Let Them Eat Cake

That's pretty much what St. John's said by not giving us meals Friday through Sunday.

I've chosen the less caloric route of nutella and rice cakes. After going through an entire jar in three days, I also applied a very American skill: buying generic.

Today was a special occasion in which we were made an American breakfast before departing for the royal chateu of Versailles.

There's King Louis on his high horse, being King at 5 and all.

As an American, when I think chateu I think a little villa in the country side. In the case of Louis XIV's Versailles, this is a grosssss understatement. It is a palace only suitable for him as the Sun God, constructed of gold.

I wasn't interested in Louis XIV as much as Louis XVI. You know, married to the most notable French diva in history, Marie Antoinette.

We heard lots of history about this palace being used as the royal court and all the good stuff, but when we got to Marie Antoinette's room, I didn't care about parliamentary or treaties.

Sofia Coppola, girl, you nailed it.

The room in the movie was identical to the one that exists in Versailles. It was overwhelmingly elaborate and her monogram is the center of the canopied bed, with a bust of her is seated on a fire place on the left facing a portrait of her and her children on the opposite wall.

She was literally a queen, and this room is nothing short of that.

JUST LOOK AT IT!

I haven't been so awed by their culture since my first french fry. But this! This just makes me want to eat cake in nothing but shoes.

Too much? Antoine would support me.



Today is actually the day after I went to Versailles. Last night was my first real night on the town, so I had no time to try to talk about the palace. But I now can discuss that and bars.

Well, more the people in them.

First of all, the Americans who say that the French are mean and hate us need to be presented with this question: Have you ever been to France? Because I find them so helpful and nice and tolerant of catastrophic attempts at french accents. New Yorkers hate New Yorkers much more than the French hate Americans. How could they hate us when they play all of our music in their bars?

I know you're really not supposed to for conflict avoidance, but we made it very well known that we are American.

I guess Parisians don't take pictures with their friends when they go out? They were really getting a kick out of our photo shoot.

So when we had enough of belting out It's Raining Men in one bar, we searched for another more lively one.

AND OH, DID WE FIND IT.

Danced to more American music, got complimentary drinks (roofie free!), helped a drunken Parisian off the floor (yeah, they're sloppy, too), and watched a pony-tailed man continually flaunt his ability to do a complete back bend on the dance floor.

All that took until 6 o'clock in the morning.

So today, we are going to the cemetery which is the final resting place of Jim Morrison and Oscar Wilde since we pretty much feel like jumping into our own graves.