This was the last day of our honeymoon.  Burk and I had loved it and we found that we traveled great together.  It was a day filled with laughs.  First, we discovered pay toilets.  That was bad enough (and beyond gross) until the prudes in us realized the bathroom was unisex.  Thinking back of how round our eyes were I’m quite sure we did not look particularly sophisticated.  Next came lunch.  I have been a vegetarian for years for animal ethics reasons and have been squeamish since childhood over dead critters on plates.  I will NEVER forget the look on Burk’s face when the fish he ordered arrived staring back at him from the platter — he looked absolutely horrified.  So he resorted to frantic hand gestures trying to convey to please have it deboned.  I guess the waiter figured it out judging by the wan green color he saw that washed all over my new husband’s face.  Afterward we headed out to Murano Island to see the world famous glass making factory.  It was so incredibly hot I had as much admiration for the man’s centuries-old skill in blowing glass as I did for his tolerance to the extreme heat.  They had two showrooms.  The first was more of a display gallery for folks able to drop a TON of money on big pieces.  What I resented though is we were each assigned a “handler” who followed us individually EVERYwhere.  I understood them wanting to protect their wares but this was truly offensive.  I could not turn around without literally bumping into the woman who was tailing me.  When I asked if they had anything less expensive the woman smirked and directed me to what was simply a nice gift shop where they had smaller things like Christmas ornaments, vases, and paperweights.  I got a dark blue bird and believe me it wasn’t cheap.  Ha!  Cheep!  Punny and I didn’t know it.  Anyway, after touring and shopping we headed back to the main island and passed under the ever-watchful winged lion perched high atop the city.  Pictured here is the famous Rialto Bridge.  One of four that span the Grand Canal, it is also the oldest, having been completed in 1591, and was the dividing line between the districts of San Marco and San Polo.  That night we ate on the water’s edge right where this picture was taken.  We watched the sun set and met a couple in their 80’s who had not been to Venice since their honeymoon.  I remember thinking I hoped we would be like them:  still traveling, still active and, most importantly, still in love.  Of course we could not leave without taking a gondola ride.  I found the one guy who knew a little French and tried to haggle with/cajole him probably to no avail.  Ready for this?  It was over 200 euros — 200 EUROS!!!  Highway robbery but I felt to leave without having ridden Venice’s canals would have been the bigger crime.  We passed another gondola where the man was singing.  A churlish part of me wondered if they’d had to pay extra.  We knew it was time for us to go to our new home and start our everyday lives together.  Canadian entrepreneur Guy Laliberté said:

“I am blessed for what I have, but I believed in it from the beginning.  Today, the dream is the same:  I still want to travel, I still want to entertain, and I most certainly still want to have fun.”

The same holds true for me.

