positive reaction, even if your next statement is “Do you speak English?”

I’ve also found French people to be infinitely patient with me and other English speakers when we’re attempting to buy something from them. Money talks, and while our words may not be French, our francs are.

One of the most surprising parts of Paris is the Louvre. I’m not surprised that it’s here; I knew that, but I’m surprised by its sheer immensity. Mostly a trophy room to commemorate a time when French military might amounted to more than a battalion of white flags stationed somewhere near the German border, the Louvre is stuffed to the gills with Napoleonic plunder.

The Louvre is an exhausting museum. It is huge, it is packed full of people, and it has thousands of masterpieces that I ended up walking straight by because there was just too much to see.

I made the trek to the gargantuan art museum with a guy named Marko from Rockford, Ill. I met him at the hostel. When we arrived, the lobby was covered with placards and banners with sloppy French writing all over them.

A modern art exhibit? I wondered.

I halfway translated one, and it said the museum ticket takers were on strike and demanding higher wages. In France, striking, like cooking and painting, is an art form.

Later that evening, Gilles told me that when five French people go on strike, their aim is to disrupt the lives of 5,000 other people. This strike, however, had the opposite effect. It made the Louvre free for thousands of tourists. Surely someone had to answer for it, but no one I bumped into was complaining.

In the first gallery, hundreds of little children, and even junior high school -aged kids, were running about underfoot. I wondered whether I would have appreciated anything in the museum when I was that age. Then, forgetting my newly acquired astute appreciation of art, I stopped in front of a Donatello and asked Marko if Donatello had the blue or the purple headband.

As we progressed through the work of all the Ninja Turtle namesakes, we sorted out who was which color.

Then, having seen the Mona Lisa we decided it was time to go.

On the way out, we passed by any number of paintings and sculptures that would have been the highlights of any other museum. We went past them without a second glance. It was as if they were just dirty limericks written on the wall of the men’s room.

I think this is rather sad, to be honest. While I’m not an art history buff or anything, I like to think I have a fair amount of patience with art. This museum beat me, though, and it will wear me out the next 20 times I go, I’m sure.

Perhaps France should end this capitalist monopoly on art and adopt the more socialist attitudes of its farmers and museum ticket takers. Or perhaps I should spend the next 12 years exploring the Louvre.

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Chris Crouch is a sophomore in political science from Rapids City, Ill.