Versailles, where the Sun and the Moon rose together

Versailles is the most incredible monument to one man's ego. It is so vast, so immense, that I hardly know where to begin.

Let's start with a little history. Louis XIV reigned in France from 1661 to his death in 1715. He single-handedly neutralised the power of the old families and rebranded himself as the Sun-King, identifying himself with Apollo, the Roman god of the Sun. He revolutionised the law, the army, and the power of the crown.

And he did a lot of this with Versailles.

Approaching the gates of Versailles is intimidating even today. It is hard to imagine how it must have felt to courtiers who knew that their lives and their livelihoods were in the palm of the hand of the man who lived at its centre.

Gold leaf covers spikes, a potent metaphor for Louis' court. Smiles were false and the only thing that counted was appearance. Being seen, and being seen to be seen, were far more important than being clever or even useful.

Let me give you an example. Louis expected, upon waking, to be surrounded by courtiers who hoped for some favour from him. This was not an entirely new system; instead, it harked back to Roman times, where it was necessary for people to visit their patronus, a man of greater wealth or social stature, in the morning. This was called salutatio, and served to remind the inferior of the power of their patronus. Louis, who saw Rome as the pinnacle of civilisation, reinstated this, and so expected his ministers and courtiers to greet him when he woke up. This was known as lever, the rising ceremony. It was split into two parts, but that's a little heavy for this light little blog. In any case, once the King put in place this ceremony, it became fashionable to copy it, and consequently lower level courtiers would need to rise at a ferociously early hour in order to rush to the lever of their superiors who, in turn, would then hurry off to the lever of their superiors. Consequently Louis' lever was towards noon, and he would actually get in a good couple of hours of hunting before re-retiring to bed.

There's your little history lesson over. Onwards to Versailles!

I was at Versailles with Mary who, apparently undaunted by last week's meeting, had agreed to keep me company as I wandered around the grand château. My entry was free; hers, regretfully, was expensive - citizens of the European Union under the age of 26 get in gratis. Americans, sadly, do not, regardless of age. Entering, we followed the signs around the building. A sign two metres in expressly forbade the use of cameras and videocameras. Despite the sign being in three different languages many of our fellow tourists ignored it completely; I, being British, could not bring myself to do so. Consequently I have no pictures of the inside, which is an incredible shame, because it's glorious.

The tour leads you through several rooms, all of which have breathtaking paintings on the ceilings. Mars, Diana and Hercules all tower above you as you move from room to room, and it wasn't long before Mary and I felt our necks stiffening up as we did our best to drink in every image. I know it would take up too much space, but there's a lot to be said for putting long benches in these rooms. People could lie back and stare up and thus better appreciate the incredible artwork.

The opulence of the rooms doesn't stop at the ceilings, however. The walls are clad in marble and finished in gold. At every step you are reminded that you are in the home of a near deity. At its centre, like a spider in a web, is the bedroom of the King. It is magnificent in its opulence. Gold thread, gold leaf, silk - all adorn every feasible surface and ensure that everyone in the room is aware of who has the power.

The tour was over far too quickly and Mary and I escaped to the grounds, which even in overcast weather were beautiful. They are free to enter (free for all, without concern for the country in which you were born), and we strolled together around the enormous cruciform lake which is the centerpiece of Versailles' gardens. We were lapped several times by eager joggers, bikers, and one chap on what I can only accurately describe as a cross-trainer on wheels. We took a more leisurely pace, discussing Anglo-American differences and future plans and ideas. We stopped off for lunch at a little eaterie; Mary had a sandwich and I had a roast chicken. I confess, I am something of a glutton. Some people look at vices and see sin. I see a list of achievements waiting to be unlocked.

We were halfway through when a family of seven or so Texans sat down next to us, clearly unsettled by the prospect of being sat next to people they didn't know. This is a peculiarity of the continent that Brits and, apparently, Americans are not used to. It can be summed up very simply as: if you fit, you sit. You can be friendly or you can ignore your neighbour, but that's just the way it is.