Next we headed to where I had been looking forward to seeing most in Venice — St. Mark’s Basilica.  My father’s name was Mark and I adore Byzantine iconography.  We were in the heart of Venice at the Piazza San Marco.  Since I do not have any pictures of the interior, I must have blocked out the memory that picture taking was forbidden.  I can understand prohibiting the use of flash photography due to preservation issues, but it frankly irks me not to be able to (respectfully) photograph inside a house of God.  The first thing that struck me were the stunning dark blue and ground gold mosaics that reached all the way to the top of the high domes.  The interior was based upon Constantine’s Church of the Holy Apostles.  Vast marble floors were covered in animal designs which of course I loved as well as intricate geometric patterns.  It all felt very Eastern.  I heard the basilica was referred to as “the Church of Gold”.  I kept thinking to myself, as we were shuffled along like cattle, it still felt like gold was being extracted repeatedly from each of its visitors.  One could hear the steady “chink chink”, “chink chink” reverberating to the ceiling from people doling out to visit this place or that around the naves.  I didn’t see anyone praying and it felt more like a museum than a holy place of worship.  Finally herded to the stairway, we were able to go outside onto the balcony.  It was there I was able to take pictures of the great bronze Horses of St. Mark that face the square which were installed above the portal of the basilica in about 1254.  They date to classical antiquity and were long displayed at the Hippodrome of Constantinople.  In 1204 the Doge at the time had them sent back to Venice as part of the loot sacked from the Fourth Crusade.  I pray the feel of this church has changed since 2007.  Leaving the steady sounds of clanking coins behind, we headed out into the bright noon day sun.  Pigeons were everywhere and I thought THIS was how I had always imagined Italy.  An Italian bride and groom were being photographed in the middle of the famous St. Mark’s square surrounded by all those birds.  Next we headed up the iconic Bell Tower of Saint Mark and ascended the 323 foot tall campanile where a loggia surrounded a belfry.  One used to announce executions, the Nona sounded midday, and the largest rang to signal the beginning and ending of working days.  The campanile’s initial construction was in the 9th century and was used as a watch tower for the dock.  After taking in views of the ocean and basilica, we headed back down into the plaza.  Water sloshed up to my ankles and I marveled that the tide had rolled in and spilled over onto the square.  Deciding to have a cold drink, our jaws hit the ground upon discovering there was a fee JUST TO SIT, an extra fee for ordering food, another fee if one wanted to be inside with air conditioning, plus several other nonsensical add ons including 20% gratuity for essentially being ignored.  Venice is a tourist’s down, and they didn’t seem to like tourists.  Funny how Parisians have gotten a bad rap for being rude when it was definitely the Venetians.  Our money was being drained at a mind numbing pace.  So we split one tiny bottle of Coke with a lemon and I kid you not it ran almost 15 euros!  Ice was extra.  Novelist Roman Payne said:

“Cities were always like people, showing their varying personalities to the traveler.  Depending on the city and on the traveler, there might begin a mutual love, or dislike, friendship, or enmity.  Where one city will rise a certain individual to glory, it will destroy another who is not suited to its personality.  Only through travel can we know where we belong or not, where we are loved and where we are rejected.”

Despite the swankiness (and pants wetting cost) of our room it only had a tiny shower.  So I was thrilled to discover the extra bowl next to the toilet in which to shave my legs.  That’s right — the bidet.  😜  Plumbing would prove to be a recurring theme throughout our time here.  We had notices placed in our bathroom glasses saying NOT to drink the tap water under any circumstances — even to use for brushing our teeth.  So they provided little bottles of water solely for the purposes of dental hygiene.  It was not just our hotel; all water had to be purified before consumption.  Burk wanted to begin the day by visiting the Doge’s Palace just a stone’s throw away from our hotel off the Piazza San Marco.  Built in the Venetian Gothic style, it is one of the main landmarks of the city.  Once the residence of the Doge of Venice, the supreme authority of the former Republic of Venice, it opened as a museum in 1923.  The Republic of Venice was a major maritime power during the Middle Ages and the Renaissance.  It served as a staging area for the Crusades as well as a very important center of commerce.  Silk, grain, spice and art from the 13th century up to the end of the 17th century made Venice a wealthy city throughout most of its history.  While we were standing in line to get in, an old, hunched over gypsy woman with one scrunched up eye wearing a head scarf was going up and down the line begging with a can.  I have never minded giving money to anyone who was doing SOMEthing; whether it be singing, posing for pictures, playing an instrument, or just being kind in giving directions.  But my daddy often said one could always find some way to work.  So when she got to me I smiled genuinely and said, “No, grazie.”  She then began a tirade where she proceeded to jab her gnarled finger in my face and started raining down what I truly believe were curses upon my head.  She got so worked up spittle flecked from her mouth onto my face as she was standing so close.  Like an idiot I just stood there and kept smiling at her.  It lasted about three minutes and she became progressively louder, gesticulating wildly.  Truly, it was like something out of a Grimm’s fairytale.  I do believe there is evil.  If something like that ever happens again I have vowed to rebuke them and make the sign of the cross.  On another cheery note, pictured above is the famous Bridge of Sighs which we also visited that day.  It spans the Rio di Palazzo (Palace River) and was intended to connect the old prison and interrogation rooms in the palace to the new prison situated directly across the river.  There are a couple of theories as to how the bridge got its name.  The first involves the prisoners that walked across on their way to the executioner who were said to sigh, probably catching their last glimpse of the outside world.  Another story says that if a couple kisses under the bridge at sunset they will enjoy eternal love.  Thus the sighs are said to come from lovers.  This romantic view was created by the Poet Lord Byron with his writings:  “I stood in Venice on the Bridge of Sighs, a palace and prison on each hand.”  The bridge itself was beautiful stretching high above the canal.  Composed of white limestone, it is generally known as one of the finest examples of bridge architecture in the world.  A mix of grandeur and a kind of Godless desolation seemed to hang over the entire city.  I couldn’t help but think of Paris being called The City of Light.  In Venice, I believe we’d found our contrast.

