Today we see our first friends-from-San Francisco in Paris. The daughter was in P's class last year, and they are here for October break. We decide to go to Versailles together, starting our day there with an equestrial show at the stables across from the palace. Naturally, the stables themselves are fit for a king (and not just the king's horse), but the show....How shall I say this delicately?....is not quite designed for American tastes. For the first 45 minutes or so, there are three riders on horseback riding in vaguely pattern-like paths around and through the stable. I am translating what I can of the sleep-inducing, floridly-written voice-over, "A horse and rider become one through the years. The rider is not his master, but a part of of the horse, and one cannot exist without the other. When a horse dies, a part of his rider's soul also perishes, and he must work for years to rebuild this rapport with another horse, who will someday be just as much a part of his soul." I keep hoping I will not be able to understand the next thing they say.
Sacrilege Alert: About 40 minutes in, our friend Cindy leans over and whispers to me, "Matt just asked me, 'Do you think everybody here is wondering when the real show is going to start?'" It's hard to know if we are just American and crass, and therefore we are the only ones hoping a horse dressed in sequins will play the piano like Liberace, or if, in fact, everybody is yawning on the inside. For the last ten minutes, the riders get the horses to do extremely un-horse-like things such as walking backwards, sideways, and most bizarre of all -- skipping. Yes, skipping. We four parents are desperately trying to rev up the excitement level for the children here, "Wow! Look! Isn't that amazing! The horse is skipping!," but really the children by now have given up and are far more interested in plowing through the copious snack supply I've brought -- cheese sticks, cookies, fruit compote squeezers, clementines. We emerge an hour later, poorer and wiser. Perhaps 400 years ago this was as addictive as television ("Maman, please just 15 more minutes of horses skipping?! I promise I'll clean my room after....").
While our friends tour the interior of the palace, we have an all-crêpe lunch to escape the cold and also P's hunger whining. Yes, I know she just ate 400 calories worth of snacks, and she weighs 40 pounds (that's 19kg). But metabolism of a hummingbird, and all. It's a formule (multi-course fixed-price menu, that is) of crêpes for lunch and crêpes for dessert, with some hard cider to wash it down. These are the first crêpes we've had that weren't just street crêpes of ham&cheese, or nutella. At least in the sit-down places, the choices are much more varied and creative, oozing with camembert, pears, and bacon, and home-made apple compote, salted butter caramel ice cream. If there is one thing that's truly lovely about being a resident instead of a tourist, it's not feeling like we have to do everything in one day. We'll see the palace another day; but today we lunch like kings!
Once the day has warmed up, we head out to the gardens and wander happily around. At one point, P is lost in her own world and goes the opposite direction from us. Though we can clearly see her, we scream her name, and we are on a big open almost un-peopled path, she doesn't notice for quite a while that she is getting farther and farther from us. She likes to walk along, head in the clouds, making up songs and monologues/pretend conversations. Here in the gardens, she finally does snap to, but she thinks she is lost and starts bawling. Are we terrible parents because we let her believe herself lost for quite a while, in order to teach a lesson? In Paris, she has nearly gone into a subway by herself and also gone the wrong direction on a very crowded street because of this habit. Somehow this feels like a gift to us -- a perfectly safe place for her to learn this lesson. Or, the other explanation is that we are ogres. Don't worry; eventually we go and get her.
Then we meet back up with our friends and tour the gardens again, this time doing a tour of the fountains. They are all in full spray this month, for just a couple hours late in the afternoon. Disillusioned by our horse show this morning, we set our expectations low. "Remember, this won't be the Bellagio fountains in Vegas!" And it's true that many of them are just simple fountains, but some are "choreographed", and all are set amidst the splendor of gilded statuary and mythical carvings in the beautiful surroundings of the Versailles gardens. There is classical music being discreetly broadcast, the sun has finally warmed up, and we have bellies full of melted cheese, whipped cream, and hard cider. So, all in all, a lovely afternoon.
Since Cindy is in advertising, and we are all American, we cannot help but notice the incredible lack of branding and salesmanship. We start choosing the best real estate for kiosks that could sell King Louis IVth reproduction antique i-phone covers, beautiful backdrops for 10€ photos taken with somebody in full Marie Antoinette costume. Naturally, chances for sponsorhip are horribly lost on the poor French, who simply present the castle in museum-like dignity. The Fountains of October, brought to you by Fiji Water! Versailles, brought to you by Louis IV, the Sun King, and Sunny D -- a delicious fruit-flavored drink! Sigh. What a missed opportunity.
