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.