We boarded Air France and were on our way to Venice.  The Venetian airport was covered in enormous, sexy color photos of beautiful, half naked Italian men selling Versace and Dolce & Gabbana.  It was hard not to gawk.  The next shock came dropping 100 euros on a water taxi to get to our hotel from the airport in what could have only been a six minute ride.  It was exhilarating and somewhat unnerving to be zipping along in a vaporetto where the man literally steered with one hand as he was turned around BACKWARD chatting with us, all the while weaving in and out of boat traffic at breakneck speed and with a seemingly blind eye.  But docking right at the door of our hotel was one of the coolest things ever.  It was hard to fathom a doorway leading directly from the ocean that stepped one straight up into our five star hotel.  I chose it because of my passion for Vivaldi.  He taught there when it was a girl’s school and even performed his “Four Seasons” in it.  The building was likely first depicted in 1500 in the famous “bird’s eye map of the city” by Jacopo de Barbari, celebrated Renaissance painter and engraver.  It also boasted the largest collection of antique crucifixes in all of Italy!  I think that is really saying something given the Vatican in Rome.  I once wrote a book on Christian iconography; getting to see them up close and not even in a museum was incredibly special.  As I recall they had impressive collections of ladies’ fans and gentlemens’ snuff boxes as well.  All were in excellent condition and had exquisite detail.  The hotel was steeped in luxury and history.  In addition to Vivaldi in 1690, Freud stayed at the hotel in 1895.  Going down that proverbial waterway, I found my first visit to Italy and Venice to be laden with all kinds of sexual undertones.  If Paris was feminine, Venice struck me as very, very masculine.  There were penises everywhere, and I don’t mean just on statuary.  Vendors had them on men’s jogging shorts, cooking aprons, underwear and even on spoof credit cards that read “Mister Hard:  Accepted from women all around the world”.  As a feminist I was glad to see men naked for a change.  But this was a city I do not feel a woman should walk in alone.  The INSTANT I left my husband (we went looking in separate stores) I was hand kissed and hit on aggressively by several Italian men who did not seem to be inclined to take “no” for an answer.  The entire city carried a dirty, dark, sexual feel for me I was not expecting.  They had “living statues” of body painted people posing for Euros wearing creepy masks which freaked both of us out.  I did some research and discovered the masks originated with the plague.  Its macabre history dates back from the 17th century French physician Charles de Lorme who adopted the mask together with other sanitary precautions while treating plague victims.  The “plague doctor” mask to me looked birdlike, with a hollow beak and round eye slits.  The doctors who followed de Lorme’s example wore the usual black hat and long black coat as well as the white mask and white gloves.  They also carried a long stick to move patients without having to come into physical contact with them in hopes of preventing contracting the disease themselves.  Mass graves have been discovered on Venice’s “Quarantine Island” just a couple of miles from the famed Piazza San Marco.  The Bubonic Plague decimated Venice, as well as much of Europe, throughout the 15th and 16th centuries.  We were told that if one encountered a bird-like masked person back then it was a warning to turn around because the plague had struck.  Comic fantasy writer Christopher Moore said, “Everything in Venice is just a little bit creepy, as much as it’s beautiful.”  That pretty much sums it up for me.

