Some of you did not get your permission slips signed and turned in on time. Because of this, we are postponing our trip to the Musee d’Orsay for one week. Please talk to your parents and get these turned in as soon as possible. And no forgeries! (I know the signatures of each and every one of you). Lunch will not be provided, so please bring money or a brown-bag lunch.
Thank you.
The Management of jplinde.com

In the meantime, some of you did not do your homework and have forgotten  how censorship on television works. Here is guest lecturer George Carlin to explain it for you.

No place screams “Paris has a tourist problem” louder than its museums. To cope, they’ve slapped on a one-and-a-half-hour time limit, enforced by how long you get to keep the little audio gizmo. In, out, merci beaucoup. And once you’re inside, you see why.
The Louvre and its elegant sister, the Musée d’Orsay, are wall-to-wall humans. Elbow-to-elbow with your global brothers and sisters. Any trip to Paris should include both, but brace yourself—you’ll be jostled like a sock in a dryer.
Exhibit A: the Louvre.
I was cruising down a gorgeous hallway toward the queen’s bedroom when I heard this showdown:
Guide: “What do you think you’re doing? Get your feet off that marble.”
Tourist Wife: “Huh?”
Guide: “This is a renovated wing and you’re putting dirty shoes on brand-new marble.”
(Enter husband, stage left, scowling.)
Tourist Husband: “If you have a problem, you talk to me.”
Guide: “This is not your living room.”
It was about to be David vs. Goliath—rail-thin guide vs. hulking tourist—until a museum guard broke it up. And that’s the Louvre: art, beauty, and the occasional near-brawl.
Most tours start at the inverted pyramid and lead down into the original stone foundations. Each block has the mason’s mark—basically their paycheck stub carved in rock. Up the steps and boom: palace opulence. Chandeliers, arches, ceilings so high you need binoculars. Remember the old saying: “When the people take over, the palace becomes a museum”? Voilà, the Louvre.
From Winged Victory to Venus de Milo, it’s greatest hits on repeat. You could spend a week here and miss half of it. And of course, the must-do: fight through a mob for a blurry selfie with the Mona Lisa. Think Disneyland’s newest Star Wars ride—minus the churros.
Me? I’ll take The Coronation of Napoleon. A painting so massive it feels like Napoleon himself commissioned it just to flex. Worth the crowds. Worth the ticket.
Next week: the Musée d’Orsay.

There are so many King Louis that after a while they all start to blur together — wigs, thrones, and a whole lot of questionable decision-making. But to my way of thinking, the greatest achievement since Crab Louis first hooked up with Thousand Island has to be courtesy of Louis IX, better known as Saint Louis, who gave us Sainte-Chapelle.
Originally built as his private chapel, the place now finds itself awkwardly pressed into service as part of the judicial courts. So yes, you enter through a courtyard surrounded by stern stone buildings, past a few scattered office windows, and up spiral staircases so narrow you half expect to bump into Quasimodo. (This is Paris, after all.) Then, just when you’re wondering if you’ve made a wrong turn, the stairs spit you out into one of the most dazzling displays of Gothic architecture ever conceived.
And talk about timing. The very moment I arrived, the clouds outside broke open and the sun streamed through those windows as if on cue. What happened next is hard to describe without sounding like I’ve been hitting the absinthe: the entire chapel lit up in a dizzying display of color, a kaleidoscope of jewel tones that left everyone — myself included — gawking like wide-eyed kids.
The upper chapel has fifteen towering stained-glass windows, each more than fifty feet high, each crammed with biblical scenes that tell the story of the world from Creation all the way to the Apocalypse. That’s more than a thousand individual panels of painstaking detail, stitched together in fire and sand by craftsmen whose names have long been forgotten but whose work still steals the show seven centuries later. And hovering above it all is the Rose Window, the so-called Rose of the Apocalypse, which looks less like a window and more like a cosmic fireworks display captured in glass.
Now, Louis IX didn’t build all this just to show off his taste in windows. Sainte-Chapelle was meant to house Christianity’s most sacred relics, chief among them the Crown of Thorns. Yes, the real thing. Not the one worn by some guy from the second national tour of Jesus Christ Superstar. The relic is still kept there, I’m told, though I didn’t lay eyes on it myself. I was too busy standing in the middle of the chapel with my mouth hanging open, hypnotized by those windows, and trying not to look like too much of a tourist.