It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like…Something.

Waking on the 19th of December, one day before our two and a half week holiday journey, we celebrated what we have coined “fake Christmas” in our tiny room in our tiny house in Sheffield.  A week or so before, I had ingeniously created a two-dimensional Christmas tree using only wrapping paper and a MacGyver-like dedication to creating something out of nothing, complete with strung cranberries and the shackling of a poor beanie baby angel-bear for the tree top. As gifts and cards arrived from far and wide, we placed them under our makeshift tree and decided on a day to celebrate our own merry little Christmas.

During fake Christmas, in truly Domm family tradition, we interspersed the opening of gifts to the cooking and consuming of highly unhealthy finger foods and slightly spiked beverages. Thus our day was accompanied by mimosas, fried Indian food (in an attempt to incorporate British elements), cheese platters, pizza bagels (in an attempt to stay classy), and of course the most traditional of all: mozzarella sticks. It’s really not Christmas unless there’s preservative-laced fried cheese.

We hung our stockings all in a row, on our wardrobe handles, and festively opened them first. Thank you to everyone who sent cards, gifts, and messages of a happy holidays. It really helped to make our Christmas away from home filled with home. The day ended in the customary fashion, with a movie viewing of films received as gifts and stomachs filled with assorted sundries we vowed never to eat again, that is until next Christmas. Unlike previous years we also spent quality time packing in preparation for our trip to Germany, Switzerland, and Turkey.

Pavillon de l’Arsenal

Paris is a city of museums, there are literally hundreds, from art galleries to heritage sites. After the Eiffel Tower the Louvre is the most visited spot in Paris, with over 5 million visitors each year. Other highly trafficked museums in Paris include the Centre Pompidou, the Cite des Sciences at de l’Industrie, and the Musee d’Orsay. On Saturday afternoon while in Paris, we decided to visit a lesser known museum of sorts, the Pavillon de l’Arsenal, the urban planning center of Paris.

Run by the city hall, this museum-like space tells the tale of Paris’ past and present urban history. The main exhibition is chronological, with labels in both French and English, and follows the growth of Paris from the Gauls to now, including how legal changes effected the physical environment of the city during events such as the Revolution, Napoleon’s reign, and post-World War II reconstruction. Maps, paintings, scale models, photographs, and films present an interdisciplinary interpretation of urbanization through art, science, history, and architecture. Along with chronicling Paris’ past, the center also explores  the future, providing the building project models of local architects, through which one can envision the changing architecture and physical space of Paris. The design of the exhibition is industrial, with timelines spaced through interpretive text. As a visitor to Paris, spending some time at the center helps one become oriented to the city. Upon leaving and returning to the streets of Paris, I could make connections between the present day city and hundreds of years of development.

The center is free, a big plus, and relatively easy to find, thanks to my new favorite website, spotted by locals. This helpful site uses the advice of residents living at popular tourist destinations, pointing travelers towards a more local experience. Without it, we would have never known about the Pavillon de l’Arsenal and would have never stumbled upon the old fashioned and I believe smallest camera and photo developing shop in the world. We stopped in to purchase a new memory card and while Kevin ran to find an ATM (8 blocks away) I sat in a chair that just might have been 200 years old and exchanged awkward but polite smiles with a man half as old as the chair while we watched Celine Dion on a TV from the 1970s and he mumbled at me in French.

Château de Versailles

Continuation of our primary Paris entry!

Our first full day in Paris last November saw Ashley and I boarding a train from a Metro station towards the village of Versailles. Today a suburb of Paris, the Château de Versailles originally seemed slightly less imposing than one might have imagined.

It certainly seemed that way to me as we approached up the wide streets towards the front. Actually, having had the advantage of personally visiting many such palaces and great places of state, Versailles seemed to me to be much smaller and less grand than I would have imaged. The former royal hunting lodge whose expansion is most closely tied to King Louis XIV did not disappoint, however.

From the Hall of Mirrors and royal apartments, Versailles is truly a gorgeous work of art from a true pinnacle in European achievement. Ashley and I both are always ensured to get goosebumps when we stand in the presence of historic and important locations throughout the world. Here, we briefly shared the same spaces as so many colourful people whose minds raced with decisions and notions we are still reminded of today. It was in the Hall of Mirrors that this feeling began to strike me in earnest, having studied the history of the whole of Versailles so closely years ago.