It was our last day in Paris.  We decided to take it a little easier and did some souvenir shopping.  I loved that as it began to softly rain all the magasins set out umbrellas at their entrances.  I happily purchased a Chat Noir one as we went by La Madeline (the Romanesque church dedicated to Mary Magdeline).  We decided to use our time remaining visiting Paris’ second largest church — Saint-Sulpice (of “The Da Vinci Code” fame).  There were compasses and roses everywhere — in the masonry, the doors, and the stained glass.  Inside the church to either side of the entrance were the two halves of an enormous shell (Tridacna gigas) given to King Francis I by the Venetian Republic.  They function as holy water fonts and rest on rock-like bases.  In 1727 Jean-Baptiste Languet de Gergy, then priest of Saint-Sulpice, requested the construction of a gnomon in the church as part of its new construction, to help him determine the time of the equinoxes and hence of Easter.  A meridian line of brass was inlaid across the floor and ascending a white marble obelisk at the top is a sphere surmounted by a cross.  The obelisk is dated 1743.  In the south transept window a small opening with a lens was set up, so that a ray of sunlight shines onto the brass line.  At noon on the winter solstice (December 21) the ray of light touches the brass line on the obelisk.  And at noon on the equinoxes (March 21 and September 21), the ray touches an oval plate of copper in the floor near the altar.  Constructed by the English clock-maker and astronomer Henry Sully, the gnomon was also used for various scientific measurements.  This rational use may have protected Saint-Sulpice from being destroyed during the French Revolution.  While I realize this is not the best picture because of the darkness, it does serve to capture my memory of the holy mystique I felt within.  Burk wanted to see Napoleon’s tomb and then we had dinner in the Latin Quarter in the coolest looking Indian restaurant.  They had this heavenly smelling incense that was enormous and in different colors.  The sweet waiter let me take some.  He said they came from his cousin in India and you cannot get them anywhere else.  On the way back to our hotel we stopped at a little fresh fruit stand and picked up some cherries and a bottle of cognac shaped like the Eiffel Tower.  It was a lot of fun.  American poet Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr said:

“Where we love is home – home that our feet may leave, but not our hearts.”

Even though we were headed to Venice in the morning, I knew I had found my home.

This was our day to finally visit the Louvre.  We were quivering to lay eyes on some of the world’s most famous treasures.  As we made our way down the glass pyramid into the entrance we immediately discovered an embarrassment of riches.  Bien sûr we saw La Joconde (I overheard someone next to me whisper, “Why is it so famous?”) and walking through the Grand Gallery with all those huge Delacroix was breathtaking.  We passed the Venus di Milo and other famous statuary, visited the Egyptian and Coptic wings, saw ancient Asian art and the Crown Jewels just to name a few.  The rooms themselves were stunning works of art all on their own from their palatial days dating back to the medieval period.  It was the actual seat of power in France until Louis XIV moved to Versailles in 1682, bringing the government with him.  The Louvre remained the formal seat of government until the end of the Ancien Régime in 1789.  My very favorite was the pre-Renaissance era; I was drawn to this Tau cross and to my surprise it claimed to be the oldest known depiction of my beloved St. Francis.  I also loved Daphnis and Chloe in with the masters.  Burk really liked Napoleon’s Coronation and the huge winged bulls from Mesopotamia.  It was like the ultimate high for two museum junkies!  I have heard it said that if one paused for just one minute in front of each work of art it would take about one month without ceasing to complete seeing all the Lovre’s works.  We also went to the Orangerie so that I could see Monet’s Water Lilies.  This was vaguely disappointing (as I adore French impressionism) and I had no idea how long they were (rectangular) with essentially no detail in the middle.  I am very glad I got to see them but they did not match the images I had always carried in my mind from calendars and things that have been reproduced.  That night we ate on La Belle Sur Seine (Chinese; Burk was sick of French) and I got introduced to lychees!!!  When I told the girl I had never seen them before I thought her eyes were going to pop right out of her head.  They were FANTASTIC and tasted a little like mandarin oranges but looked like giant, round peeled grapes.  This was a romantic dinner cruise that took us around the Seine.  It was the summer solstice and I was delighted to be spending the longest day of the year in Paris with Burk.  They had live music festivals going on all over the city and we stayed out really late just wandering around listening to different kinds of music wafting on the summer’s breeze.  To my delight I discovered all the tobacconists only carried Cuban cigars!  Despite my French my naïveté marked me as American.  And the French did not poo poo smoking outdoors.  I don’t think it even started to turn dark until around midnight.  When it finally did vendors started selling lit Eiffel Towers of all sizes.  They were so cool and I still cherish my little souvenir from that memorable, magical night.  How fitting the etymological root of “souvenir” is French and means to revisit.

