One week to go! This time next Sunday we'll be winging our way back to Rome, and to a dinner with Adam at Bi-Won, an excellent Korean place that may well have ruined me for other Korean restaurants (I say this having been only moderately enthused by a plate of spicy pork and kimchi at a well-reviewed place near Republique yesterday).
Last week we took another trip outside Paris to Provins, a small town south-east of Paris that features regularly in all the "day trips from Paris" recommendations, since its preserves its medieval character in the upper town. I think time in Italy, with its plethora of charming hill towns, has made me snobby, because I wasn't really that impressed. The medieval part of town was pretty small, and without many features of interest; the main (and only) square had a smattering of overpriced cafes as well as the requisite ice cream shop and carousel, but not much else. We climbed the "tower of Caesar," which did give a view onto the medieval church and to the town below, but beyond that the landscape was pretty uninteresting (for example, a new subdivision that could easily have been in New Haven). We checked out the church, the nave of which was never completed, and then walked to the other end of town to see the Gate of Joy, the plain but sturdy-looking gate that still preserves some of its ramparts. And that was all! Definitely not worth 50 euro for two train tickets from Paris, in my opinion. What did strike me a day or so ago is that Provins would have made an excellent setting for Madame Bovary: stifling, provincial, and small. Anyone would go crazy, have affairs, and ruin their husband if they were trapped there! Even Sean agreed, sort of (he's never had much sympathy for poor Emma).
After we arrived I briefly re-read How Paris Became Paris, and was reminded that compared to Venice, Florence, or especially Rome, Paris was such a late-bloomer as a city! Almost all of the significant architecture in Paris dates to the 17th-19th centuries. In the middle of the 16th century, an emissary of Phillip II who was on a mission to survey important architecture in the north of Europe reported that there was nothing of architectural interest to see in Paris, and stayed just a single day. At that point, of course, there were no squares, no boulevards, no great public gardens. Even the sameness of the architecture (tall, narrow facades painted white, slate mansard roofs) which seemed kind of bland to me the last time we were here, now reminds me of the incredible control that was given to city planners, to force new construction to adhere to certain standards so that the growing city would have a "look" to it, something that no other city had had before.
Again, always comparing to Rome, we've been so impressed by the public spaces here--not only by their cleanliness and organization, but by the wonderfully diverse ways in which the French use them. At the Parc du Belleville, a five-minute walk from our place, you can see out over the entire city from a looktop at the top; you can also see nearly every inch of grass taken up by people sun-bathing, reading, or just hanging out in groups. Walking back through Place du Republique on a weekend evening, people are skate-boarding on one half of the huge, traffic-free central square, while one of the cafes has put out all sorts of table games and kids games for patrons and families to enjoy. Official communication seems to be pretty clear, too; for example there are large, easily legible maps of your surroundings at every bus stop and metro entrance, and even on the sides of the (many and free) public toilets. Today I got a bit lost while running found myself at a highway on-ramp; I ran south until I found a bus stop and could figure out that I'd taken the wrong street at one of those spiral intersection.
Another example of surprisingly good communication: at Pere-Lachaise cemetery there were signs explaining that the city had discontinued use of a particular weed-killer that was carcinogenic, and asking for patience with the weeds as they tried out different solutions. Unthinkable in Rome (and probably most places in the US, too). Of course, underneath all this admiration of Paris as such a livable and functioning city is my awareness that I don't really know anything about what it means to live here. If you don't speak the language, your awareness of a culture and its problems is limited to what you can read in the English press. After all, we're certainly not getting to know any actual French people. France clearly does have a lot of problems, racial, post-colonial, and religious problems--but it's so easy, as a short-term visitor, to see only the lovely surface and not what may be underneath.
A note on Pere-Lachaise: when we were here a couple of years ago, I noted how I didn't think the cemetery had the charm of the Protestant Cemetery in Rome. This time I realized why: it's not just the atmosphere, the lack of the cypresses and the Pyramid of Gaius Cestius. Partially it's the recent date of the cemetery; it wasn't opened until the 19th century, so the style of the tombs tends to be very similar, and there are far fewer idiosyncratic tombs (aside from Oscar Wilde, etc.) than you find in Rome. But more than this, I think it's the sheer variety of people from all nations and faiths who are buried in the cemetery in Rome that captures both my imagination and my pity. The people buried in Pere-Lachaise are overwhelmingly Parisians buried where they lived and died, but most of those in the Roman cemetery probably didn't expect to die there, in a foreign country. The gravestones, in fact, often speak of sudden illnesses and disasters while traveling. Standing in front of those sorrowful monuments, a traveler yourself and far from home, empathy comes easily. I wonder if, at the end, even those who were permanent transplants wished they could have died on their native soil, with the people they knew.
