Paris: In which we traverse to Versailles, and: in memoriam

Ah, Versailles: 45 minutes away from the bustle of Paris, a different sort of bustle. The kind created when hordes of tourists descend upon an area where there is only one attraction. And somehow, it did seem a world apart from the city, although it was hardly rural. The streets were barely wider, but they were certainly emptier. The shops and cafes were flatter, and there were no apartments or flats looming overhead. I felt naked, at first, so vulnerable to the blue mid-morning sky. 

There was a huge line, unmoving and thick, when we arrived at the ticket office inside these gates, although it had only opened 20 minutes before. We waited for about 15 minutes before we realized that we were not moving- not just moving slowly, but we had not advanced an inch. As the people around us began to realize the same thing, a low murmur of irritation started moving up and down the queue. Then, we noticed groups of tourists hurrying toward the entrance, with strangely excited auras. More spilled out of the ticket office, looking jubilant. Then came more, hordes of them, actually running across the frozen ground. One middle-aged man in glasses saw me staring, and as he and his wife jogged past, cried happily in broken English, "Free! It is free!" 

We never found out why Versailles was free that day. But I won't soon forget the sheer ecstasy on all of our faces in those moments; it was like Christmas morning, like the days when wars end. We all began sprinting toward the entrance, as if we thought that at any minute they might change their minds and catch us doing something naughty. I felt how ridiculous it all was, but I had to grin, too, caught up in the silly exuberance, that feeling of getting away with something. 

This little bit of trompe l'oeil blended so well into the Queen's flowery, fussy chambers that I didn't notice it at first. Jeff Koons's other piece/room matchups, however, were not so subtle. 

Yes, this is exactly who you think it might be

This one's also a Koons. I thought this one, in one of my favorite hues, was striking and fitting, somehow. I'm not sure why he wanted an installation in Versailles, or why Versailles allowed him to install his pieces in centuries-old rooms and corridors, but I'm glad an arrangement was reached. There were, if one is to believe the New York Times, some protests outside of those golden gates when the partnership was first announced: often a sign of artistic success. The excesses of the palace can be laughable; at their worst they are stultifying. The faint shock of seeing a gilded Michael Jackson in a main drawing room has the effect of a breath of fresh air. He is not true royalty, of course, as King Louis was, but he is a Prince of sorts; and it seemed only natural to have one more gold-plated royal in the place.

The Royal Chapel

The grounds looked bare and barren under their layer of snow; almost silly. Where I imagine flowerbeds might be in the springtime were only flat expanses of white, and the fountains were stilled. We got lost trying to exit the palace and were directed by bizarrely misleading signs into the gardens. We wandered, and accumulated a ragtag group of similarly confused English tourists. They seemed reassured by my semi-confident grasp of French, although the only thing I was called upon to translate turned out to be, "Sir, where is the exit, please?" 

My great-aunt Mary was a good traveler. It's not enough to just go places; there is a special talent involved in a mastery of this art. I think she had it, and if I have it in me, maybe some of that is hers. Her house, all sleek horizontals and hidden dens and wood-panelled rooms heated by the late afternoon sun gleaming through glass walls, was a modernist dream; it was also a humanist dream. It housed a collection of trinkets and memories from multiple continents, a positive U.N. of decor. I remember flipping through those leather-bound photo albums, stuffed with slightly faded moments past, hoping that one day I would be a traveler too. Something about those pictures was impossibly glamorous; maybe it was that technicolor-dream quality to them, with those photographic blooms of soft, vivid color, or maybe it was the captured wind in her curls and the confident red on her lips. 

It was hard being here this week, thousands of miles from home, while Mary faded away. But in some way, I can comfort myself by imagining I am taking on her mantle, that of the cosmopolitan, the sophisticate, the world-traveler. It's a daunting task- to be a Traveler is an art I'm still trying to learn. But the way has already been paved for me.