In any event, eavesdropping on their conversation caused me to have to bite my lip a couple of times while Mary cringed just a little as they remarked on the differences between the States and Europe. It would be easy to mock, but the fact that they've made the journey is greatly reassuring - I read recently that only 3.5% of Americans will ever travel overseas on vacation. So anyone who leaves that country and tries to get some of the ancient culture they lack is a hero to me.

All the same, it shouldn't be a surprise that Macdonald's is different here.

The long walk brought us to the top of the cross. To give you an idea of the sheer size of this lake, Versailles is the central building in this photo. The dark blobs in the foreground are 4-man boats.

Vast.

On the stroll back I attempted to explain cricket to Mary, a task of mammoth proportions because cricket is not the simplest thing to explain. We've made a deal, though - if I go to Chicago she'll take me to a baseball game and she, in return, will accompany me to a cricket match in England.

I cannot wait.

Today, in a nutshell, has been recovery. I lay around until 10 feeling stiff; apparently I am now old and cannot walk a few miles without needing to rest my bones for a day. Orange juice and a baked potato have restored my vigour, however, and I am now off to teach. If you'd like to see a few more pictures from Versailles, including a few shots from the garden, then just click here.

100 posts and the concluding chapter

This is my 100th post! And it is also Mother's Day in the UK. Whether or not you're in the UK, send a message to your mother: call her, text her, email or Skype her. Remind her that you love her and appreciate her.

Public service announcement over. Let us return to Rouen.

So: when we last met, Mary and I had ascended the Gros Horloge and looked out over the glorious vista of Rouen. Having looked, all that remained was the descent. The descent past five floors, down hundreds of steps whose height changed without warning. The feeling of jolting terror that filled me when I put my foot down to where I thought the step would be (and instead found empty air) became my constant companion. A difference of even three centimeters is enough to cause the human brain to fold in on itself and collapse like a soufflé.

I didn't realise quite how tense the descent had made me until I reached the bottom. I had to walk like a robot because my legs had cramped up so completely that my knees refused to bend. Twenty minutes later I was still feeling a little wobbly as we paused to review our progress and our map. Following lunch, Mary had indulged her love of apples and crunched happily away as we watched the market close down around us. We stepped briefly into another cathedral, l'Eglise St-Maclou, in the hope of finding the crypts but the whole place seemed to be under renovation. We nosed around, but the day was drawing on and we retired from the building with an urge to sit and enjoy the peace.

We found a park and settled ourselves on a bench. To our left was a gloriously large house of the kind one only seems to find in France. Beside it was another towering spire and behind that the sun set. A long day and, to put it bluntly, we were pooped. After sitting for a while, watching children play football with their dad, listening to the music and sounds of students around us, we roused ourselves and looked for a bar.




Thankfully bars are both plentiful and easy to find in Rouen. We settled at a table outside in a little square and waited for the waiter to come past. I may have mentioned this before, but managers in the French hospitality industry have a near phobia of hiring more staff than they need, and as a result getting served in France is a matter of waiting and being absolutely ready to order when a waiter stops at your table. If you say "Um," he will be gone, and you will be thirsty for another thirty minutes, unhappily regarding the golden-coloured beer that others are drinking.

We snapped off orders fairly quickly and the waiter was overjoyed to meet an American and an English person who spoke a little French. He disappeared, he reappeared, two tall glasses of cold and delicious beer were presented to us. The evening drew on and we talked about this and that, nothing of any importance. We had another beer, looked at the time, and made our way towards the station after one or two false starts on my part. Having reached the station we embraced again, parted, and I collapsed into my seat. Opposite me was a young lady who looked unhappy and had arrayed about her exercises in English grammar.

I offered what little help I could and what followed was an impromptu lesson in English, because, as previously mentioned - I like teaching. As we got off I offered her my card on the assurance that she would call if she needed help; I doubt she needs an English tutor but - you never know. The only sure way to gain nothing is to do nothing.

So: Rouen is beautiful. If I have learnt anything from this trip, from this year, or from the events that transpired over this day it is that opportunities should be seized around the waist and passionately embraced.

Metaphorically speaking.

A final photo that I particularly like; the rest can be found at this link.

Rouen

What a day.

I'm going to start off by saying that it was an incredibly long day and my head is all over the place. Thank you for sticking with me until the end.

So: I awoke this morning at 6, threw coffee at my coffeepot, threw the coffeepot at the stove, turned it on, and wrapped myself in a dressing gown. I had turned off the heat last night and going from warm duvet to cold room was proving a challenge. The smell of the coffee helped.

My coffee brewed, I stepped briefly into the shower to encourage my frozen blood to recirculate. Wrapped in a towel with that elixir of life clutched tightly in my hand, I must have looked quite the ridiculous sight - but no matter. I dressed casually - I wore a suit without a waistcoat or a tie, which barely counts as dressed - and made my way into the morning, guidebook, sudoko book and camera all crammed into my little bag. From my little flat it is a short bus ride to La Défense, and from La Défense a hop on and a hop off the RER to Auber. From Auber a walk (briefer still) to St Lazare and there, yawning and bleary-eyed in the crisp morning sunshine, I boarded my train.

And fell asleep.

I can almost hear my mother's horrified gasp. The rest are eagerly waiting to see in what new way I have made a fool of myself. In what new and exciting adventures did I partake, willing or not?

I am sorry to say no such story will follow. Having carefully planned every aspect of my travel, I knew that the terminus was Rouen and, as such, I would be gently ushered off the train at my destination. As it happened I woke in good time, and set out on my journey newly refreshed and eager to face the day. I had a short wait before my travelling companion arrived.

Mary, whose blog you may have seen gracing these pages had offered herself as one half of this two-man fellowship, and so I settled myself into the little bar at the station, took had a coffee, and bent my brain to sudokos. 

Before long the hour arrived, and Mary along with it. We exchanged kisses, because we're almost French, and discussed the weather, because some habits even months abroad cannot break. With gloom in the sky but joy in our hearts (and the hefty and glorious +Lonely Planet guide to France as our comfort) we stepped forward into Rouen and into one of the most picturesque, one of the friendliest, one of the nicest towns I've ever had the privilege of entering.

We started down the hill and turned at the sight of the Palais de Justice, a building that seemed like a cathedral but was in fact the law courts. Looking up we spotted gargoyles and grotesques, and though I wanted to capture them all this cheeky chappy was the most photogenic:

It is at this point that I must confess a flaw of mine. I like teaching, and what poor Mary did not know is that I am consequently a hideous companion. I rambled at length on every subject of which I have some little knowledge and, being the philomath/polymath/sponge that I am, those subjects are numerous. She bore my badgering with patience and had the good manners to seem interested in what I am sure were uninteresting trivia, and so for that (and for many other things) I am indebted to her.

Onwards!

Past the Palais we turned right and were strolling down Rue des Carmes when we exclaimed at the same time. I had just seen the sky-scraping turrets of Cathédrale Notre Dame while Mary, facing the other direction, had caught sight of the Gros Horloge, the gorgeous clock set in a bridge over a street that was only just coming alive. 

We examined it in detail and Mary informed me that the orb at the top represented the phase of the moon. "Waning gibbous." she said, by means of explanation, and I nodded sagely. We passed the door to go in but it was resolutely closed. The sign posted beside it said that visitors could tour from 10 and yet the portal remained obstinately unopened. We strolled under the bridge, stopping to examine the figure of Christ the Shepard carved over our heads, and roamed around the town for a little bit before making our way back to Notre Dame.

I love churches. I love cathedrals. I love that there are monuments to the glory of men, monuments to the ability of an idea to drive us to greater and greater heights. There is no more solid reminder that we are small creatures whose dreams are bigger than they have any right to be. There is no more beautiful souvenir of the truth that we are greatest when we work together.

Hand carved statues. Hand carved.

There is nothing like an electric light to bring ugliness to anything.

On the other hand, the crucifix that forms the centre of this and all churches is an explicit and violent reminder of the centre of the faith; of the sacrifice that a bloodthirsty god demanded as the wages of sin and that a perfect being gave for love. As I have said before, the story is a fascinating one, and if buildings like this were its only output then I could not love it more. 

But they're not.

It was here that I took a picture of which I am immensely proud, and which I am sharing with you without any form of touching up . I would very much like to know your thoughts.

How can it be improved? Nothing is perfect, least of all this, and so I'd really appreciate input from anyone with an opinion on this.

From the Cathedral we made our way to l'Eglise Jeanne d'Arc, although admittedly by a circuitous route which took us halfway across the bridge into Rouen Central, a nice enough place, I daresay, but hardly what we'd come to see. An abrupt about turn and a check over the map in the Guide (p.195, for those keeping score at home) found us at the church. 

L'Eglise Jeanne d'Arc

We nosed around it and then, as the sun broke gloriously through, basked like lizards and allowed our conversation to flow like the Seine we'd so recently crossed and recrossed. People passed around us like a time-lapse film and out of the corner of my eye I saw someone lock up the church. Even vergers need a two hour lunch in France.We decided to follow her good example and stopped at Les Maraîchers, another excellent tip from the Guide, where we were served by attentive and friendly staff who smilingly coaxed French from our uncertain lips. Mary had scallops and I turbot, both exquisite. Alongside these fish dishes - the region being famous for these fruits of the sea - we had a bottle of Riesling (2009). I had a dessert on top; sliced apples in a calvados sauce - exquisite. We finished the rest of the bottle and, having paid and waved goodbye, made our way to the church.It would be hard to find two Catholic churches in such physical proximity whose design was so far apart. From the inside it seemed that we were inside an upturned boat, the ribs stretching high above us to form the keel. The stained glass on the north wall faced windows shaped like abstract fishes on the south and the congregation were to be seated in a wide arc around the sanctuary, rather than the standard cruciform layout. It was beautiful again, but in a vibrant, colourful way. Notre Dame fixated on the sacrifice; here, at least, was the message of hope and new life.Making our way back past the Gros Horloge we saw the door open but a sign advising us that the tours were full. Disheartened, we inquired as to when we should come back, and were told that we would need wait only a few minutes. This we did and when the tower was less clogged with people the gentleman behind the counter - having sussed our accents - asked if we would like the guide in English or in French.We glanced at each other. This was a test, and I suspect neither of us would have admitted to trepidation in the face of explanations only in French. "Français," we said, and he handed us the guides and sent us on our way up the tower.The tower has hundreds of steps and five floors. At various points you are invited to punch a number into your audioguide and press it to your ear whereupon a charming Frenchman talks you through what you can see in front of you. The material is presented clearly and is utterly engrossing, allowing you to almost (almost!) forget the steepness of the staircases and the tightness of the helix.(Staircases that wind upwards in a column are helical, not spiral. A spiral staircase would be a gigantic waste of energy and money. To understand why for yourself, draw a spiral on a piece of paper. Starting at the centre, cut around the line, and then pull the shape you've cut downwards. You now have a spiral staircase and understand why supporting it would be an architectural nightmare.)Mounting stair upon stair and with my legs turning to jelly, we were introduced to the original mechanism, the internal cogs and finally the bells at the very top of the tower. Like Notre Dame, the solid mass of stuff seemed to bend my reality around it, and I was almost grateful to step out onto the parapet for some air.I say almost because heights give me a giddy feeling in the back of my brain. I am not scared of being high up, you know. I am simply terrified of suddenly being high up and falling, and even that's not as terrifying as stopping suddenly. Neither heights nor falling will kill you. It's the sudden deceleration caused by your body going from speedy to zero in fractions of a second that will splatter your brains across the pavement.In any case, the view was gorgeous:

Though admittedly easily distracted by birds.

And the company offered a charming counterpoint to the unchanging buildings.

From there - well, there's an awful lot more to say, but this is a very heavy post already, so perhaps I'll tell what happened next tomorrow.

Oh, and in the UK it's past midnight, so happy Mother's Day to any and all mothers reading this, and especially my own.

As busy as a...?

Frantically busy today, which is just the way I like my life. A small equation to write into Excel tomorrow should result in the completion of the week-long statistics project and mark the commencement of the writing about the statistics project. The details are still being completed, but it's mostly good news - there are more women than ever in petroleum engineering - the ratio this year being 1:3 - and almost all are earning more than 40,000€ per year one year after graduation. It is a good time, to be in oil.

Alright, so that's hardly news, but it looks pretty good as a bell curve.

There was a panicked flurry of writing and translation this morning as my colleague in the marketing department summoned me to give her prose a once-over; an easy job as she is extremely proficient. A small change later, we thought we were done. We high-fived. This was a weird experience, not being an American or, indeed, at all sporty, but I did it anyway. We were sadly mistaken, however, as the ping of an email arriving gave us more work to do and a deadline that approached like a glacier; its movement was indiscernible until you looked up and it saw that it had got half an hour closer.

That done, and my brain having used many millions of calories, my stomach cried out. The noises it made are called borborygmi, a fact I share with you because I know you've always wondered, and so with haste and with my colleague I made my way to the canteen. We will say nothing of lunch, save only that figs should be left out of food. Forever. Figs should not be allowed in kitchens. Chefs should not smoke, spit, or have figs near food.

I am intolerant only of intolerance. And figs.

And lactose, but that's actually a real thing.

The afternoon was a steady buzz of activity; I start English lessons again next week so I'm going to be planning like crazy once again. Researching things to talk about, finding movie clips, all good fun. There is nothing better than re-greeting old students and meeting new ones. I'll also be running grammar classes and plan on producing an entire semester-plan over the weekend because organisation is my watchword.

I'm also going to Rouen over the weekend. Watch how I juggle these things. You will be astonished.

Now I have to go and, you know, juggle, so here for you is a trailer kindly shared with me by an absent friend. Joss Whedon only went and did Much Ado About Nothing.

Just a heads up - if you join my English class and this comes out in France, we will be going to see it.

Also: dat beat.

My week is almost over!

I love Wednesday evenings, and there are two reasons for this. First, as I have previously described, Wednesday evening is the glorious just-past-the-tipping-point part of the week. It's delicious. In addition, I usually get home at 5.02pm, having left the office at 5pm, throw the day's accumulated papers at my desk and go shopping.

Shopping for groceries in France is fantastic. Vegetables are unwrapped and squeezable, and you can paw through potatoes, pick up pineapples or prod papaya all in one place, because fruit and vegetables are arranged alphabetically. Being British the first time I saw someone grab a pepper, touch it all over, and then replace it I was horrified. What if I ate that? I'd get his germs. I'd get his diseases. Even now I could see the skin of the pepper putrefying as the bacteria got hold of it.

Except of course it didn't, and when washed it was entirely delicious. At home I never washed anything I was going to put in my mouth but was obsessive about clean socks, a realisation that came to me as I peeled a carrot. To be so blasé - if you will excuse the dip into French - about food seems now absurd. I hope to carry this good habit back with me through customs.

However, this Wednesday I have not had a chance to go shopping or vegetable poking. Instead I had a two-hour class with L, C's brother, because what she gets he must also get. Equality is at the heart of every fight I have ever had with my siblings, and it's wonderful to see that it translates into French. Doubtless it translates equally well into all languages, but France happens to the be the one in which I currently reside. We talked about modals and semi-modals: could, would, should, ought, might, can, shall, may, must, will. Their endings don't change, which is nice, but microscopic differences along with an element of interchangeability - I'm sure everyone had the teacher for whom "can" could never be used in place of "may" and whose refusal resulted in distressing ammonia smells from students too young to understand -  make them a pig to learn.

In any case, I think we cracked them, and there's another lesson with them lined up soon - unfortunately their mother, who of course controls the purse strings, was not there to tell me when their next session would be. This is frustrating as I was planning on taking a trip this weekend, but if I miss a two hour teaching session it'll look bad and it'll be money lost.

With that in mind, then, I think I'll go somewhere on Saturday and take pictures and do things. That's only two days away and I shall probably be getting up earlier than I would on a regular Saturday, but trains and places to go are exciting. Apparently there's some good wine country around here.

What are your thoughts? Where can a chap go on a day trip around Paris? Answers in a tweet or a comment below.

By the way, my life may seem rock and roll from start to finish, but tonight my plans consist only of this:

Needle and thread baby. Needle and thread.