7-21
My feet haven't been this sore for some time; they probably sustained this much abuse at my last theme-park visit, or even summer landscape work comes to mind. Both are appropriate analogies, since I went to the Chateau Versailles today with a few others from the program.
The tour de France had blocked our train directly to the palace, and fortuitously we learned of this by one of our peers who guided us along an alternate route with the trolley (much more futuristic-looking than one from San Fran) to rendezvous with our desired station. While we waited for our train, or rather, the second train, since the first looked like a pressure cooker, one of our party introduced a simple game in which your neighbor has to think of an animal (or member of some other predetermined category) that begins with the final letter of the preceding animal, and when stumped can challenge a person at random, or the group can decide to proceed to the next letter of the alphabet if no other options exist. The letter N was proving to be problematic in the animal category, at least for us.
Versailles greets you with open arms; two symmetrical wings reach out from the central entrance and surround the square with sculptures and all the garnishes of royalty. A golden gate blocks the entrance, and passage into the bliss is granted not by sanctification but by a 15 euro ticket; after purchasing this I went to stand in the line to enter with the others.
I call it a line, Italians call it a queue, and while I don't know what the typical French word would be, the ticket lady, after a moment of deliberation, decided on the word "manifestation." While I can't quite make the word fit to the scenario as far a strict dictionary usage is concerned, referring to the line as a "manifestation" also seemed particularly appropriate. A long string of plebeians traversed the gently sloped expanse of cobblestones laid before the gate like a snake with two turning points in its long tail, producing three long stretches of "manifestation" baking in the sweltering sun and eating ice cream novelties. What exactly was being manifested is unclear, but the sentiment that there might be some greater force at work to create this monstrosity (maybe that was the word she was searching for) was amusing. Since the line did not have guiding ropes or some other form of organization, it certainly had an other-worldly quality; I would have expected to see a crowded mob form at the ticket booth otherwise.
The museum had an audio-guide tour, and my eyes had rolled out the door before I had even picked up the dreaded device. In Austria two summers ago I had my fill of audio guides; the Palace of Schonbrunn and the two residences of Mozart come to mind as being especially painful. An all-too-charming voice spews out date after date, name after name, and a plethora of terms that all either bear too little significance for my brain to imbibe at the time, or comes in too rapid of a succession, or is just thrown in to fill space, like a high school term paper. The tone, which attempts to conjure in your imagination the sights and sounds of an idyllic, pleasant, charming lifestyle that is easy to to market but feels a bit plastic. Sure, there are plenty of interesting things to learn, and I enjoy studying history to the extent that I can, but trying to appreciate my surroundings while simultaneously trying to figure out what names and dates are going to contribute to my overall experience is rather tiresome.
I knew we were in trouble when, especially after our improvised lunch after which I felt like I was the only one prepared for an afternoon of touristic activities (I've become highly skilled in the art of feeding myself; I even stocked up on nuts for the road), other members of the party greeted the audio guide concept with eager enthusiasm; energy levels were going to drop quickly. My prediction was aided in its fruition by the mass of people we had to swim through, with passing glances at the descriptions of paintings. The chateau is stunningly ornate, and yet another wonderful exhibition of craftsmanship and artisanship(?) from the previous centuries. But having been turned into a museum, a major tourist attraction complete with audio guides, the experience feels plastic. This is where all the "old stuff" is lathered with a glossy veneer and some glitter.
As the group's stamina limit was being reached, I sensed I might not be able to walk the gardens if I intended to stay with them. This presented a dilemma, one that I have often found myself in. These were great people that I would love to get to know more and share experiences with, but it would be at the expense of a solo experience, one that was partially my goal destination. The politically sensitive thing to do would be to remain with the group, since I had in essence invited myself along knowing I might not have another chance to go and knowing I might not make another chance, not to mention my high esteem for a shared experience in principle. But the door of opportunity knocks, and having thought through the return trip in my mind and assuring myself of my navigational independence, I decided to break off and do my thing.
Another factor in my considerations was whether I saw myself returning to Paris in the near future or not. In this modern age traveling is becoming easier and there is a chance that, if I do my homework, more opportunities will come that allow my return. But the opposite is equally viable; responsibilities will pile up once school is finished and I will be likely tied down by a small and transient income, and thus I need to seize the opportunities while I can. Yet as a general attitude, I'm trying to move away from being pulled from one novelty to the next, which I find myself doing often, feeling the pressure of both shared experiences and solo interactions with the culture. Can't please everyone.
