Paris, Day 3

You can dress me up, but you can't take me out. In the gardens at Versailles.

June 16, 2009

The breakfast situation at the hotel worked out very well, because I tend to get cranky if I’m not fed very shortly after I awaken. A nice cup of tea and fifteen more pain au chocolats later, I was ready for my day.

We’d decided to take the train to Versailles, France to see Louis the XIV’s palace. By this time, we considered ourselves professional riders of the metro system and had no problems figuring out our transfers, even on the confusing C line. We got there around 10 AM and the line was already huge. You have to wait on on line to buy tickets, then a different line to clear a security post to gain entrance. Since Dean and I are both efficiency nazis, he stood on the ticket-buying line while I stood on the security/entrance line. Worked out perfectly. Dean jogged over with the tickets just before I reached the security post. Mental high-five.

They were having a fountain show, so we went to the gardens first. The gardens are HUGE. I am not sure exactly how huge, but it took us an hour of brisk walking to see about half of them. There are trees or hedges trimmed into perfectly squared off shapes that make a maze, and every so often you come to a clearing with beautiful fountains, statues, and/or trellises. I was a bit surprised to see so many Greek god statues and fountains, thinking they would tend more toward the Christian theme, but they were all fantastic, spouting water from all types of orifices.

Tuckered out, we sat by the big, perfectly manicured pond and munched on a crusty baguette with edam cheese for a little while. It felt super-French. We decided to go check out Marie Antoinette’s quarters, which we naturally thought would be quite close to her dear husband’s Louis’s digs. Absolutely not. They were over a kilometer away. We huffed and puffed our way there, taking altogether too much exercise for my liking. The rooms were a bit more understated though meticulously appointed, with more of a flirty, feminine flair. Light pastel walls with white moulding, white plaster flower designs. It was not huge, like Louis’s place. It was a good-size two-story home with perhaps more marble and chandeliers than you might find in your local suburb. I could definitely see myself living there, but I doubt that would be allowed.

Then we made the trek back up to the main palace, which was not just fit for a king, but a giant-king. We saw the two-story throne room with its huge gold pipe organ, a fireplace so big they used full tree trunks for kindling, and a hallway with enough chandeliers to light an entire city. There were so many painted portraits of our boy Lou, I thought he must have spent the majority of his adult life posing for artists. At that point, the palace was getting crowded and we thought it would be a good time to head back. Tuesdays are apparently the day to take a school field trip in France, and the only thing I dislike more than crowds are crowds comprised of children. We made our way out around 3 PM.

In case any of you ever take the metro to Versailles, you should know that you need a different ticket to get back into Paris than you used on the way to Versailles. Truth be told, we knew that from last time but could not conveniently locate a place to buy the correct tickets. We’d never actually seen anyone’s ticket get checked, so we got on and didn’t think much about it. Until the French police pushed through the door to our car and demanded all of us passengers show our tickets. Dean is notorious for telling the truth, so I elbowed him and told him to let me do the talking. I brightly produced what I knew to be the wrong tickets and they explained to me that they would have to charge us a fine while I did my best to look utterly perplexed (not that hard for me, actually). “Je suis desoles,” says I contritely. (Learned that from our movie last night.) I offered to buy the correct tickets, if they could sell them to me. Not possible. I offered they could take two metro tickets for each of us to make up the difference in price. Nope. But, somehow, we chatted a bit more in broken English (them) and broken French (us) until they had agreed to waive the fee since this was our first time in Paris (not true), we were on our honeymoon (complete fabrication), and they’d given us a restaurant recommendation by Notre Dame.

We’d just had a very pleasant experience with the French police, so I wasn’t expecting what happened next. On our way back through the center of Paris, we got off the Concorde stop. Incidentally, it’s a beautiful square with an impressive fountain and ornate street lamps. The American Embassy/Consulate is right there and Dean wanted to check with the Marine on duty. He is thinking about trying to get embassy duty next, and wanted to get the Marine’s perspective. We marched up to the embassy with passports in hand. Two French officials were guarding the entrance. I flipped my passport open and held it like an FBI badge. They said, in French accents, that I couldn’t go in. I was very confused. Had I not seen dozens of movies where people dash for the embassy and are granted immediate access just by running in slow motion and shouting, “Open the gates! I’m an American!”? I explained to them patiently--I’m an American. That (pointing) is my land. They insisted I could be granted access only with an appointment. Which we did not have. Not even sure why French police were guarding my embassy, I was just about to use my American authority to fire those two, but Dean began gently guiding me away by the elbow. He had an opinion that it would be best not to cause an international incident. Color me disappointed. Now I know a scene from my very favorite movie, The Saint, (with dreamy Val Kilmer) is fake.

We had decided we had to do laundry since it had been a few weeks. We located a laundromat near the hotel and took a little bag over. Dean and I must have looked super confused by the whole set up, because a local took pity on us and helped us with the whole process. You used a central console to activate the washer or dryer you picked. We almost caused a riot as we took out our dry clothes and offered the dryer to someone. Apparently someone else had been waiting longer. There was a bit of rapid-fire French exchange between the two while we hurriedly stuffed the unfolded clothes back into the bag and scurried out.

The rest of the evening was largely uneventful. More wine, another cafe. Perfection.