
Today we visited the Chateau De Versailles. I have been to Paris on several occasions but have never visited Versailles, so was very enthusiastic about our little excursion. We had a wonderfully amiable driver and guide named Didier who picked us up at our hotel. When we arrived, Didier parked the car and hustled about getting us all admitted and the next thing I knew we were walking up some beautiful marble steps and then we entered a vast hall covered with murals.
I must interrupt my story here to explain something. When my kids were little I read a lot about child development and one thing I learned is that a child goes through certain stages after which the child is able to capably regulate his or her emotions. I completely skipped these stages. They’re supposed to happen around 5 or 6, but I think I spent the whole time playing with kittens and watching the Land of the Giants or something and the stages passed me right by. As a result, I have a hard time, on occasion, with the whole emotional regulation thing. I tell this now, only because when we entered this first vast, muraled hall at the Palace of Versailles, I began to cry. I don’t mean that my eyes misted up, or that I had to wipe away a tear. No, I burst into tears. I tried to wipe the tears away but they were streaming down my face and my daughter noticed them and grabbed my son, saying, “Don’t look at Mom, it’s too embarrassing, DO NOT look at Mom.”
Denis caught a glimpse of me and then started studying the ceiling mural very seriously.
Because my family were all suddenly facing away from us, Didier had only me to begin his tour with, but after saying a few words and having me answer with heaving sobs, he had to ask if I was okay and I sputtered, tears springing from my eyes, “It’s …just ..so …beautiful.”

By the time we reached the second or third hall, I was used to all the gilded beauty and the musculature of the painted horses and warriors, and all the Gods of mythology, the cherubs, the vastness of the space, the tapestries, the sparkling chandeliers, the multitude of arches and the leaded windows leading out to the manicured gardens, and I was able to listen to Didier and focus on the lifestyles of the Kings Louis, XIV, XV and XVI.
My favorite thing (and really what little I have every known) about the French court life was all the fooling around that was going on. All the lovers and mistresses. All the illegitimate heirs. So, when Didier pointed out Louis XIV’s bedchamber and mentioned that a small door led to a back chamber, I chirped, “That’s where he’d meet his mistress, right?”
“Well, perhaps. But there were many chambers back there….”
“Would his mistresses sometimes sneak into his room?” I asked, breathlessly.
“No, not even his wife would visit him in his room. He would go to her.”
“Interesting!” I’d say, my head spinning with all the romantic possibilities, the kids walking, fast, into the next chamber.
I did the same thing when I was shown the brothels in Pompeii and the Roman baths. Teenagers were able to listen to their guides explain about the sex menus on the walls of the Pompeii brothels, while I was snickering into my hand, my cheeks flaming. It’s another stage that passed me by. Maturity in general.
So it was a glorious tour, not too crowded and Dev took all the pictures, except this one, that I took of two delightful young Americans:



