Versailles

My inexplicable childhood obsession with Marie Antoinette was revived once I walked through the gates into Versailles. I remembered the drawings I did of her in sixth grade for a book report. Now, I was surrounded by the backdrops I had once doodled.

History comes alive when you walk through the palace. Its impossible not to imagine mobs of revolutionaries, fed up with “eating cake,” shoving past you as you navigate the halls. An audio-guide mentioned the rooms Marie Antoinette had decorated and I could almost see her ordering someone to find the right drapery. Her bedroom and her bed were still intact. She walked where I walked. I could see the door she would have slipped through to try to escape.

Knowing the end of the story, I don’t know why I had such a fascination with her. I’ll blame the book I read in sixth grade. I think it focused on her childhood rather than her beheading. Still, striding through the gardens I couldn’t help but think that it would have been nice to be royalty. Surrounded by flowers and trimmed hedges, looking out to what looked like miles of topiary and lakes, kept pristine just for you to enjoy, followed by the wild hills of France in the background, the gardens were the most tranquil part of my initial trip. I could have stayed there a lifetime.

Unfortunately, my camera died steps into the palace so I only have a few photos to show for the day, until I steal some I took with my mother’s camera, but there really is no way to capture the overwhelming nature of everything about Versailles in a photograph, or a few paragraphs for that matter.

Love Locks in Paris

The bridges were covered. I’ve spotted a few throughout Italy, but Paris trumped them all.

Paris: Day 3

Musée d’Orsay

I have a love affair with Manet. Not Monet and his waterlilies. Manet.

Walking past paintings that I have idealized for years was like finally meeting a pen-pal after a hundred summers of letters. There, undeniably in front of me, were the brush strokes I had memorized, but never been able to fully envision. I could stand back and be mesmerized by the paintings for hours, but I’ve seen photographs in books that have kept me far enough from the artwork already. Standing just inches away you could see where the paint is so thin, the canvas still shines through, and although Manet didn’t paint with thick paint, you could still make out the bold marks he would have made with his hand right about where my face was. There lie proud Olympia. There were the bathers gazing out at me.

The museum boasts much more than Manet as well. Toulouse-Lautrec, Renoir, Degas, Serrat, Van Gogh and so many more are housed within the museum’s walls.

Ah, Van Gogh and your yellow paint eating habit, thank you for the madness that brought us this incredible artwork: the color combinations, the thick, delectable paint, the perspective. A large room was devoted to him and paintings I had never seen. Some of them, a feast for the eyes, others, experimental works that lead him to his greatness.

Standing in a long line and a sudden downpour was definitely a small price to make it into the museum. I just hope my eyes wont forget what the paintings really looked like, that they wont too quickly turn back into the distant photographs I already knew.

Paris: Day 2

This gallery contains 13 photos.

Paris: Day 1

This gallery contains 14 photos.

Turbulence

… an essential component to any adventure worth remembering.

Although the jet was playing a scary game of leap-frog with the clouds in the middle of the night as we lurched across the Atlantic, that’s not necessarily the turbulence I’m referencing. If everything on a trip goes as planned, where are the quirky stories worth telling again and again? Maybe I’m a little odd, but I remember moments of shear terror or just blatant embarrassment more than the usual happy-go-lucky. Since that’s the case, I’d rather be blushing or in a state of shock as much as my travels as possible.

After almost a week overseas, we’ve had our fair share of near-mishaps and accidental pleasures to last quite a while, and then I remember that this has only just begun. I have so much to recount already, and I haven’t given myself the time to record anything; I’ve taken advantage of every moment. Now that I am absolutely exhausted and my feet are slightly numb, red, and begging for a break, it seems like a good time to both let loved ones know that I am in-fact still breathing and start recording my memories before they completely slip away. I at least have my photos to remind me what happened each day. Now, sprawled out on the top bunk bed on the second floor of our Paris hostel, hearing french r&b roll down the hallway, looking out our window into the darkness of the courtyard where French and Spanish conversations and rustling leaves rumble, I relax and write… to post another day.