It was also here that we were treated to our first view of the Estate of Versailles. From the gilded windows in the Hall, one has an unhindered and commanding view of the Gardens and the Grand Canal, the far end of which must be at least a kilometer away from the Palace.

In the above photo, one can see past the Veilhan Versailles modern art installations towards the Gardens and Canal. At the extreme far end of the view in the photo, the apparent edge of the water is the distance end of a monumental watery cross. The arm that appears to be stretching off towards the right abuts the Grand Trianon, much further through endless vistas of landscaped beauty.

When I was younger, my grandparents Walt and Bertie would take me to various beautifully landscaped gardens all across America. At the time, I believed that humans manipulating the natural world seemed rank and insulting to the beauty of the Earth as it is. At a place like Versailles, however, it is hard to remain uninspired by the delicate and intricate avenues and gardens.

This is especially true of the Grand and Petit Trianons, two smaller palaces nestled in the forests and fields that once fed the inhabitants of Versailles. During the Republic, Napoleon declared that the Palace of Versailles belonged to the people, but himself stayed in the pink-marbled halls of the Grand Trianon.

Marie-Antoinette’s Estate and the Queen’s Hamlet were nearby, brought more to life for me by the recent viewing of Sofia Coppolla’s Marie Antoinette. Here the grounds were more organic, landscaped in a more natural manner. They were, of course, not untamed. Just simply cultivated in the style of the period to provide the illusion of an English rose garden.

By far the favourite gem of the Versailles Estate for both Ashley and myself was the Queen’s Hamlet. Believing she was following Enlightenment philosophy, Marie-Antoinette essentially created one of the world’s first theme parks. Here at the Hameau de la Reine, the Queen and her ladies ‘collected’ already-cleaned eggs from chickens and milked docile cows with porcelain bowls painted to resemble wood. While Marie-Antoinette could for a time escape to her ersatz Normandy farm, she eventually couldn’t escape the truth of her frivolity, nor, apparently, could she the blade.

Eventually, after a chilly day walking through only a small portion of Versailles, Ashley and I began the long hike back to the train station to return to Paris for the evening, our heads and hearts full of the essential pull of history, tranquility, and strife at the Château de Versailles.

Sous le ciel de Paris

Just as the semester lull crept upon us this past November we escaped to Paris, the city of lights and love. So naturally upon our return to Sheffield the listless, draining, mid-semester lull returned and together with its evil twin, the large amounts of school work seemingly thrust upon us without warning, Kevin and I ignored our little blog project in favor of procrastination and all-nighters. How happy am I now that classes have ended and I can return to tell the tale of our whirlwind adventure in Paris.

As students strapped for cash we decided to take the ultra cheap (read: £3 per person) MegaBus and boy, was it a Mega experience. Actually it was not as bad as imagined. However arriving in London after four hours, we reminded ourselves that the trip is indeed half the fun. As self-proclaimed tube experts, we arrived at St. Pancras without worry and after a filling lunch at a salad counter (at which the salad-man flirted with Kevin) we proceeded to the EuroStar waiting lounge. Kevin was so enthralled by his first high-speed train ride that he slept most the time (waking only for the chance to drink French Coke), while I was less than enthused with the lengthy stop we made while in the Chunnel.

We arrived in Paris, changed our money, and excitedly made our way to the underground. Our fabulous hotel was in the Bastille area of Paris, more of a residential part of the city but far enough from the tourist goodies to merit the metro. After four days we happily brag of being Paris public transport savants. Dropping our effects we returned to our beloved metro which escorted us to the Île de la Cité. This was at this moment I totally accepted the stereotypical hype that Paris is a romantically beautiful city. The bridges, the Seine, and the Eiffel Tower lit like a jewel offered by the city to visitors from afar; these visions upheld the idyllic depiction of Paris that one may find in a perfume commercial.

Turning the corner we were unexpectedly struck by the sight of the Notre Dame. Stumbling upon a cultural icon is always a disorienting experience. It reminded me of a past trip to Rome, while rambling aimlessly down a street I suddenly came face to face with the Coliseum. It’s awe inspiring and somehow ordinary in the same moment. Like, yep, there it is. My first encounter with the Notre Dame was similar. A lone troubadour, complete with an artistic dirtiness and fantastic hair, filled the night air and softly played over the chattering of tourists. Everyone was facing the same direction and looking up. Gladly we arrived at night and there was no line to go inside the cathedral. Unfortunately every other time we returned the line was quite long and so we never did get a glance of the iconic stained glass in the sunlight.