“Ever poised on that cusp between past and future, we tie memories to souvenirs like string to trees along life’s path, marking the trail in case we lose ourselves around a bend of tomorrow’s road.” ~ Children’s author Susan Lendroth

Reluctantly leaving Versailles behind, we headed back to Paris.  Enjoying the French beer Silvan had stocked, we found ourselves being chauffeured up the Champs-Élysées.  Proudly nicknamed “la plus belle avenue du monde,” the most beautiful avenue in the world, it did not disappoint.  Until the reign of Louis XIV, the land where the Champs-Élysées runs today was largely occupied by fields.  The grand avenue and its gardens were originally laid out in 1667 by Andre Le Notre as an extension of the Tuilleries Palace built in 1564.  Le Notre planned a wide promenade lined with two rows of elm trees on either side and flowerbeds in the symmetrical style of the formal French garden.  I loved the mix of cars and bicyclists and marveled as we made the roundabout at the Arc de Triomphe.  Gazing upward through our sunroof, sky and sculptures whirled by as we made the circle and it was another moment I will always remember.  Our last stop was arriving at the highest point in the city right at sunset.  Montmartre was teeming with street vendors and artists and we had our first portrait made together there.  We decided to have dinner in a little restaurant that had a piano player and a chanteuse.  I was so proud because they heard me speaking English to Burk and asked how a Parisian had come to marry an American!  I explained we were both Texans and they were delighted.  The man immediately launched into the theme song from “Dallas” and all heads in that restaurant stopped and turned.  The French still adore that show!  As a final tribute, they played “Deep in the Heart of Texas” while I sang along with gusto.  The funny thing was they had no idea about the clapping part.  They were so stunned it was almost comical.  We did it again so they could get the “clap clap clap clap” down.  Happily stuffing Euros in their tip glass (which we had been hoarding in case we needed them for an emergency) we set out to the summit to enter under the white domes of the Basilica of the Sacré-Coeur.  By this time my camera had run out of juice so I was unable to take a picture of the highest dome’s center ceiling.  My favorite color dark blue surrounded Jesus Christ as rays of light beamed down from his heart onto all who entered.  They were having Mass and the Priest was saying how the Church should be welcome to all.  It was a perfect ending to a perfect day.

“The Sacred Heart of Christ is an inexhaustible fountain and its sole desire is to pour itself out into the hearts of the humble so as to free them and prepare them to lead lives according to his good pleasure.” ~ St. Margaret Mary Alacoque

The third day in Paris would change my life forever.  As our wedding present, my new maternal grandmother-in-law gave us a driver to Versailles.  He was a handsome, charming family man named Silvan who arrived in a three month old dark blue Mercedes sedan with dual sunroofs and a GPS — swanky and novel for 2007!  We made it to Versailles, about 30 minutes outside of Paris, just before the gates opened.  The five hours we spent there were not enough.  A lifetime would not have been enough!  I had no idea what to expect but I was not prepared to have my heart stop for an instant upon first sight only to have it resume beating never to be the same.  For that brief second time and the very blood in my veins stood still.  They were restoring the retaining wall to the outside just as it was in Louis the 14th’s time.  I quickly discovered why he was called the Sun King.  The royal chapel was all gilt and stark white marble.  The Hall of Mirrors was partially closed because it was being restored, but for me the true beauty of Versailles was to be found outdoors.  Martha Stewart said this:

“It is hard to imagine Andre Le Notre laying out the exquisite landscape designs for Vaux-le-Vicomte, and later the magnificent Chateau de Versailles, with no high hill to stand on, no helicopter to fly in, and no drone to show him the complexities of the terrain. Yet he did, and with extreme precision, accuracy, and high style.”

