“Valérie? Stéphane here. I’ll be bringing a VIP to the Queen’s Private Apartment. Just ignore the alarms.”
I’m a VIP? Oh my gosh! I’m a VIP!
Stéphane hung up, and we were off. We darted through the Château de Versailles, slipping behind burgundy velvet ropes and ascending marble staircases. Head of security at the Château, Stéphane gained access to secured areas by keypad, but he just as often whipped out one of the dozens of skeleton keys that hung from the jangly keychain on his hip. A little jittery, my interior prattle was steady. How can this be real? I feel like I’m in a movie. Stéphane always walks so fast.
Over the years, he had kindly given me many private tours of the Château. I’d stood alone in the Royal Opera and gazed down on the Royal Chapel from Madame de Maintenon’s oratory. Away from the crowds in the echoey palace, I’d experienced the silence of Versailles. Though I couldn’t quite conjure the people who had lived here, I could inhabit the space and remember that this overcrowded museum once was a home.
I had booked this France trip with a specific goal—to visit the library of Queen Marie Antoinette. For four years, I had been obsessed with this room. I’d discovered that it played a role in eighteenth-century French tea culture, so I read, reflected, wrote, lectured, and published about its history—all without ever setting foot in the room.
Nervous energy welled up in my chest as Stéphane and I approached the library. We stepped into a small room that served as an overflow area. The books were stored on shelves behind glass. Though there was a chandelier hanging from the ceiling, the room remained dim. I followed Stéphane across the worn parquet floor. He opened the cream-colored door. I placed my hand on my chest, feeling my heart race, and entered Marie Antoinette’s library.
I took stock. Two windows to my right, overlooking the interior courtyard. I had noted this in my article. High ceilings. Another chandelier, parquet floors again. There’s no fireplace. How many people have passed through this room?
As I made my way around the perimeter of the library, I ran my fingertips along the hip-high marble shelf that separated the upper and lower bookcases. The air was cool, yet stuffy. Do they air it out on Mondays when the museum is closed?
I turned to Stéphane. “How many tourists visit the Queen’s Private Apartment in a month?”
“It’s been closed for restoration for almost a decade. Once it reopens, we’ll welcome a few dozen visitors per month. We need to protect the site.”
I placed myself in the center of the library and took a deep breath. Prior to Marie Antoinette’s rein, this room was Queen Marie Leczinska’s “Laboratory” where she painted, entertained friends, made music, and sipped tea. I imagined the Queen and her ladies in waiting. In her time, the walls were adorned with panels depicting Chinese life, painted by the queen herself. She had decorated the room with chairs covered in sumptuous moiré and chintz fabrics. There had also been a Greek-inspired stool and painted curtains representing a Chinese landscape. When she died, the “Laboratory” was dismantled, its contents dispersed.
As I stood in the Queens’ library/laboratory, the centuries unfolded like an accordion. I was in Marie Leczinska’s orientalist universe, surrounded by the quiet chatter of her courtiers. I felt them sharing tea and stories. Leather-bound books from the royal collection lined the walls. While Marie Antoinette favored music and theater over reading, she nonetheless owned close to two thousand volumes. Had I been daring, I could have opened a cabinet and run my fingers along the spines of works by her contemporaries Voltaire, Rousseau, and Beaumarchais. As I drifted through the eighteenth century, I was also firmly planted in my own century, clad in a green linen jacket and Veja tennis shoes.
My rumbling tummy broke the spell, and the centuries reorganized themselves in my mind. I took a few pictures of the library, recording it in my iPhone. Years of research and reflection had already imprinted it on my soul. My quest complete, it was time to treat Stéphane to lunch at the brasserie down the street.
While the grandeur of Versailles resides in its Château, its charm is surely in its diminutive streets, passages, and courtyards. Lying in the shadow of the Château, la rue des Deux Portes (The Street with Two Doors) has mixed residental and business since the 17th and 18th centuries. Connecting the rue Carnot to the Place du Marché, boutiques and restaurants saturate this short pedestrian way. La rue des Deux Portes is lively, local, and picturesque, well worth a quick visit after your market trip or Château visit. Alternatively, make an afternoon of shopping on this street and in the antique district, le Quartier des Antiquaires, also located close to the Place du Marché.
As soon as I stepped into the theater, a sumptuous hush fell over me.
I have some minor hoarding tendencies, mostly involving excessive amounts of books and clothes. But when it comes to decorating for the holidays, I prefer a clean, streamlined, and muted look. A few strands of twinkling white lights, some live greenery, and a dozen or so ornaments compose my Christmas décor most years.
In 2010, while living in France, I hosted Thanksgiving for 24 American college students. Our “Franksgiving” celebration was boisterous and joyful. My students decorated my apartment with handmade construction paper leaves and turkeys. I cooked for days in the rickety Strasbourg kitchen—green beans, apple and cabbage slaw, winter squash. Students contributed favorite family casseroles, approximated with French market ingredients. I had rotisserie chickens delivered to the apartment on Garlic Street. It required a lot of planning, coordination, and energy to pull off “Franksgiving.” That fall, I gained a deep appreciation for the beautiful and large family meals my grandmothers, mother, and aunts have hosted over the years.
During my last visit to Paris, I spied a few of these messages of love, all sprayed by the same hand. They delighted me. Moving about Paris can be stressful, especially given the security measures of recent years—more soldiers, more police vehicles, more security checks. In short, more fear.