Le Château de Versailles

I would like to see an episode of Grand Designs on Versailles. ‘Louis wants to convert this old hunting lodge into something he can bring the whole court to. But I don’t think he can do it without bankrupting the country.’ Apparently they went pretty close.

Versailles is not architecture, it’s the performance of power, from the layout of the wings to the rituals performed within them. It’s exciting to walk the corridors and imagine who has been there before, and what intrigues political and romantic they plotted.

The Hall of Mirrors is elegant and devastatingly beautiful, exciting when you consider it was where the Sun King held court, and tragic when you remember it was where the Treaty of Versailles was signed, destining Europe to another three decades of hell.

From the Palais to the far end of the canal is three kilometres, but the glare makes the lines indefinite, making it stretch somewhere out there. With the trees beginning to bud again, everything seems slightly diffuse and fantastic. It must look spectacular in late spring, but even now it looks like – really – a fairytale land.

When you go to Versailles make sure you go to the Trianons. They are a one-and-a-half kilometre trek from the main chateau, past water features and through maze-like gardens (think of topiary on forty-foot trees). The Grand Trianon has a similar sumptuousness but is warmer and more intimate than the Palais; the Petit Trianon just down the road is the granny-flat of the chateau, small and less flashy, but with a jewel of a garden, with paths and groves and caves and water features that must have been a delight to walk among, and a great place for kids to play.

The salon du thé in the Palais is run by the Angelina chain, and the chocolate l’Africain is the best in Paris.

How to use a Louvre

When I first saw the Grand Canyon I realised that here was something about as big as you could get and still retain some sense of scale. The Louvre is in this class. It is really, really big. You can’t see it all in one visit, unless it lasts for a year or so.

If you get there by opening time (9am today) you will get through the queue in about five minutes. Like the Musée d’Orsay and the Tour Eiffel, there is bag screening, but unlike those there are no soldiers with machine guns.

If you get there early you will also have a chance to get close to the Mona Lisa. After 10am she will be constantly surrounded by a hundred admirers, most of whom are either taking photos (‘Here’s me with the Mona Lisa, here’s my dog with the Mona Lisa’ etc) or shaking their heads and saying ‘Is that all?’ You can’t get close enough to examine the painting as a work of art – ten feet at most – so just acknowledge its presence on the wall and tick it off the list. There are other, much more interesting paintings in the room, so it won’t be a wasted visit.

There are many places to sit down. Use them. You will be glad you did.

If you can arrange it, try to see a group of about twenty eight-year-olds being marshalled for a toilet stop. Great comic relief.

Do your homework before you go. Work out what you want to see and stick to it. Otherwise you will become confused and listless. We decided on the Italian paintings, some of the French romantics, and a few major items. We covered them fairly superficially and then it was time for lunch.

Lunch! Mmmm. The Café de la Pyramid – great decor and great food. Or have chocolate and croissants while overlooking the gardens. Mmmm again.

Afterwards go for a walk in the Jardin des Tuileries and watch the people. Endlessly fascinating.

PS Make sure you see the Venus de Milo - she's far more attractive and doesn't have half as many hangers-on as Lisa.

Kátia Kabanová, Opéra national de Paris

When Joan Sutherland came back to Sydney in 1965 there was much complaint that the opening night has not been as glamorous as Melbourne’s. The problem was the venue. Her Majesty’s Theatre, in Quay Street near Central Station, had until a few years previously been the Empire Cinema, and its foyer was not big enough for women to show off their frocks and jewellery and be seen.

The Palais Garnier, the main opera theatre in Paris, has no such problem. When Charles Garnier designed it he made sure there were plenty of spaces for people to promenade during the intervals, and boxes facing the audience so that bejewelled bosoms might sparkle in the light of the huge chandelier. Most important is the great foyer, focusing on a huge marble staircase, and with balconies at all levels from which to see and be seen. It is a great example of form following function, years before the principle was encoded by whoever it was that encoded it.

And only one word can adequately describe the interior – wow. Look it up on the net. The auditorium is dominated by the chandelier and Marc Chagall’s gorgeous mural across the roof, a tribute to opera composers (the picture above represents Mussorgsky’s Boris Godunov).

Oh, and the seats in our little box were comfortable (we didn’t try the chaise longue at the back, but the mirror came in useful for checking that we looked fabulous before we walked out into the lobby).

Janacek’s Kátia Kabanová is a short but intense three acts, here played consecutively without a break so as to run within 100 minutes. Thomas Netopil conducted skilfully; the music is angular yet lyrical, rhythmic and compelling, and with the right performers you get drawn in, even thought the words and the surtitles are in languages you don’t speak.

Christoph Marthaler’s production is set not in the rural village specified by the librettist, but in a contemporary apartment block by the Volga River. Two shabby walls of windows, and the people living behind them, look down on the courtyard where the action plays out. Unlike those in Orlando, of which the best that can be said is that they didn’t fall down, the sets participate in the action.

Kátia is caught between fidelity to her husband Tichon (Donald Kaasch) and the joy of her affair with Boris (Jorma Silvasti). Kátia is weighed down by boredom and something less intense and desirable than despair, which explains why she might find either of these harried and haunted men attractive or worthy of loyalty. Angela Denoke (Kátia) has the ability to convey that kind of inner life without grandiose gestures, and her strong soprano soars over the orchestra, making the Czech words flow with the melody. Vocally the only other interesting performer was Ales Briscein (Kudriach), a light tenor with a much stronger voice than you usually hear in this part. Jane Henschel (Kabanicha, Kátia’s mother-in-law) doesn’t have much chance to show off vocally but impresses with her acting. Kabanicha, is a plump ball of self-centredness teetering between her heels and her beehive, one of those rare characters in opera who do not develop but stay as they were at the beginning, and her indifference to Kátia is as fatal to her as anything else.

