It was a dismal rain-soaked afternoon when the Englishman
and I arrived in Versailles. A quick
walk from the train station brought us to the extravagant palace gates and cobblestone
entrance. A stroll through the manicured gardens was out of the question so we
headed directly into the palace.
Wandering through lavish rooms and grand halls was everything I had
dreamed it would be. Black and white
tile was worn over the years and I carefully stepped along feeling grooves and
other imperfections. Old glass in the
windows created a wavy view of the grounds as rain dotted the outside in
streaky tears. We noticed a sign for the Restaurant Angelina and discovered
a fancy full-service tea room.
We were
seated within thirty minutes and I took a photograph of my husband which had
multiple stories woven within. On the
surface, the photograph was a small celebration of our wedding anniversary. Five years and we were enjoying an afternoon
tea in France. At this moment we were blissfully unaware that in a few hours we would be in the middle of "les gilets jaunes" riots in Paris. Just out of the frame, to
my left was a table of cheerful French ladies enjoying lunch. Behind that table was an American couple who
were finishing their meal with a cafetiere of coffee. Directly behind my husband was the older
rumpled French couple who had fascinated us with their antics that started
with the maître d’.
The gentleman was impatient and did not enjoy the wait for a
table. He frequently left his wife and
roamed the restaurant searching for empty tables which he would then point out
to the maître d’. They were soon
escorted to their table and we were seated a short time later. The Englishman insisted that they were
probably quite wealthy, even aristocratic in spite of their appearance. As the American couple settled the bill and
rose to leave, I could see the aristocrats studying the neighboring table. As soon as the couple had left the room, the
older woman darted to the table and inspected the food remnants and shook the
coffee pot, hoping for leftovers.
Shocked, I relayed this to my husband and realized that the group of
French ladies had also noticed. We were
all gossiping about the aristocrats in our own respective languages. The aristocrats departed and suddenly a mouse scurried from it's hiding place beneath their table! The French
ladies laughed and pointed and made sure that we also saw the tiny mouse. The Englishman decided that it was a direct descendant of the Palace of Versailles and I was simply happy to finally be able
to use my Little Mermaid French in a
sentence. Zut alors!
We departed for the train station under the cover of my tiny umbrella. As dusk approached, the Palace lights reflected off the lingering raindrops creating a magical December in France.
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