Paris and Versailles, 15 – 18 September 2006

With knee operation and enforced confinement looming, a jaunt about the arrondissments of Paris and its patisseries, galleries and boutiques seemed like the thing to do. And so off I set, in that most pleasant of European months, September, with a visit to Versailles also in mind. After all, Marie Antoinette would be premiering in the UK on 20 October and seeing the palace up close and personal would make Ms Coppola’s rock and roll rendition of Versailles life all the more illuminating.

Perhaps.

Superb (Overheard) Conversation

Standing in line to enter Château Versailles on our second visit (more on why later), it became evident that terrorism’s arm had stretched far enough to permeate even this touristey outing to the Sun King’s domain on an overcast, muggy September Sunday afternoon. My idle musings on various means and methods of annihilating all who stood before me in the ever-increasing queue was interrupted by a piercing (American) female voice.

American Lady 1: Why does Osama hate us so much?

American Lady 2: Well, honey, you have to understand – he’s an extremist. Oh by the way, that’s a lovely jumper you have on.

Fact – more comical than fiction, non?

Amedeo’s Muses, The Royal Academy of Art

Amedeo Modigliani and his brand of long faced, swan necked, melancholy lovelies in their muted shades have long been a favourite of mine. I have always been partial to portraits of fashionable women, their gazes mysterious and distant and their stories unknowable. When wandering around a dusty gallery (eg. Norway’s Nasjonalgalleriet in Oslo) full of dull, unappealing canvases, Amedeo’s paintings are bound attract the eye much like a magpie is attracted by a shiny bauble.

‘Let them eat brioche’: Part 1 – Paul

Marie Antoinette (and the French in general) certainly had the right attitude when it came to delectable combinations of butter, eggs, sugar and flour. And if Paul had existed in 1789, who knows if the course of French history would have been vastly altered. For what maurauding Gallic peasant could fail to be quietened by Paul’s Normande (baguette, beurre and creamy melting camembert), its tarte au citron or its rhubarb tart?

Le postscriptum – Zizou: ‘Je regrette pas’

The long awaited interview with the man whose actions mystified the globe, left the lipreading profession in disarray and reignited the popularity of ‘yo mamma’ jokes, has left us none the wiser.

A contrite (and very handsome) Zinédine Zidane, speaking on France’s Canal television last night, apologised for his chest-butt, particularly to the children and stated that he would rather have suffered a blow to the jaw than have heard Materazzi’s words.  But he did not reveal the Italian’s specific words.

The outcome of the FIFA investigation may reveal the exact words which passed between the two men that night.  (Anyone inclined to pore over FIFA’s 90 page disciplinary code can do so here).

But does it matter?

Dude, the defender’s chest is not a football

His actions have stunned his nation and the globe and will, no doubt, dominate water cooler conversations and newspaper headlines tomorrow.

Minutes after a glorious header attempt on goal (brilliantly blocked by Buffon, whose name still manages to make me smile), Zidane decided to put his head to practise again… err, on an Italian defender’s chest. Needless to say, as they’ve been doing for thousands of years, the Italian collapsed like a Portuguese player.

Cheese eating warmongers (Le Marseillaise translated)

A French friend remarked after the France/Portugal match that she had never heard the Marseillaise sung as many times before as during the match.  As an Australian who belted her little lungs out singing Advance Australia Fair (followed by the dolourous God Save The Queen) every morning during school assembly, I found this quite bizarre.

From high school french, I recalled (possibly conjured!) a reference in the fourth verse to the crushing of Teuton heads but thought that verse was no longer sung.  She explained that no, even the first verse spoke of ‘sowing fields with blood’.  Noice.  Le Marseillaise had also, apparently, in recent times, been hijacked by the more rightwing and xenophobic elements of French society.

My curiousity piqued, I did a bit a digging.   No reference to Teuton head crushing but lots of references to tyranny, slavery and erm… war.  In comparison, Advance Australia Fair with its talk of ‘golden soil/and wealth for toil/our home girt by sea’ is positively coma-inducing.  But it’s all context isn’t it?  Le Marseillaise was originally a marching song and its rousing (and catchy!) tune befits a battle song for a nation forged by blood.  As opposed to an anthem which… er… was not!

For the Wikipedia entry containing the lyrics en francais et anglais, click here.

Panto season comes early

A momentary truce to a thousand year old enmity was declared last night.  English fans fell in behind the French and willed on their new best mates to trounce their World Cup conquerors, Portugal.  And to make Rooney vanquisher, Ronaldo, cry, of course.

The Vibe Bar in Brick Lane, furnished with benches, trestle tables, stands, three big screens, two bars, and hundreds of Gallic types.  (NB: the beret capped, stripe shirted, thin mustached sort was conspicuously absent “non!  ze football?  It eez for imbeciles!”).  The lone Portuguese supporter I noted was quickly engulfed by Gauls descending en masse shortly before kick off.  (Next time, perhaps somewhere in Kennington or Stockwell instead).  The cavernous warehouse space, swallowing and regurgitating the commentary with hollow booms could not drown out the continual cries of allez! allez! and the more than occasional merde!

Oliphant!

One of the more amazing sights about London two weekends ago… a giant mechanically operated elephant, three storeys high, a carriage atop its back where various women in indian costume and a man in 18th century suit were scurrying about, and capable of spurting water onto the delighted masses following its path through Central London. Based on a Jules Verne story and apparently a project five years in the making between the Nantes-based theatre company Royal de Luxe, the Arts Council of England and the Mayor of London, Red Ken himself.

I caught up with the Sultan’s Elephant as it headed down Pall Mall and followed it (and the truck behind it housing a French band playing strangely appropriate Gallic soft rock) as it turned up into St James Street. There was lots of delighted squealing from recipients of the water spraying from the elephant’s trunk and it certainly helped that London turned on the warmest day of the year to date. But the crowds all got a bit too much for me when the pachyderm inexplicably came to a halt on Picadilly and went to sleep. Yes, its limbs went quite limp and its eyes actually closed. At that stage, I decided to make my escape through Mayfair, following – ahem – the siren call of Selfridges.

Despite the comments of the Guardian’s curmudgeonly theatre critic, Michael Billington, and the fact that the elephant’s journey caused all sorts of traffic problems, I’m all for huge mechanical animals parading through one’s city to the strains of cheesey French soft rock/mystic cithar music.

Coming soon to a city near you! (well, if you’re near Antwerp, Calais and le Havre)

Official Sultan’s Elephant website.