I forgot I have one more story up my perfectly appointed, pleated Parisian sleeve. Though I’m certainly not the lead author.
On one of our last days in Paris, the big kids went to a shopping experience at Samaritaine, and the dads, Eliza, and I walked to the Musée d’Orsay. This is, hands down, one of my most favorite museums ever. James and I went when we visited Emily in Paris, and I remember having an out of body experience when confronted with Monet’s haystacks in winter. Unfortunately, they’re no longer there, but the impressionist collection is still mesmerizing, even with the crowds. The whole museum is an old train station with a big beautiful clock overlooking the city.
Charles, Dave, Eliza and I depart from the hotel and begin walking down the Champs-Élysées. It’s cold, but the parks are dusted in snow and the sun is shining. Magically beautiful. It’s a thirty-four minute walk according to our handy dandy apps. Eliza is not consulted and therefore, for the record, did not pre-approve the plan.
We set out and all is well. There are a handful of pigeons to chase. And some surprise sidewalk skating puddles. But as we head further and further down an enormous promenade with no destination in sight, Eliza begins to have her doubts. At the crosswalk near the Grand Palais, she refuses to walk further. She stomps her little feet. She cries. She begs and threatens and almost sits down on the sidewalk except that it is wet and freezing and she can’t bring herself to do it.
Her father is a stoic force to be reckoned with. Her uncle a sympathetic observer. I’m confident I can’t piggyback her all the way, so I’m an uninteresting non-option. Charles coaxes her across the street and the opulence and grandeur of the Petit Palais distracts her momentarily. I’m not entirely sure how it begins, but it’s something along the lines of, “Eliza, what is it like to live in this beautiful palace?”
And Queen Eliza emerges. Stepping from her humble beginnings of powerless drudgery, into the life she is born to lead.
She knows exactly what it’s like to live in her palace. It’s full of big beautiful, warm beds and hot baths and the most delicious food you’ve ever seen.
Soon I am invited into her life. But I have to sleep outside in the freezing cold. And use an outhouse. And take cold baths. And eat birdseed. I’m required to work all day in the palace, serving Queen Eliza, but at night I’m relegated back to my outdoor campground.
Then Charles and David are indentured into a life of servitude. They take freezing cold showers and eat scraps and are required to sleep in my same filthy bed outside. Queen Eliza is imperious and ceremonially unforgiving. She mercilessly levies justice. She giveth and she taketh away.
I slowly feed the flame. A little twig here, a scrap of bark there. We walk down by the river and cross over a bridge. I begin to work my way into the Queen’s good graces. It starts with a warm bath, indoors. Then I get a real bed with pillows and a duvet. I no longer have to share with dirty boys. As I take glee in the plight of my servant compatriots, I rise more and more quickly up the ranks. The men who will not carry the Queen are subjected to endless suffering with their one blanket and cold showers in the palace fountain. Soon I have beautiful dresses and tantalizing delicacies and am living my best servant girl life. My very own Bridgerton Season 4.
Queen Eliza strides into line at the D’Orsay, required to wait again with the peasants. She breaks character and I learn she wants to be a YouTuber, a video game designer, and a hotelier. We’ve already got the premise for her first breakout hit.
Call me Sony… you’ll need me.