Leaving the Notre Dame and in search of food, I mentioned I had heard of a side street in the area, the Rue Chanoinesse, which is one of the oldest streets in Paris. Minutes later Kevin, with his far superior eye sight, found said lane, around which we wandered for a spell until returning to modern civilization and discovering an amiable brasserie overlooking the river. I stress at this point that our French was passable but at many moments not understandable to actual French people. Regardless, we managed to communicate somewhat to our waiter and received wine, baguettes, and omelets in return. Hoping to find dessert back in Bastille, we chose what we believed to be a French café which in reality was a Lebanese restaurant. Understanding each other even less, our waiter returned with the owner, the owner returned with a free dessert in addition to the two menu items we had gone out on a limb and chosen. These included pastries similar to baklava and an orange blossom flavored gelatin. Our surprise treat was also a gelatin, but cinnamon flavored, or as we decided the menu should state, “oddly delicious liquefied, gelatinous gingerbread men.”

Feeling rather royal ourselves, Friday we ventured to Versailles. (See Kevin’s blog.) Returning from our adventures later that evening, we did as all must do at least once while in Paris and strolled down the Champs-Elysees. Although this large lane leading to the Arc de Triumph was still ripe with inspiration and filled us with awe, with plaques commemorating important historic events that happened right where we stood, the famous avenue has become the breeding ground for every brand name high street shop known in our modern world. This fact dulls the luster just a bit. After a quick visit to the Arc, we found ourselves a little crêperie. This restaurant became my favorite of our trip as it was decorated like a western salon, and after we tightly squeezed into our table we discovered there was no kitchen, but crepe pans on a stove in the center of the tiny dining room, over which large Parisian women in red and black labored creating delectable dishes. Finding ourselves even more lucky, we stumbled then upon a Christmas market where we toasted the end of a successful day with glasses of Glühwein.

After a quick visit to a local pastry shop Saturday morning, we headed towards Père Lachaise Cemetery, the largest in the city of Paris. Parisians and international ex-pats have gone to their final resting place in this “East Cemetery” for over 200 years. Some of the most visited graves include Oscar Wilde and Jim Morrison, both whom we visited, one of which I kissed. (Click here for a complete list of the dead elite buried there). We wandered the vast cemetery which houses avenues upon avenues of never ending striking stonework. Finding the prospect of searching out the dead using a tourist map slightly unappealing, we refused to be guided by such, and as a result found ourselves to be the only visitors to Père Lachaise without one. Therefore we coupled Kevin’s photographic memory of the entryway map with his natural sense of direction and threw in a little light stalking of some German tourists sporting maps.

Feeling particularly Parisian, we returned to the center of the city and patronized two small shops (selling wine and cheese) and a bakery. Foodstuffs in hand, we picnicked in the shadow of the Notre Dame, in a small park behind the apes. A visit to the Eiffel Tower in all its sparkling glory and dinner in the Latin Quarter rounded off out last evening in Paris.

Sunday morning we said farewell to the City of Lights in style, by gaining free entry to the Louvre, although I won’t detail here the mystical way we managed it. Having only a few hours to roam the vast wings of this massive museum, we made the acquaintance of a few choice objects and paintings. Of course we paid a visit to Da Vinci’s Mona Lisa, although I found her entourage and paparazzi most interesting. Seeing the Venus de Milo made me appreciate ancient standards of beauty much more than that of the present. While some works we sought out, the Winged Victory of Samothrace (because of its artistic integrity, not at all due to its cameo in an Audrey Hepburn film), The Raft of the Medusa, Michelangelo’s Slave and The Code of Hammurabi, others we gratefully stumbled upon, such as The Wedding Feast at Cana, July 28. Liberty Leading the People, and Holbein’s 1539 Portrait of Anne of Cleves which got him, and others, in some serious hot water with Henry VIII. We left Paris full of cultural and artistic wonder, and with high hopes for an early return to what had become a beloved and familiar friend.

Paris, je t'aime.

We're hoping to buy a little time before posts about Paris are demanded by providing this short and quick slide show of photos and such. I still haven't managed to sort out why the audio is always odd once published to the videos. With this current case the volume fluctuates and I am too annoyed to attempt to fix it. So it's not your computers, it's my lack of technical knowledge behind the faulty audio. We absolutely loved Paris and our time there and hope you enjoy this quick taste.