We had lunch in the gardens and I drank the best fresh orange juice I have ever had.  No wonder; they came from an over 200 year old l’orangerie on the grounds.  Next we walked the Grand Canal, which Louis XIV had formed in the shape of a cross.  It is the most original creation of Andre Le Notre who transformed the east-west perspective into a long, light-filled sheet of water.  It took eleven years and was completed in 1679.  Over 5,000 feet, the Republic of Venice sent the King two gondolas and four gondoliers and since became known as Little Venice.  In summer the King’s fleet sailed along it; in winter skates and sleighs made their way over the frozen water.  As we walked along its length that day we saw couples in rowboats enjoying the magnificent views of the palace, the formal gardens, and some of the exquisite statuary found throughout.  There were also people walking dogs, riding horses, bicycling and even going around in golf carts due to the immense size of what remains of the royals’ domaine.  The enormous and spectacular fountains only run on the weekends so we did not get to see them working.  Despite the absence of their dramatic sprays, it was a different kind of delight to see the reflection of the gilt creatures rising up out of the water’s stillness.  Pictured above is the stunning Apollo fountain.  There were garden mazes, the Trianon, the Petite Trianon and the Grotto which we did not have time to see.  But I did make it to Marie Antoinette’s hamlet — her escape from the rigors of court.  This was truly the greatest experience of my life.  A quaint Parisian French countryside village greeted me, complete with thatched roof buildings, thick roses covering arbors, and winding dirt trails.  I peeked through the windows and to my shock saw nothing but all white marble.  Literally floor to ceiling, it was the ultimate mix of county charm, decadent wealth and unthinkable opulence.  I saw a goat with four horns chewing lazily on grass.  Swans and ducks were gliding serenely in the pond where a mill wheel used to turn and coos were coming from a dovecote.  I had never seen my beloved calla lilies growing over five feet tall.  They extended outward in two huge, dense lines from of one of the houses.  It was absolutely breathtaking.  I still cannot adequately convey what it was like.  I knew I was in love with Paris, but Versailles stole my heart.  And a piece of it remains there forever.

We decided to start by visiting the Louvre.  It was early in the morning and a little overcast.  The old palace grounds were exquisite, although I cannot say I cared for the modern I. M. Pei glass pyramid rising so incongruously from the center.  We happily marched right up but were promptly stopped by a gendarme holding his hand up sternly and hollering, “FERMEZ!”  Turns out their Tuesdays are like our Sundays used to be — only more so.  I learned that all the museums were closed.  So we decided to go without any real plan.  I love that Paris is such a walking city.  It is clean, delicate, feminine, and brimming with history.  Every corner holds some visual delight.  Strolling through the Tuilleries Garden, we ambled along the banks of the Seine to Notre Dame.  Nineteenth century American travel author Bayard Taylor said it best:

“Walking at random through the streets, we came by chance upon the Cathedral of Notre Dame.  I shall long remember my first impression of the scene within.  The lofty gothic ceiling arched far above my head and through the stained windows the light came but dimly — it was all still, solemn, and religious.”

Inside the cathedral it was so blackened from years of incense it took several minutes for my eyes to adjust.  I read that construction began in 1163 and was not completed until 1272.  During that time sculptors, carpenters, masons, and glassblowers all worked relentlessly under the supervision of seasoned architects.  Dedicated to “Our Lady” Mary, the Mother of God, it has been one of the main symbols of Paris and France since it was built.  Outside gargoyles served as both gutter spouts and sentinels on her edifice.  We wanted to climb the steps outside to the famous bell tower but RIGHT as we got up next in line they closed it off for the day.  I was just sick and hollered, “Sanctuary!” which no one else seemed to think was funny.  Next we passed through the Gallo Ruins, the Latin Quarter and the beautiful Luxembourg Gardens.  My good sandals were in tatters but I decided what a way for them to go … spending the day walking all over the most beautiful city in the world.