''One morning, I shot an elephant in my pajamas. How he got in my pajamas, I don't know.''
Sunday, August 21, 2016
Saturday, August 13, 2016
Chantilly and Musee Conde
Yesterday we took our first real trip out of Paris; Chantilly is only a 30 minute ride on an express train, but it seems world away. The town itself, of which we didn't see much, is small and quaint, but everyone comes there for the Domaine de Chantilly, the vast park surrounding the Chateau and its exquisite Musee Conde. We took a rather roundabout way from the train station and wound up on a path crossing an immense field, by what we later realized was the hippodrome or horse-racing track, moving toward a vast building that we assumed was the chateau itself. Nope! It was merely the incredibly large stables, built by Louis XV, which still house live performing horses as well as the Museum of the Horse. A couple of galleries were dedicated to carousels, with the majority of the colorful examples coming from the US in the early 20th century, including Rhode Island and Philadelphia (a rabbit, a zebra, and a giraffe included!)
The Chateau itself was further on, behind a huge wrought-iron gate with a gilt crest, and across two bridges, the corners of which were ornamented with big 19th-century statues of hunting dogs and stags, a nod to the original function of this place, which was a hunting retreat for the French royal family. An equestion statue of Anne de Montmorency, the Constable of France under Francis I, who had the chateau built in the 1560s, stands before the main gate; from his family the estate passed eventually to the Grand Conde, the first prince-of-the-blood (cousin to young Louis XIV). His family is the reason the museum inside is called the Musee Conde, but, rather confusingly, the collection is neither his nor Montmorency's, but a totally unrelated nobleman, at least insofar as French nobility is ever un-related: the Duc d'Aumale, whose father, Louis-Phillipe, was the last king of France, reigning 1830-1848. Aumale had to go into exile once his father was forced to abdicate, but he had been bequeathed the Chateau by his godfather, the last prince of Conde (whose only son and heir had been shot by Napoleon). Once he was allowed to return to France in the 1870s he reconstructed the Chateau, which had been mostly destroyed in the Revolution, into its current state--in which everything, from fireplace grates to doorknobs, bears the monogram of a superimposed H-O, for Henri d'Orleans, his actual name.
He was a fantastic collector of books, drawings, and paintings. There are three paintings by Raphael in his collection, including the small, delicate Three Graces and the so-called Madonna di Loreto, which was thought only to be a copy after a lost painting from the Borghese until a cleaning reveal the Borghese inventory number. Other notable paintings included a very sexy Ingres self-portrait (adjacent to a copy of Titian's Prado Ecce Homo), a small Maso di Banco Lamentation over the Dead Virgin once thought to be Giotto, Piero di Cosimo's posthumous portrait of Simonetta Vespucci, the loveliest woman in Florence, and the gallery of small portraits of various members of the French royal houses (not collected by Aumale). Probably one of the most valuable objects is the one not on view, except through a facsimile: the Very Rich Hours of the Duke du Berry, a 14th-century illuminated manuscript that's included in every art history survey as an example of "International Gothic."
The house itself was also really cool. A couple of rooms that survived the Revolution had been restored by Aumale to the 18th-century Rococo splendor. The dining room featured gas sconces that apparently produced flame in the shape of the fleur-de-lis, and in the adjacent service kitchen there was a speaking tube in the wall going down to the actual kitchens (which I was tickled by since we just watched the Aristocats!) The grounds were also exceptionally lovely, and large. The gardens closest to the house were designed by Andre le Notre (who designed Versailles), but further away the grounds were permitted to become 'manicured country style' (complete with sheep grazing alongside a river) and woods. The grounds were so large, in fact, that as I was dragging myself on our march back to the main gates (Sean, of course, was trotting happily along after 5 hours) we saw a sign that indicated that there was a kangaroo enclosure on the grounds--but on the far distant side! Not even the lure of a 'roo, alas, could induce me to walk all of that over again (especially not when we still had to walk back another half-hour to the station) so we regretfully bid them goodbye, soothing our sorrow with an ice-cream cone. Real ice cream! Not gelato! I do love France. Best of all, the ticket-seller had given us both the student discount, no questions asked, so we paid 20 euro for all of this beauty and splendor, instead of 34. I also love a bargain.