When we left the Opéra to catch the metro home, the lights of the Louvre were glowing in the distance, and breakdancers were performing for a crowd on the Opéra steps.

Orlando Furioso, Théâtre du Champs-Elysées

The first thing you need to know if you ever go to the Théâtre du Champs-Elysées is that the seats upstairs are ridiculously small. The place was built for a more petite age, and unless you are snake-hipped and have short legs, or are a child up to twelve, you will be crippled by the end of the evening. Even before the opera began Megan was sitting on the steps, and I was standing. It saved embarrassment to know that we weren’t the only ones.

If you go there to see Vivaldi’s Orlando Furioso, one thing you don’t need to know is the plot. A loves B who loves C and so, D casts magic spells and E goes mad for most of act III. The end. The important thing is the singing, a thought which comforted us when we saw the French surtitles.

Marie-Nicole Lemieux (Orlando) has a big contralto voice, bright and even throughout her whole range. She deserved the ovation for her act I aria ‘Troppo è fiero’, and the cheers and stamping that greeted her curtain call at the end. Jennifer Larmore was a fiery Alcina, ripping off ornamental runs like the spells she put half the characters under.

But we were there for Philippe Jaroussky, probably the first legendary voice of the 21st century. Jaroussky sang the small role of Ruggiero, but his stage presence and his extraordinary voice made his three arias stand out. His melancholy ‘Sol da te, mio dolce amore’ was perfect in every way. The review in Friday’s Le Monde simply said, ‘The Ruggiero of Philippe Jaroussky, miracle of poetry incarnate, is very beautiful.’

Jean-Christophe Spinosi conducted his Ensemble Matheus, their customary clarity and balance a joy to listen to. It has been said that we are in a golden age for baroque opera. It’s probably true. Pity about the seats.

Notre Dame

In an age that has seen it all, it is remarkable that every day thousands flock to Notre-Dame de Paris. We don’t view it with the eyes of our predecessors: we don’t look for God, and we have seen bigger buildings. But today the square in front of the cathedral was full of tourists, street performers, hawkers and beggars, and the fat pigeons approached them boldly, showing that this was not an unusual day.

Some go there to tick another sight off the list. Others go because of its mythologies, real and imagined. I am one of those; as we approached from the Petit Pont, I could see the crowds storming the cathedral in search of the hunchback, and inside I could see where Napoleon I (they don’t call him Bonaparte here) grabbed the crown and made himself Emperor.

It’s a lot like the Musée d’Orsay or the Louvre, using culture and history to turn a quid. The cathedral shop sells books and cds, jewellery and rosaries. If you put 2€ in a machine you can get a (very good) little book in any of nine languages describing the cathedral. If you put 2€ in another machine you can get a souvenir medal. Across the road, one side of the Rue d’Arcole is lined with souvenir shops, and within a couple of blocks you can find Le Quasimodo brasserie, the Hotel Esmeralda, and the Café Notre Dame (which serves great crepes).

But among the profane the sacred continues. The clerics get on with the business of God, holding mass for the faithful while the tourists shuffle around, gawking at the roof and the stained-glass windows. The priest reads the homily and prays, the communicants respond to the formulas, and the great organ rings through the nave. For those who have eyes to see and ears to hear, it is a window into the numinous, something beyond the stone and glass. Somehow it is quiet.

We're here

Sitting at the table in our flat on the 7th floor in the 7th arrondissement,

• having flown in to Charles de Gaulle at 6.30am to 7ºC and fog, and got through immigration, baggage collection and (non-existent) customs with a few confident bonjours and mercis;

• having caught the Air France bus into Paris at peak hour, and realising that the Boulevard Peripherique is an eight-lane version of Parramatta Road, only uglier (‘C’est impossible!’ I hear you cry);

• having caught a cab and experienced the thrills and danger of the traffic at the Arc de Triomphe, and remembering that the French invented Grand Prix motor racing;

• having found our flat and realised that the lift will take both of us, or the luggage, or one and some luggage, but not everything, and that we can see the spire of Les Invalides from our kitchen window;

• having strolled over to the Champs du Mars to see the Tour Eiffel and take a few photos, and having contemplated which boulangerie we might grab a coffee at later;

• having bought a few days’ supplies from the G20 supermarché down the road, and having lunched on inexpensive camembert purchased at said supermarché;

• having discovered that French people are not rude and arrogant but friendly and welcoming, even the checkout fille at the G20;

we contemplate, what shall we do next? What is the best way to spend the afternoon that stretches before us, that is a natural consequence of what we have so far experienced, and will prepare the way for new adventures to come?

A shower, and a sleep. That flight is LONG.

We have liftoff! (almost)

We’ve dreamed, we’ve planned, we’ve scrimped, we’ve saved, we’ve booked, we’ve learned the languages and watched the movies, and now we’re off (well, next Wednesday we will be).


Just a quick list of where we’re going and what we’ll be dressing for:

16 March – Sydney to Paris
17-30 March – Paris (min 5.1, max 11.8)
31 March-10 April – Hamburg (min 3.3, max 12.3)
11-17 April – Berlin (min 4.2, max 13.2)
18-19 April – Köln (min 3.6, max 14.2)
20-26 April – Paris and Northern France (min 6.8, max 14.7)
27 April-11 May – London (min 8.7, max 17.0)
12 May – Paris (min 10.5, max 19.0)
13-14 May – Paris to Sydney (min 11.5, max 19.3)

Five countries (if you count Belgium and Singapore in transit), seven cities, ten operas, a million cathedrals and art galleries – it’s a culturepalooza!

Watch this space for updates on our exciting adventures.