Paradise postponed, Bliss regained

As a final post on my vacation trip, though I've already been home a week, I wanted to recap a few other elements of my trip that aren't so easily shoehorned into Commune/Empire type discussions.

First observation is that I've never seen such eager photogues as Stuart and Dan. Reference the pictures on all sides. On balance, Dan preferred taking pictures of the exteriors of Paris and statuesque nudity(left), while Stuart preferred interiors and painted flesh (right).

It must be said, however, in defense of cameras, that Paris is also an example of the power of urban planning. I think you could say that the spaces of the city (and by the city I mean the old city in the center, not the expanded city with its massive suburban infrastructure-described slums) are designed and maintained with a fastidiousness bordering on pathology. This is obviously in large part for the benefit tourists like us (and especially our revenue stream), but I think it is just as much an obsession with the conservation of a (chosen) historical past and its symbols and a general aesthetic or way of living that considers beauty as an augmenting force for quality of life.
For example, one has the distinct impression after spending some time exploring Paris that whenever there is a moment of hesitation on zoning or construction the solution that presents itself to city planners is: build a park. And not just a park, a park with impeccable attention to detail down to the composition of each flower bed and immaculately maintained by early morning crews of gardeners and trimmers. Notice the details highlighted by night lighting and the painstaking preservation of any valued symbol
or monument. During my first week in Montmartre I found it amazing the quantity of couples amorously smooching around every perfect little corner, but when you have created such beautiful spaces there are emotional consequences for your inhabitants!

After Dad and Dan left, I spent the rest of the week in archives and staying with Mindy (above left, after Manet, right at the Gare St. Lazare) and Arnaud (above cresting a summit), our friends who live just outside Paris. Along with their 6 month-old son Noah, they took me on a drive out to the Fontainebleu forest, in the past the special hunting preserve of French kings. The forest ground is largely sand, and everywhere you are turn there are large boulders marked with color-coded levels of difficulty for the international visitors who flock to the forest to practice climbing. This is Arnaud's favorite hobby, but unfortunately I seem not to
have the requisite forearm and finger musculature to dangle from low-hanging cliffs. On our return we drove through Barbizon (left and below), a little hamlet that draws some fame from the art movement it produced - a prerequisite to realism starring the likes of Corot and Millet.

But the thing that legitimized the trip in terms of its real purpose was the cache of documents on Archbishop Darboy and everything about him at the Archbishopric of Paris. I wasn't expecting this to be the most important stage of my research, and so I left it until the last three days. But while the previous week I had spent far too much time reproducing documents sometimes only tangentially related to the topic I wanted to pursue, the archivist at the Archbishopric began by bringing me eight massive stringed boxes filled and overflowing with the precious nectar of valued information. Pictures, articles, journals, newspaper clippings, all of it extremely relevant and usable. I think I shall have to return finish grabbing all of the loot!

I had been prepared for the highly proprietary and suspicious nature of Catholic archives. My advisor had experience great suspicion and constant observation when she penetrated such a sanctum, many expecting that her research would yield yet another broadside against Catholic power or perversity. But instead I found total graciousness and open hands. The best part was when the sweet little Abbe took me on the last day to the lobby and pointed out a cell door. It was a door that had been removed from the cell of a fellow prisoner of Darboy, also a priest. Both men were taken, during the death throes of the Commune, to another prison (La Roquette), and soon after they were executed on a smoky night - the clouds red with reflected fire from the burning city. A desperate act of vengeance by the order of one man in the absence of a government that was at that moment being summarily executed. When I asked the Abbe why the death of Darboy was not more heavily commemorated in other monuments (outside of Notre Dame). He replied "France went left, we [Catholics] went right." When France, on its way to abolishing the death penalty in 1981, finally destroyed La Roquette prison in the 1970s they had to decide what to put in its place. Guess what they decided? That's right, a park. A more fitting use of space is difficult to imagine.

Altogether an unforgettable trip that I hope to repeat before another seven years elapse. And despite the whiplash of returning to teaching and job search, there is much wonder to be pursued here as well. Thanks all for reading.