PUBLIC POUNDING IN PARIS
After leaving Barbados,I have been in France for the past two days. Being your typical French tourist minus the black beret and the stripes. I soaked up everything I could firsthand in Normandy including walking the same beach countless soldiers did on D-Day in World War Two. It was breathtaking and aw-inspiring for this history major. My memories of this trip forever engrained. I smile to myself in amusement at my current locale. I still can’t believe I am headed to Versailles. A location I dreamed in my mind as close as I could get to reality from textbooks. I wrap a curl around my fingers as I take in the surroundings of the train I am on. I don’t think train is a definite word for it. I am surrounded by beauty, a museum on tracks is more finite. The coral red chairs around me starkly contrasted by the white walls and ceilings aligned with French artwork. Yes, a train with painted ceilings. Did I mention there are gold sculptures standing in front of open doorway in front of me? I am definitely not in the US anymore. Sitting across from me was a couple in their own world. Whether they were French or a tourist themselves, I had no idea. There was no one in the car with us. How I longed to be able to do that. A couple so engrossed with one another that crowds around them disappeared. Her giggle as he rested his forehead against hers made a smile grace my lips. I suddenly felt like I was invading their space.
The rough leather book in my hands pulled my attention back to it. Reading my grandmother’s scrapbook has been an eye-opening experience for me. Every entry I read invites me more into her life that she desperately tried to hide for years. As I turn the page, worn photographs fall into my hands. Photos I have never seen before. My grandparents on their wedding day. She was beautiful and my grandfather ever dashing. Her plain long sleeve dress fit her personality and matched my grandfather’s less-than formal suit. Their financial struggles never more apparent in this photograph. My grandfather was a hard man and hardly ever smiled, except with her. His Tesoro. His treasure. He was all work but never once took his frustrations out on her. They were perfection. Up until their last day together he only had eyes for her. Months after my graduation, he had a heart attack and passed away in my grandmother’s arms. As his life slipped away, so did my grandmother’s spirit. They were inseparable for decades. The only solace I have is that they are together in heaven now dancing to Frank Sinatra and drinking champagne. I place the photographs back in its place between the pages I just read. As I am about to turn to the next page, the microphone above us comes to life.
“Prochaine étape Versailles,” the conductor bellowed through grainy speakers overhead.
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The ornate goldengate was nothing short of spectacular. Pictures did not do it justice. Walking through the arched gates signaled my arrival into Versailles, which was the capital of France from 1682 to 1789. It was the main palace where the royal family lived as well as hosted noblemen and women and the clergy. I slowly walked into the bedroom of Marie Antoinette. Like a dream. Her bedroom walls adorned with floral prints and patterns alike. The most female and girlish bedrooms I have seen but yet a simple and defined elegance to them as well. The sound of the organist playing French ballads in the Royal Chapel nearby made the ambience that much more dream-like. I am surrounded by so many people in this large room you can feel the body heat from one another. I am hardly able to move an inch. A painting nearby catches my eyes and takes my attention away from the rising panic in my stomach from claustrophobia. The infamous painting of Marie Antoinette with her children. An exquisite painting to see in real life. Critics are divided between praising it while others believed the composition wasn’t very believable. The painting in its entirety helps bring you to a realization that you are in same room this woman was. Her shoes echoed down this hallway and across these marble floors.
Before I knew it, there I was.
The infamous “Hall of Mirrors.”
This long corridor amassed with magnificent chandeliers, plasterwork, and busts of Roman emperors. Its ceilings adorned with paintings of the successes of Louis XIV which were painted by the talented Le Brun. Majestic. Breathtaking. It is by far the most famous room in the Palace of Versailles and most well-known for where the peace treaty was signed ending World War One. Transported back in time through textbooks and history, I am here living it.
Walking down the sand pebbled path from the Le Jardin de Versailles came into full view. Eight hundred acres landscaped by André Le Nótre. Its manicured lawns and hedges designed in intricate patterns make it unlike any garden I have ever seen. It was designed to illustrate the power and control of Louis XIV. I am intoxicated with joy listening to the gentle flow of the emerald-colored fountain water before me. The Petite Trianon stood standing confidently in the background. The small chateau was built by Louis XV for his mistress.
Is this real life? Am I really seeing this in person?
Admiration and a sense of longing for my Nonna shrouds over me making me long for her companionship. She would love this. She would love hearing the stories, seeing the photographs. I glance at the watch on my wrist and realize it’s time to return to the train station for my train back to Paris.
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