The last time I saw Paris, I was on a mission. My boyfriend and I assembled our tools—guidebook, cameras, tickets—and made our way to the nearest Metro station. After a short ride made long by a Frenchman who took a cavalier approach to hygiene, we reached our destination. The Louvre.

Instead of waiting in the long line aboveground, we used the less crowded Metro entrance. The first exhibit was the medieval portion of the Louvre, but as interesting as old architecture might be, we were focused intently on our goal.

Up the stairs we went, past throngs of tourists idly photographing gold goblets and marble busts while tour guides tonelessly repeated well-rehearsed lines. Soon enough, we were surrounded by statues, from the Venus de Milo to the Athena of Velletri to Michelangelo’s Dying Slave.

“Ready?” I asked. My boyfriend nodded. We held up our cameras, the world seeming to hold its breath in anticipation. In unison, we stepped around to the backs of the statues and began to take pictures of their butts.