last day

Hall of Mirrors in VersaillesOne of the things that everyone does in Paris is visit Versailles.


Built for King Louis XIV, the self-proclaimed "Sun King", the palace is the best example of decadence the world over.
Gold-gilded doors, a hall of mirrors, and crystal chandeliers are only the beginning of it. Each room is devoted to a different Roman god and contains a different portrait or statue of Louis XIV. Tapestries in heavy silks with gold thread hang from the walls, marble pillars and painted ceilings complete the look. As I walked through the palace I could only gaze open-mouthed upon the sometimes gaudy excess that was Louis' taste.


When my mom visited Versailles, she felt the same way--overwhelmed by a palace that was more ornamental than historic or charming. The part of the palace that she fell in love with was the grounds and Marie-Antoinette's garden estate. 

Marie-Antoinette's estate
Marie-Antoinette continues to fascinate people, whether it's for her gory death or her naiive remark regarding cake. Her little estate, modeled after a 17th century French farming village, only increases her allure. 


The village looks like something out of a Disney princess movie: small stone cottages complete with thatched roofs, charming rounded windows and abundant gardens. On a large pond, a single white swan swims gracefully and several small pastures hold a collection of goats, chickens, sheep and a peacock. My mom and I were completely enchanted and spent more time walking around the little hamlet than we did in the actual palace. 

Now and then:

Left: 1978, my mom took a picture leaving Versailles

Right: 2009, my mom took a picture of me leaving Versailles

At 11:15 a.m. tomorrow my mom and I will be boarding a plane for a the first leg of our 12-hour journey back.


Leaving France is bittersweet. I'm ready to be home but at the same time, I wish I could stay longer. I'm not sure when I'll return, but unlike my mom, I know I won't wait thirty years; I enjoyed being here far too much. A part of me is dreaming about moving here, living in an ancient stone house with a curving staircase to a dusty attic and windows framed by blue shutters and planter boxes full of red geraniums. 


It's not that I don't love my home in Seattle, because really I do, but there's something about the culture of France that I want infused into my own life. I love that the people still buy baguettes, even at the grocery store, instead of packaged, sliced bread. Every evening people crowd boulangeries to buy their bread for dinnr, leaving with the loaves tucked in bags or simply slipped under one arm. 


I love that the little markets on the streets put their fresh fruit outside under colorful awnings where you can smell them the moment you walk by. 


I love the convenience of Paris' Metro and watching the people get on and off the train: stereotypical French women dressed in black, working men in suits, and the occasional intellectual wearing horn-rimmed glasses, a rumpled sweater and loafers.


I love the flea markets in the country--even the tables of sausages, strange cuts of meat and jars of foie gras.


I love guessing the history of every limestone building, and drinking a cup of café au lait, a taste that can never compare to anything I can get in Seattle. 


Maybe if I lived here the wonders of France would get old; I'd move into a routine and take the street-corner accordion players and sidewalk cafés for granted. 


Today as my mom and I walked the cobblestone streets of Paris for the last time, I ignored my aching feet and instead tried to remember every detail of the city. We spent our last day exploring and shopping although we didn't buy anything except for pastries and coffee. Wind whipped through the narrow streets and twice it rained. The leaves are already falling and schools here are in session. Summer has left in the two weeks that we've been here and I feel nostalgic for school, yellow pencils and maybe, a little, for my home. 

Paris encore

We're back in Paris which, after a week of traveling throughout France, feels like a sort-of home. As we drove in on the freeway, it felt just like Seattle--except that the landmark that rose to greet us was not the Space Needle, but the Eiffel Tower. 


Again, we spent most of the day in the car, driving the main auto-routes north as we made our way back to Paris. One thing that I failed to mention earlier about driving in France is the inevitable and completely obnoxious toll booths that litter the main autoroutes crisscrossing the country. 


Earlier I wrote that the roads of France are pristine--no trash, smooth, perfectly white-striped roads and a rest station nearly every 10 kilometers. How the French government pays for such pleasant road ways is by tolling all the vehicles that take any of the major freeways, labeled by A and followed by a number. 


Our first experience with the toll both was fine. We were buzzing along when the navigation system chirped in her British tone: "Caution: Toll booth." My mom and I looked at each other and scrambled to find any money. However, the tolls work different. Rather, you take a ticket from the tolls on the entrance of the autoroute and upon exiting, you return your ticket and it fines you depending on how long you've driven on that road. 


At first it was fine, a few Euro here, a few there. As we drove into the Loire Valley and then down through the Dordogne region, we took back roads occupied by tourists and farm vehicles. However, driving north, we found ourselves following mostly autoroutes--A75, A71, A10, etc. This adds up.


At one of our transfers, from one freeway to another, we stuck our ticket in to find that we owed 13.20 Euros. Scrambling through our wallets we then realized we had exactly...12.70 Euros. Lovely.