The Chateau itself was further on, behind a huge wrought-iron gate with a gilt crest, and across two bridges, the corners of which were ornamented with big 19th-century statues of hunting dogs and stags, a nod to the original function of this place, which was a hunting retreat for the French royal family. An equestion statue of Anne de Montmorency, the Constable of France under Francis I, who had the chateau built in the 1560s, stands before the main gate; from his family the estate passed eventually to the Grand Conde, the first prince-of-the-blood (cousin to young Louis XIV). His family is the reason the museum inside is called the Musee Conde, but, rather confusingly, the collection is neither his nor Montmorency's, but a totally unrelated nobleman, at least insofar as French nobility is ever un-related: the Duc d'Aumale, whose father, Louis-Phillipe, was the last king of France, reigning 1830-1848. Aumale had to go into exile once his father was forced to abdicate, but he had been bequeathed the Chateau by his godfather, the last prince of Conde (whose only son and heir had been shot by Napoleon). Once he was allowed to return to France in the 1870s he reconstructed the Chateau, which had been mostly destroyed in the Revolution, into its current state--in which everything, from fireplace grates to doorknobs, bears the monogram of a superimposed H-O, for Henri d'Orleans, his actual name.
He was a fantastic collector of books, drawings, and paintings. There are three paintings by Raphael in his collection, including the small, delicate Three Graces and the so-called Madonna di Loreto, which was thought only to be a copy after a lost painting from the Borghese until a cleaning reveal the Borghese inventory number. Other notable paintings included a very sexy Ingres self-portrait (adjacent to a copy of Titian's Prado Ecce Homo), a small Maso di Banco Lamentation over the Dead Virgin once thought to be Giotto, Piero di Cosimo's posthumous portrait of Simonetta Vespucci, the loveliest woman in Florence, and the gallery of small portraits of various members of the French royal houses (not collected by Aumale). Probably one of the most valuable objects is the one not on view, except through a facsimile: the Very Rich Hours of the Duke du Berry, a 14th-century illuminated manuscript that's included in every art history survey as an example of "International Gothic."
The house itself was also really cool. A couple of rooms that survived the Revolution had been restored by Aumale to the 18th-century Rococo splendor. The dining room featured gas sconces that apparently produced flame in the shape of the fleur-de-lis, and in the adjacent service kitchen there was a speaking tube in the wall going down to the actual kitchens (which I was tickled by since we just watched the Aristocats!) The grounds were also exceptionally lovely, and large. The gardens closest to the house were designed by Andre le Notre (who designed Versailles), but further away the grounds were permitted to become 'manicured country style' (complete with sheep grazing alongside a river) and woods. The grounds were so large, in fact, that as I was dragging myself on our march back to the main gates (Sean, of course, was trotting happily along after 5 hours) we saw a sign that indicated that there was a kangaroo enclosure on the grounds--but on the far distant side! Not even the lure of a 'roo, alas, could induce me to walk all of that over again (especially not when we still had to walk back another half-hour to the station) so we regretfully bid them goodbye, soothing our sorrow with an ice-cream cone. Real ice cream! Not gelato! I do love France. Best of all, the ticket-seller had given us both the student discount, no questions asked, so we paid 20 euro for all of this beauty and splendor, instead of 34. I also love a bargain.
Sunday, August 07, 2016
French Musings 2
I was just writing to Jinn that I don't think we really understood how long a month can feel, if you don't have an external job or a social circle, when we decided we'd spend August in Paris. We do each have work to do--I'm turning in my second chapter to Dr. Cooper tomorrow, so that Sean can start using my laptop to finalize his conference paper--but it's surprising how *long* the days feel when it's just the two of us! Yes, all of Paris is our oyster, but Paris is also a very expensive oyster, so we can't exactly spend our afternoons guzzling wine in sidewalk cafes. We've been trying to walk as much as possible, for example, to save on metro and bus tickets, but Menilmontant is a hike, and it's also been unpleasantly cloudly and chilly.
Last night we went out belatedly to celebrate Sean's birthday; our attempt last week at Le Richer was met with disappointment, as they were closed for the August holidays. We wound up at a restaurant that was highly recommended on Tripadvisor. The service was very friendly and they're not condescending about speaking English, which probably accounts for a lot of the good feelings people leave with, but the food was mediocre at a ridiculous price. However, the night was saved by the couple next to us, Kirby and Jessica, who initiated conversation once we'd both finished our meals. They were Canadian, but had spent two years living in State College, PA, when Kirby was an assistant professor there in geography (as we learned later, geography as in climate-change research, not maps!). They were leaving Paris the next morning and heading, of all places, to Rome! We had a great conversation with them, and best of all, after agreeing on the mediocrity of our current location, they gave us a recommendation for a mom-and-pop place they had found the night before. It was really nice to have someone to talk to other than ourselves, so I told them I was grateful to them for making the first step!
