Today was Versailles. Versailles has always been on my (long) list of “places to see before I die”. We have a whole book on it at home, as well as copies of Nancy Mitford’s biographies of Pompadour and Louis XIV. I’ve always been a little bit obsessed with late 18th century France, and must confess to a secret desire to have a time machine that could whisk me back for an evening of song and dance. Of course, those times were best experienced if you were at least bourgeois, and preferably noble, but look, I’m just fantasizing, m’kay? wink
Well, today’s time machine came in the form of the RER, which is the regional train transport system for France. It doesn’t even come close to the Metro’s ease of use—you pretty much have to get on the train in order to figure out if you’re on the right one, followed by a quick leap off if you’re not sweatdrop
I tried to get a ticket agent to help out, and he somewhat irritably told me (in English) Versailles was “next train”.
“Le prochaine train?” I asked.
“Yes, yes, next.” Well, he must have been using a definition of “next” and “prochaine” that was not in my French/English dictionary, as the next one was the wrong train. Fortunately, Dirk’s guidebook had mentioned that all the Versailles trains start with a “V” (the names are conveniently posted on the front of the train where you can’t see them), so we waited for another “prochaine” train, this one named “Victor” and took that one to Versailles.
I got a sinking feeling when we stepped out of the station and spotted no château, but rather a typical city street with a McDonald’s across from the train and about a thousand tacky souvenir shops :burn: But then we walked about three blocks, turned the corner and OMG—
This is another words do no justice, and hopefully some of these pictures will. The place is beyond huge. It’s a palace, yes, but it’s a palace on a scale that you really don’t get until you walk through it. These hallways go for miles, all lined with artwork, statuary, mirrors and gold leaf scrolling. You could hold archery practice in those halls.
Louis XIV was an absolute monarch, and what he wanted, happened. And what he wanted here was to cow his potentially rebellious noblemen with the weight of his power. Versailles was the symbol of that, as well as a huge gilded cage to keep said nobility there, where he could keep an eye on them.
Believe or not, even during the days when kings walked these halls, it was open to the public (if you were suitably dressed). So perhaps the crowds are an authentic touch as well razz
Be as that may, my eyes were turned largely upwards (with purse solidly clenched), so it didn’t bother me that much, not like Notre Dame did.
Still, I wanted a bit more room, and I kept looking at the gardens outdoors.
So, with a nudge in Oxy’s ribs, we were soon perched on a three hundred year old terrace, munching sandwiches from the local boulangerie. Despite a bit of travel damage, a chicken sandwich had never tasted so good.
Then it was time for a stroll through the gardens. The five mile long garden.
Despite some overzealous preservation fences and plastic draping on some of the urns, the gardens were, if anything, more impressive than the chateau. It was as if Louis had created a forest as he intended forests to be. No unruly trees here, everything was nice and lined up, all the way to your eye’s vanishing point. And the statues, my God. I lost track of how many there were. They just went on, literally for miles, punctuated by fountain after fountain (sadly turned off for the season)
We popped into a recreated Venetian village for tea (why travel to Venice when you can recreate it?), then went in search of Marie Antoinette’s pastoral village. I had read about how she would play shepherdess, and had created a little play “peasant cottage” to do that in. It was one of the points brought up during the Revolutionary years, displaying how out of touch she was with the common people. Perhaps unfair, after all, she was hardly the first to romanticize peasant life.
I had always envisioned the “cottage” as a small little affair, perhaps with one or two sheep. I should have know better. There was an entire field dedicated to the livestock (still filled with very contented animals). As for the petite cottage:
Yep. Disney with an unlimited budget. As absurdly fake as it all was, I found myself really liking it and wishing I could play shepherdess myself. I have to admit, though, I can understand the discontent of the French people when word of how their tax dollars were spent got out eek But not having to pay for this (beyond a 21E train ride and admission price), I was able to appreciate it more.
Particularly beautiful were the “English Gardens” and “Temple of Love”.
Completely different tastes from Louis XIV. The Sun King wanted his forest neat and tidy, the Last Queen wanted pastoral and wild. But not too wild. In a way, it was more surreal than the miles of lined up trees. It was as if you were walking in a forest that was oddly perfect. Every stream bed was curved in a perfectly esthetic manner, the distant peasant huts and fields were perfectly beautiful, the wildflowers strewn just so. It was oddly….tidy.
Well, Marie Antoinette was nothing if not a bit out of touch. No doubt, in these gardens, she was able to experience the world as she thought it ought to be. And it is a fine and beautiful world. Unfortunately for her, it didn’t really exist outside of the walls of Versailles. Still, I was happy to stroll in it for a few foot sore hours until discretion became the better part of valor and we paid 3.50 E to get on one of the “trains” to ride back to the château. Tonight, we had thought of long walks and a fine dinner, but you know, I think feet up in the room and more sandwiches will do just fine.
V.