So we then tried our credit cards. Our debit cards. But each time we entered the card, the machine told us that it didn't recognize our method of payment (we had the same problem trying to buy Metro tickets on a machine). After awhile, the machine would spit our paper ticket and card back into our faces. My mom would have to put the car in park and scramble to grab the card and fly-away toll ticket. 


After attempting each of our cards--two credit, two debit, we then realized that we had no other option but to back up and drive to the other toll lane which housed a tolling official. We slid the car into reverse and began backing up, forcing a Frenchman in a small white Peugot to back up as well. Pulling into the other lane, I explained to the woman at the toll office that "la machine n'aime pas notre cartes." She then, like us, attempted to use all four of our cards, without success. She then opened her hand for Euros. But even after digging between the seats we could not find any more loose coins. I halfway hoped that she would take pity on us and let us through after only paying 12.70 but instead she ripped a piece of paper off an official pad and wrote me a bill. I have ten days to mail it in.


Part of me wanted to write a fake address, a fake name, something because she didn't even ask to see any identification. But the other part of me, the goody-goody part of me that crosses at crosswalks and doesn't run red lights, even if there is no one around, obediently wrote down my address in Seattle so they could bill me if I decided to skip town.


My mom and I decided that after that humiliating and frustrating experience, we were going to take all back roads to Paris. Yes, it took longer, but it was cheaper. And that, to me, is worth it.


I think one of the best things about going home will be realizing that everything will be priced in dollars. I won't have to mentally calculate an exchange rate to see how much something really is and if I do choose to drive on I-5, I won't have to dig around for $10 so I can exit to I-405.


Tomorrow is our last official day in France, in Paris. It's already 11 p.m. and my mom has warned me that we're getting up early. She's already asleep in the twin bed next to me. We're back in our original hotel in Paris and strangely enough in the same room. Another full circle: two weeks and back in Paris, thirty years ago, and back in Europe. 

Travel tip #347

If you're in a French village searching for a WiFi connection, all French McDonalds have free wireless.
So here I am in a place I never thought I'd be--a McDonalds in France. I'm feeling guilty somehow, like I'm betraying the French culture.


written earlier:

Another long day of driving; it’s over six hours from Avignon to Paris. We set out early this morning to begin our route up from Provence. France is almost the size of Texas. Usually when we think of European countries, we think small, but France covers nearly _ square miles and is one of the most diverse countries in Europe—both physically and culturally. Today we drove from rolling hills covered with grapes, to mountains, gorges and pine trees and tonight we’re back in the Central Region and close to the Loire Valley. In our rush to get back to Paris, we didn’t make a reservation for tonight, thinking we would play it by ear. The idea was that we would stop at some town, use the WiFi and look up hotels. Unfortunately wireless hotspots are few and far between on the A71. 

One rest stop promoted free wireless but when we drove in, the woman in the rest stop “Cafeteria” told us it wasn’t working. At one point, we pulled off into a small village, hoping to find a café with a connection. It began to pour just as we drove in and soon the rain was accompanied by an immense clap of thunder and jagged bolts of lightning. Within minutes the entire town lost power and as we drove along the quickly flooding cobblestone streets, I gave up any luck finding an Internet café.

            

           So it was back on the road, heading north without any idea where we would stay tonight. As we neared Bourges, the 14^th century capital of France, my mom suggested we turn off into a smaller village and try to find somewhere to stay. Agreeing, I drove to Saint-Amand-Montrond.

           The town was a quaint spot and compared to the bustling streets of Avignon, it was deserted. The central square was surrounded by cafes and outdoor tables, but no one sat in them and few of the restaurants were even open. We drove down one narrow alley, than another, looking for hotel. Finally we stumbled upon the Office de Tourisme or tourist office—every town has one. I parked and we walked to the door only to find the office locked and the shades drawn.

            I turned around to tell my mom it was closed but the minute I did, the door opened and a woman beckoned us in. I told her we needed a room for the night.

            She nodded and pulled out an entire book—listing the nearby hotels and amenities of each.

My mom interrupted her.

            “Is there a bed and breakfast?” she asked hopefully. The woman nodded and pointed out a woman’s house near the end of town.

             “Very charming,” she told us. “Do you want me to call her and see if there is room?” Surprised by her offer we chanted “oui” and she made the telephone call.

             The bed and breakfast is two rooms in the attic of a family’s house. The room we’re staying in is small and charming, complete with ancient beams that stretch across the ceiling and a small cat whose fur reminds me of fudge ripple ice cream.

              Unforunately, there is no Internet here, so I am taking a break—writing a little now to publish tomorrow morning.

              I can hear the rushing of the river outside and the cooing of doves as I type, nestled in a thick down comforter. Rain drips from the eaves, a reminder of the earlier storm. Without the Internet, a phone, or television, I feel completely removed from everything; it’s quite nice.