Versailles was a 40 minute ride away and once we reached our destination, I could picture Louis XVI escaping the poor of the city to the extravagant palace. It looks untouched from the years and standing in line we could tell how isolated and elitist the kings and queens must have felt.
First thing first, we got our audio tour.
"You just want that so you won't have to listen to me," my mother said.
"Oh, don't worry I can still hear you no matter what."
After navigating through the sea of little French children on their field trips, we began our mostly 3 hour tour. The French loved their excess and they also loved their wars. More paintings of this general or that king conquering that country or this enemy. And of course, all of them looking towards the heavens for God's approval and help. Mix that in with the images of the gods and goddesses of Olympus blessing this or that coronation and the pictures of the women who look like men and the little boys who wear dresses before they were kings and you don't have to wonder why they were so messed up.
"Too bad they could never find Marie's head," my mother said as we left.
"They never lost her head! They cut it off and you're thinking of Venus DiMilo and it's her arms they never found."
Good thing she didn't narrate the tour to the little French children.
Boarding our train, we made an easy and quick exit to Paris, hunger stopping us from going any further than the corner of Notre Dame, our favorite landmark. In fact, it's the only one she can remember that's close to the hotel, but she still doesn't remember if we go right or left.
Sitting down, I once again decided to try something new, but with more delicious results. First up, our onion soup - topped with a mound of Gruyere cheese that was crisp, but not yet burnt around the edges as it relinquished its onion soaked bread beneath. I knew it was delicious because my mother said nothing for twenty minutes as she devoured the entree and then soaked up the remnants of the broth with the french bread left over in our basket.
We joked about the little French boy running around the restaurant who finally stopped long enough to eat his pizza before coming over and staring at us. Maybe he knew we were Americans, so I said Bon Jour petite French fille, but I think that means little French girl, so perhaps that's why he went away.
Following our soup, I continued with eating new and different dishes with a Madame Croque. The ham hidden underneath the melted cheese topped with a fried egg was about as perfect a sandwich as any of the gods from Olympus could bless, and as Rosemarie inhaled her club sandwich with pomme frites (sans ketchup, which upset me greatly), the little French boy returned to stare at us and then once again disappeared behind the pillar.
"It's so cute how they speak French," she said.
"Well, it is their language." I do admit, though, there is something quite charming about this language coming out of the mouths of babes.
And never let it be said that my mother doesn't eat. There wasn't a crumb left on the plate for a sparrow.
With the weather the best we've had since we arrived, the streets are packed. We walked around the Marais with our coffee eclair and tried in vain to find an empty cafe table.
"I know where we are," she said.
"No you don't."
"Yes, I do. We go left here."
"No, we go right," I said. "See, here's the sex store where you don't want to buy anything for anyone."
"I can't get people things from there," she said.
"Well, I think that," I answered pointing to something that shall remain nameless. "Will beat a box of chocolates any day."
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| paris day 3 |
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