I can't report on what I missed by doing my own thing and venturing into the sweltering sun accompanied by my trusty companion L.B. (Lunch Box, which contains my camera), however I was informed they went to Starbucks. I find nature, both natural and cultivated, to be my favorite arena in which to practice my photography. After descending towards a massive "orangerie," row upon row of trees in slatted wooded boxes and creatively trimmed shrubberies. I noticed people holding water bottles coming out of a large doorway. Having just consumed the bag of salty nuts I had bought earlier, I was open to the idea of quenching my thirst before it accompanied me through the rest of the gardens. Inside there were no water bottles, but a photography exhibit of prints ranging in size from small to wall-size. After appreciating the images for a few minutes, a badged and suitable dressed employee approached me to explain the exhibit. He was friendly and seemed genuinely interested in the subject, so I was happy to learn that all the pictures were taken by one man from one location: his window. Apparently he has spent 40 years taking millions of pictures of the sky, the wildlife, the small pond, the trees at all times of day in all seasons. I was amazed by the variety of birds he had captured, and all of them looking towards the camera. What patience must have gone into creating such a portfolio that might take decades of National Geographic photographers to reproduce. As my informant told me, the artists' intent for the exhibit was to show the extraordinary in the ordinary, and that one does not need to travel to take good photos but just needs to wait for the right cloud formation, the right lighting, for the deer to reappear, for the duck to spring from the lake in flight.
You can get a taste of it here http://ahae.com/collection/
I found the concept captivating. Patience and time are the keys to creating beauty, as well as thousands of dollars in camera lenses. But one just needs a lifetime of dedication to create something special, something inspiring. Only a lifetime. Is that too much to ask?
I made my way through the gardens to the home of Marie Antoinette, which was less crowded and gave me space to chase a butterfly through a flower garden with my zoom lens. Thoroughly grateful after happening upon the photography exhibit, I had another surprise: I overheard someone informing a young man and his wife that the Tour de France would be riding through at 5:45. I meandered through some paths a little and then made my way back to the spot where others were gathering with their cameras. It was not a bad location; my position was elevated above the road next to a man-made lake, and there weren't many of us because of the additional fee to enter this area of the garden (I was letting loose at this point). Thus I was facing the gate straight on, and the riders would come directly at me before turning in front of the gate by the steps I was standing on. First motorcycles and cars passed through, many more than I deemed necessary, and finally, as the bystanders along the perimeter clapped and cheered, the mob of bikers passed through the gate, escorted by several vehicles. I don't know much about the race, but this didn't look like one; they were casually coasting through and chatting with their neighbors. Following were dozens of magazine vehicles, cars with bikes and tires on the roofs (a bit excessive), and finally emergency and official vehicles. It took 30 seconds for the bikers to pass, but the entire parade was about 15 minutes. On my way out I found the idea of freshly squeezed orange juice to be appealing, but the attendants were closing shop. Thus I had no choice but to made a detour on my return-tram-ride to pick up four large oranges for half the price I would have paid for a small cup in the park, one of which I peeled voraciously on the spot, and two more have been consumed during this entry.
Glorious.
8-7
This entry is a little late; I am already back in the states and am visiting friends before heading back to NJ. The program finished up, and on the last night I had a nice treat: one of our program coordinators was a pianist and was in a private home concert. A few of us tagged along, and it was really a pleasant evening. The host had organized several similar events in her living room, inviting friends and family over to enjoy the music and company, as well as the table of homemade dinner options and desserts. Most people spoke at least some English, and they were very forgiving of my inability to speak French, agreeing that lengthy immersion is the only way to get a handle on any language. Some of them had traveled or studied in the States, and to my surprise, missed it very much, though it could have just been the college experience that was absent.
The program contained a Brahms clarinet sonata, a Schumann clarinet sonata, a Debussy clarinet solo, and some more recent works by Joan Towers. These were the most "modern" pieces on the program, and seemed to grab the audience. Is it because it is new and different? Perhaps. Was there "shock value?" Maybe, but there might be a better way to explain it. My guess is that contemporary classical music tolerates a greater variety of rhythms and sonorities, and in place of classical elegance we have raw, primal expression. Perhaps music is primarily rhythm, a bending and stretching of our sense of time. Some suggest this chaos we hear parallels postmodern philosophy, in which all the wonders of modern science have also dispelled a spiritual sentimentality for many; it seems distancing ourselves from the religious tradition has also generated a view that the tonal craft is obsolete. But there are many contemporary composers who write chaos but speak beautifully about the spiritual element in their music. The creative act might be the paramount thing, regardless of the art produced and its reception.
I think this ends my blog; the movies on the plane were better this time (The Promised Land with Matt Damon is recommended) and the jet lag was more severe... but it is good to be home. I am excited to put into practice the things I learned at the program and hope that it will open doors in the future. I heard on NPR about the benefits of traveling alone; you are more likely to meet new people, you can operate at your own rhythm, etc. and I agree wholeheartedly.