After days of chill and clouds, today was a brilliantly blue, warm day, and we tried to make the most of it! This I walked down to the Bastille market to buy groceries for the week. It was less overwhelming than last weekend, and the deals are great; I got plenty of eggplant, zucchini, tomatoes, shallots, cipollini, nectarines, and grapes for less than 15 euro. Sean and I went downtown to visit the Opera Garnier, which was beautiful. I had never put this together, but one of the signs pointed out that it's a rare example of a work of architecture which carries the architect's name (along with, for example, the Eiffel Tower). Then we headed to the Tuileries to take advantage of it being a free-museum Sunday, to visit the Orangerie. It was a pretty long line in the sun, but Monet's Nymphea were worth it (although we noted that Monet's belief that the painting ensembles would produce a meditative effect on those who sat amid them would not have held up in its current environment, full of people talking and taking selfies). The pamphlet noted that when the paintings were unveiled to the public after Monet's death in 1926, people were uninterested, since it didn't seem avant-garde, but after WWII some of the expressionists returned to the paintings and saw connections to their own work in the near-abstraction of his late brushwork.
Paris has to have the loveliest and most user-friendly green spaces of any European city I've seen so far. Not only are they kept in really nice shape, but the way people use them is so incredible varied. In the Parc des Buttes-Chaumonts, there are always people doing yoga and meditating, but also people boxing, and even doing Zumba on a rare strip of level ground. At the Tuileries and other parks, there are benches, but also plenty of green metal chairs, which people can arrange to their hearts' content (provided they can get ahold of one). We snagged a couple after our time in the Orangerie and sat on the terrace overlooking the gardens. I had never thought about the way that only having benches effectively reduces the ways you can use the seating in a park; only a certain number of people can fit on one, and they can't be rearranged. Here instead you see knots of people gathered in all sorts of configurations, including plenty using a bench as a footrest or a picnic table. Poor Rome: in so many ways it comes off worse by comparison! Rome certainly lacks the money to have the kind of services and upkeep that the Parisian parks have; plus Sean pointed out, you could never have those moveable chairs there, because they'd all disappear within a month.
Last night we went out belatedly to celebrate Sean's birthday; our attempt last week at Le Richer was met with disappointment, as they were closed for the August holidays. We wound up at a restaurant that was highly recommended on Tripadvisor. The service was very friendly and they're not condescending about speaking English, which probably accounts for a lot of the good feelings people leave with, but the food was mediocre at a ridiculous price. However, the night was saved by the couple next to us, Kirby and Jessica, who initiated conversation once we'd both finished our meals. They were Canadian, but had spent two years living in State College, PA, when Kirby was an assistant professor there in geography (as we learned later, geography as in climate-change research, not maps!). They were leaving Paris the next morning and heading, of all places, to Rome! We had a great conversation with them, and best of all, after agreeing on the mediocrity of our current location, they gave us a recommendation for a mom-and-pop place they had found the night before. It was really nice to have someone to talk to other than ourselves, so I told them I was grateful to them for making the first step!
After days of chill and clouds, today was a brilliantly blue, warm day, and we tried to make the most of it! This I walked down to the Bastille market to buy groceries for the week. It was less overwhelming than last weekend, and the deals are great; I got plenty of eggplant, zucchini, tomatoes, shallots, cipollini, nectarines, and grapes for less than 15 euro. Sean and I went downtown to visit the Opera Garnier, which was beautiful. I had never put this together, but one of the signs pointed out that it's a rare example of a work of architecture which carries the architect's name (along with, for example, the Eiffel Tower). Then we headed to the Tuileries to take advantage of it being a free-museum Sunday, to visit the Orangerie. It was a pretty long line in the sun, but Monet's Nymphea were worth it (although we noted that Monet's belief that the painting ensembles would produce a meditative effect on those who sat amid them would not have held up in its current environment, full of people talking and taking selfies). The pamphlet noted that when the paintings were unveiled to the public after Monet's death in 1926, people were uninterested, since it didn't seem avant-garde, but after WWII some of the expressionists returned to the paintings and saw connections to their own work in the near-abstraction of his late brushwork.
Paris has to have the loveliest and most user-friendly green spaces of any European city I've seen so far. Not only are they kept in really nice shape, but the way people use them is so incredible varied. In the Parc des Buttes-Chaumonts, there are always people doing yoga and meditating, but also people boxing, and even doing Zumba on a rare strip of level ground. At the Tuileries and other parks, there are benches, but also plenty of green metal chairs, which people can arrange to their hearts' content (provided they can get ahold of one). We snagged a couple after our time in the Orangerie and sat on the terrace overlooking the gardens. I had never thought about the way that only having benches effectively reduces the ways you can use the seating in a park; only a certain number of people can fit on one, and they can't be rearranged. Here instead you see knots of people gathered in all sorts of configurations, including plenty using a bench as a footrest or a picnic table. Poor Rome: in so many ways it comes off worse by comparison! Rome certainly lacks the money to have the kind of services and upkeep that the Parisian parks have; plus Sean pointed out, you could never have those moveable chairs there, because they'd all disappear within a month.