Our night ends back in the city, having a very long, very late fondue dinner by the Seine, in the St. Germain area of the Latin Quarter, either because we need more time with our friends, more melted cheese in our bellies, or both. Though it's only a 5 minute walk back to our apartment, our kids can barely make it home on their own two feet. Somehow our friends, including the first grader, are still raring to go. Perhaps they are jet-lagged? Or fuelled by the fact that they are on vacation and are, as we all know, therefore obliged to have dessert after every meal? They walk us back then head out for something sweet. Well, you know what I say: Let them eat cake.
This blog brought to you by Pepperidge Farm cakes. And melted cheese. And the letter G:
Sacrilege Alert: About 40 minutes in, our friend Cindy leans over and whispers to me, "Matt just asked me, 'Do you think everybody here is wondering when the real show is going to start?'" It's hard to know if we are just American and crass, and therefore we are the only ones hoping a horse dressed in sequins will play the piano like Liberace, or if, in fact, everybody is yawning on the inside. For the last ten minutes, the riders get the horses to do extremely un-horse-like things such as walking backwards, sideways, and most bizarre of all -- skipping. Yes, skipping. We four parents are desperately trying to rev up the excitement level for the children here, "Wow! Look! Isn't that amazing! The horse is skipping!," but really the children by now have given up and are far more interested in plowing through the copious snack supply I've brought -- cheese sticks, cookies, fruit compote squeezers, clementines. We emerge an hour later, poorer and wiser. Perhaps 400 years ago this was as addictive as television ("Maman, please just 15 more minutes of horses skipping?! I promise I'll clean my room after....").
While our friends tour the interior of the palace, we have an all-crêpe lunch to escape the cold and also P's hunger whining. Yes, I know she just ate 400 calories worth of snacks, and she weighs 40 pounds (that's 19kg). But metabolism of a hummingbird, and all. It's a formule (multi-course fixed-price menu, that is) of crêpes for lunch and crêpes for dessert, with some hard cider to wash it down. These are the first crêpes we've had that weren't just street crêpes of ham&cheese, or nutella. At least in the sit-down places, the choices are much more varied and creative, oozing with camembert, pears, and bacon, and home-made apple compote, salted butter caramel ice cream. If there is one thing that's truly lovely about being a resident instead of a tourist, it's not feeling like we have to do everything in one day. We'll see the palace another day; but today we lunch like kings!
Once the day has warmed up, we head out to the gardens and wander happily around. At one point, P is lost in her own world and goes the opposite direction from us. Though we can clearly see her, we scream her name, and we are on a big open almost un-peopled path, she doesn't notice for quite a while that she is getting farther and farther from us. She likes to walk along, head in the clouds, making up songs and monologues/pretend conversations. Here in the gardens, she finally does snap to, but she thinks she is lost and starts bawling. Are we terrible parents because we let her believe herself lost for quite a while, in order to teach a lesson? In Paris, she has nearly gone into a subway by herself and also gone the wrong direction on a very crowded street because of this habit. Somehow this feels like a gift to us -- a perfectly safe place for her to learn this lesson. Or, the other explanation is that we are ogres. Don't worry; eventually we go and get her.
Then we meet back up with our friends and tour the gardens again, this time doing a tour of the fountains. They are all in full spray this month, for just a couple hours late in the afternoon. Disillusioned by our horse show this morning, we set our expectations low. "Remember, this won't be the Bellagio fountains in Vegas!" And it's true that many of them are just simple fountains, but some are "choreographed", and all are set amidst the splendor of gilded statuary and mythical carvings in the beautiful surroundings of the Versailles gardens. There is classical music being discreetly broadcast, the sun has finally warmed up, and we have bellies full of melted cheese, whipped cream, and hard cider. So, all in all, a lovely afternoon.
Since Cindy is in advertising, and we are all American, we cannot help but notice the incredible lack of branding and salesmanship. We start choosing the best real estate for kiosks that could sell King Louis IVth reproduction antique i-phone covers, beautiful backdrops for 10€ photos taken with somebody in full Marie Antoinette costume. Naturally, chances for sponsorhip are horribly lost on the poor French, who simply present the castle in museum-like dignity. The Fountains of October, brought to you by Fiji Water! Versailles, brought to you by Louis IV, the Sun King, and Sunny D -- a delicious fruit-flavored drink! Sigh. What a missed opportunity.
Our night ends back in the city, having a very long, very late fondue dinner by the Seine, in the St. Germain area of the Latin Quarter, either because we need more time with our friends, more melted cheese in our bellies, or both. Though it's only a 5 minute walk back to our apartment, our kids can barely make it home on their own two feet. Somehow our friends, including the first grader, are still raring to go. Perhaps they are jet-lagged? Or fuelled by the fact that they are on vacation and are, as we all know, therefore obliged to have dessert after every meal? They walk us back then head out for something sweet. Well, you know what I say: Let them eat cake.
This blog brought to you by Pepperidge Farm cakes. And melted cheese. And the letter G:
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