Chateauxtravagance
We began our day with a trip to Versailles, a magnificent palace 50km from the din of Paris’ center that served as the court of Louis XIV. The French have a real thing for Louis XIV—for instance, their generic cheap beer is called “1643” after the year he ascended to power, and to this day the fleur-de-lys, his royal insignia, can be found on basically everything.
Nestled between an old-growth forest, verdant pastures and a small lake, it was built originally by Louis XIII as a hunting lodge where he could escape the rigours of courtly life. However, the Sun King had other plans for the estate. Instead of residing in the middle of Paris surrounded by France’s people of quality, as had been the custom since the days of Charlemaigne, he would make the nobles and diplomats come to him at his retreat in the country.
After his ascension to power, Louis recruited most talented architect, civil engineer and interior designer in France and opened his coffers to the three men, ordering them to build the most opulent palace they could conceive of.
They built a proper chateau, dredged the lake, and planted hundreds of acres of manicured gardens dotted with fountains, statues and hedgerow mazes. They recruited the most talented carpenters, masons and painters in all Europe to decorate the chateau in grand style.
So great was the expense of building Versailles that by the time it was nearing completion, Louis’ personal fortune had been almost depleted. This may be one reason he decided to declare war on Holland, a notoriously well-to-do nation of merchants and bankers. Thus I can claim that Versailles has enough cool stuff to start a war over!
Touring the royal apartments, one passes through hall after gilded hall, all of them sumptuously decorated with heirloom furniture, marble statues, vivid frescoed ceilings and ornately carved hardwoods. There are secret doors between chambers, hidden peepholes and acoustical anomalies where one can hear conversation around the corner or down a flight of stairs. The walls are covered with tapestries and paintings from all over Europe and Asia. The statuary includes all of France’s kings back to Dagobert 1 (ca. 980 AD), most of France’s famous writers, artists and scientists since the Renaissance, and other royalty that were related to the Bourbons by marriage or treaty.
Mind you, this is one of four areas of the main chateau accessible to the public. And of course, the main palace is entirely separate from les deux Trianons, two mini-palaces where Louis and his family would go to escape the politics stiff etiquette of the royal court.
The central wing of the main buiding looks out over a quarter-mile-long reflecting pond that bisects the gardens, which spread out to either side of the central building. Frankly, the gardens are the best part of Versailles by far. Seventeen bosquets - themed, quarter-acre plots accented with waterworks and statuary and walled by 20-foot-high hedges - spread out along either side of the reflecting pool. Beyond the bosquets are the de rigeur gardens, dozens of acres of trellised pathways puncutated by yet more fountains, manicured lawns, wooded areas and small ponds.
After fortifying ourselves with galettes a la Bretagne (buckwheat crepes topped with your choice of meats, cheeses and vegetables) Mom and I set out to explore the seemingly endless gardens. We literally became lost among the mazelike pathways, strolling for more than four hours armed only with a bottle of water. In this case, sense of direction wasn’t the problem. I knew where we wanted to go, but much like the nobles who once walked among them, the gardens of Versailles rarely go in straight lines or proceed in a sensible manner.
There were ample opportunities to practice my French comprehension once we discovered that the locals of Versailles have an uncanny sense of direction and a picture-perfect mental map of the palace grounds. We’d be traipsing through a maze with nothing in sight but greenery, and we’d come across an ice cream vendor or a hot dog seller who, when asked in passable French about the way back to the train station, would helpfully spew a sequence of lefts, rights, go-straights and about-faces.
By the time we finally made it back to the gare, we were dusty, sweaty and thoroughly pooped. We clomped past the giant clock built into the lawn of city hall, jumped into an RER train back to the city, and discussed what we would eat for dinner. (This is a Spataro vacation, after all.)