snow angels at fontainebleau

I took a train from Paris and stood shivering at the bus stop to get to the chateaux. The two women at the ticket counter looked surprised to see me. There was no one around. For hours I wandered the floors and snowy grounds. I saw, maybe, a total of five other people. Marie Antoinette's boudoir was swathed in milky light, protected by white chiffon drapes against the windows, the most brittle parts cut off from the public by swathes of glass. Napoleon's bed was suitably diminutive but his gold standard was brash and loud; a big gold N topped by an eagle. I peered through wire mesh at the porcelain used by centuries of French royalty. They're long gone but all their things are still here; shining gold, gleaming mother of pearl, thick velvet, and silence. Oh, I remember the silence most of all. Out on the grounds, there were three things - snow, snow, more snow. All that blankness was like a balm from the frothiness and grandeur. For a second, I understood minimalism and all its worth. Alone, I can still hear the swishing of my limbs moving, back and forth, back and forth, making one lone snow angel on the ground.


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