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"How delightful were these groves scented with lilacs, peopled by nightingales . . . the queen spent most of the fine season there." Baroness Oberkirch remarking on the grounds of Petit Trianon In, Rainy Morning with a Master , I told you about a sweltering summer day in 1978, when a frazzled librarian gave a biography about Marie Antoinette to an inquisitive, loquacious child. From that day on, I became obsessed with the tragic queen and with the notion of visiting the Chateau de Versailles. I imagined myself gliding through the  Hall of Mirrors, sunning myself on the green grasses of Le Hameau, inhaling the earthy scents that permeate the air in the Orangerie. Twenty-two years later, my dream of visiting Versailles came true.  Was it magical?  Did I feel exhuberant?  Not exactly. The moment I walked into the chateau I felt an overwhelming sadness, as if I had donned a mantle of meloncholy.   The gloom persisted through t...

When my best-friend, Stephanie , suggested we take a boat down the river circling Strasbourg, I felt a twinge of reluctance. We had just arrived and already the city was calling to me to walk its streets and discover its many hidden secrets. I wanted to explore the stone towers, timbered houses, narrow alleys, and hidden courtyards, not sit on a boat with a gaggle of photo-snapping tourists who had no respect for history. I have discovered in my travels that some places emit nostalgic vibrations. I can't describe it, really. The air just seems heavier and laden with spirits. Strasbourg was emitting that strange vibe. I could feel spirits in the air. I paid for my ticket, took a brochure, and walked down the gangplank behind a boisterous group of Spanish tourists. Once on board, I plopped down on a molded plastic seat near the window and silently prayed the journey would not take too long. As I waited for the tour to begin, I looked out the window at the neat row of timbered hous...

Usually, when darkness falls, the world becomes muted in shades of gray. Colors become duller, shapes less defined. The din of life dies down and the earth is blanketed in blissful silence.   The opposite seemed to be the case in Strasbourg.   As night fell the colors of the town became more vivid and vibrant. The blue sky deepened to a rich sapphire, the honey-hued bricks of the buildings glowed in the amber light of street lamps. The red tents crowding the main square no longer distracted from the beauty of the streetscape, but seemed to add to it. Indeed, they now beckoned us to come closer, to join in the festivities and indulge in the libations. The air was tinged with the heady aroma of warm spiced wine, fruit filled crêpes, and roasted chestnuts. Streets that had been relatively empty suddenly filled with eager revelers, whose laughter made a joyful noise. Small details that had been overlooked suddenly came into sharp focus. I noticed an old street sign, a blac...

I am not the sort of tourist who makes it a practice to visit cemeteries during my travels.  I know some people enjoy haunting the final resting places of the famous, but I do not.  Frankly, I don't see the appeal of wasting my life visiting the dead.  I've been to Paris numerous times, but have oly visited Père Lachaise Cemetery once (I reluctantly agreed to tour it with my mother after extracting a promise from her that we would eat dinner at a Mexican restaurant I'd heard about in the 2nd arrondisement.  My mom nurtures an an ardent belief that when in Rome one should eat as the Romans - even if one craves a burrito!  After eight days of watching her eat goose liver and snails, I was jonesing for some chips and salsa.  But that's another story...).  On a warm September day, we caught the metro to the cemetery, paid a ridiculous amount of money for a map, and then got lost in a maze of graves, tombstones, st...