Versailles ain't for wusses

Versailles is France’s – perhaps the planet’s – most popular tourist attraction. It is not for wusses.

Yesterday, the day Little Margaret, Susan and I decided to go to Versailles, approximately half of Europe and the equivalent of the population of Kentucky had turned out to ogle at the splendid palace of King Louie the Someteenth and his queen, Marie Antoinette.

I knew as we trudged up the hill from the parking lot I was going to be in trouble. I’m in terrible physical shape, but this was absurd. The cobblestones had apparently been laid to deter the riff-raff from ever coming to call. Here 250 years later they’re still performing their duty well. Every step was torture.

The ticket line snaked back and forth outdoors for days. No, we hadn’t been clever enough to purchase ours in advance, so into the queue we went. It was about this same moment that winter arrived. But we had come this far, and everybody else seemed to grin and bear the Arctic temperature, so we went with the flow. I’m sure it was the Swedes in line who were actually peeling off layers of clothes at this point.

Once inside, naturally I had to find a loo. My bladder imperatives are famous among the people with whom I travel. Basically I flit from toilet to toilet most places I go, and Versailles, of course, was to be no exception. Except it seems that King Louie, for all his money and power, never got around to putting in facilities, at least for the size of the crowds he’s attracting these days. By my calculation, there is about one toilet seat per 81,015 visitors on the property, which is spread out on territory the size of West Virginia. Let me explain for those of you who don’t have the bladder the size of a lentil, this is not a favorable ratio.

Because of the huge crowds, we decided to tackle the royal family’s smaller dwellings first. To get there we had to ride a tram that made me yearn and pine for the Daewoo Deathtrap I recently ditched. Daewoo was a model of comfort compared to the tram. To get to the tram required a Battan-like march. By now the Arctic wind had picked up and the temperature had dropped even further. By the time we entered Marie Antoinette’s Petite Trianon (little cottage) we could no longer feel our ears or fingers.

And of course, my bad back was already speaking loudly: “Sit down, sit down now! Pain, pain, pain!”

Back at the Big House, I knew my back was on its last legs and that I would be unable to see everything. Little Margaret and Susan, both in great physical condition for women their age, went on ahead with my blessing. It pleased me that Margaret, in particular, was enjoying this day so much. I was cold and miserable and didn’t really give a flying fig about French history, but as a serious student of history, Margaret was in her element. She had indulged me the day before at Monet’s garden; it was now her turn.

I decided to make one last attempt to get into the whole Louie thing by gunning for the Hall of Mirrors on the second floor. Unfortunately, the Versailles people had brought in some stupid exhibit by a contemporary Japanese artist – and I use the word artist very loosely. His installation was a series of plastic cartoon characters in garish colors that would look outrageous in a playground at your local McDonald’s. In Versailles??? Ridiculous! These tacky figures give new meaning to the word UGLY.A pile of cow patties would be a step up on the artistic scale.

So instead of seeing the luxurious furnishings of the kings and queens of France, one had to look at plastic Japanese excrement in the same space. It rather ruined the effect, quite frankly. And it didn’t help that my feet and legs were screaming in agony.

As I pressed on through a sea of humanity, many of whom seemed like irritable Oriental people by this point, I was getting more and more frustrated, uncomfortable and annoyed. The chilly outdoor air would have been welcome; the temp inside those ornate chambers was at least 100 degrees. Leavened with the body odors of thousands of fellow culture pilgrims, the air seemed to take on an evil life of its own.

By now I was experiencing what can only be described as a rogue hot flash. My blood pressure was through the roof, and there was not a cell in my body that was performing to standard. I had walked at least five miles and had seen not one thing I’d write home about. Every instinct was saying to me, “Flee! Flee now!” I found a couple of guards and said, “I’ve got to get out of here!”

My lack of French, for once, was not a problem. Apparently the look on my face was communication enough. The staff couldn’t have been nicer. They even took me into a “secret” room of the king’s and opened a window and let me cool off and rest my aching body. By now everything from my nose down was in pain. My distress must have showed. One of the guards even offered a massage. I declined, with a sincere merci beaucoup.

My dear attendants led me out through several rooms not open to the public. I swear I was so relieved to see the exit that if one of them had said, “Follow that corridor; George Clooney is waiting for you in Marie Antoinette’s secret boudoir,” I would have said, “Nah. Let him eat cake.”