Guy Fawkes, guy, t'was his intent / To blow up king and parliament. / Three score barrels were laid below / To prove old England's overthrow.

A few weeks ago now, Ashley and I were privy to the interesting custom of Guy Fawkes Day (now actually known as Bonfire Night) as celebrated by the fine, hard-working people of South Yorkshire.
For most of October, we were both occasionally rewarded with random and sudden bursts of light and sound in the sky as fireworks, in singles or small volleys, were flung into the cold, clear English night sky on our various treks up and down the hill from Crookes and Broomhill to the City Centre. This was to be our first encounter with the looming Bonfire Night, set, of course, for the 5th of November.

In 1605, a group of terrorists (in the true sense of the word) bought a house next to the Houses of Parliament in London with the plan to move barrels of gunpowder into the basement of the Houses and blow up King James I and the MPs as James came to open the session. These terrorists, one Guy Fawkes included, were Catholics who had long been oppressed by the Protestant reign first of Elizabeth I and then James I as well. Forced to practise their faith in private and fined for not attending Protestant services, they were pushed to the edge.

Sadly, things went a bit awry, and, legend has it, poor Guy was found in black-face squatting over the fuse to the gunpowder by soldiers. James ordered a celebration that evening to celebrate his ability to remain un-detonated, and Bonfire Night was born! Today, the basement of the Houses of Parliament is still ceremonially (read: these days, likely not-so-ceremonially) checked before each session of Parliament is called.

Fast-foward to 2009, and Ashley and I finding ourselves outside of our local Co-op grocer with two Sheffielder boys asking for a ‘penny for the guy.’ Sadly, their effigy was a stuffed horse head in old jeans and a hoody. We spent the actual 5th of November down in Kelham Island – not an actual island, but a brewery – soaking in the northern English rain and pitchers of beer with other archaeology graduate students. The fireworks were cancelled due to the rain, but the bonfire was still there. We might have gotten burned, but thanks to the Nanny State that is Britain and her ‘elf & safe-ty’ regulations, we were kept a respectable 5 metres away.

The next morning, we tumbled down the hill to catch a train to nearby Chapeltown to visit our American friends, Cynthia and Rob. They lived in upstate New York, and Cynthia is researching her PhD with the departments of Biblical Studies and Archaeology. We had a wonderful jaunt around the village and old manorhouse of Wentworth, hiking out from Chapeltown and having lunch in a local pub. Rob was kind enough to share pipe tobacco he had procured from Albany, NY as well. On our return, we joined their church for a larger and yet more intimate bonfire.



No beer. No effigies.
But a large fire! With chairs in it!

Traditional jacket potatoes (baked potatoes in tin-foil, traditionally cooked over the bonfire but not this night)
And fireworks! With a panoramic view of the entire Sheffield and Rotherham area, that only I could see. I offered Ashley a box to stand on.


Tired, we made our way back to the rail station and home…

Remember, remember the Fifth of November,

The Gunpowder Treason and Plot,

I know of no reason

Why the Gunpowder Treason

Should ever be forgot.

Guy Fawkes, Guy Fawkes, t'was his intent

To blow up the King and Parli'ment.

Three-score barrels of powder below

To prove old England's overthrow;

By God's providence he was catch'd

With a dark lantern and burning match.

Holloa boys, holloa boys, let the bells ring.

Holloa boys, holloa boys, God save the King!

And what should we do with him? Burn him!

"But What a Lovely Way to Burn"

(Image of Fargate, not mine.)

More often than not, a routine trip to downtown Sheffield will produce a vibrant and exciting experience, as the city center comes alive for a festival, carnival, or marketplace. Today was no different as I ventured into Fargate, a popular pedestrian destination filled with high street shops. The goal of my trip: purchasing gel inserts for a certain young man's hiking boots. About an hour after entering Fargate, I finally reached Blacks, an outdoor store. Within this elapsed sixty-odd minutes of my life I distractedly roamed vendor pavilions and market-like food stands which had sprung up seemingly overnight. Visitors thronged the offerings while smells of sausage, roast, and sugary sweets washed over us all. Mixed with the brand-new-retail aroma of the high end shops, it was almost intoxicating. Adding to the ambiance was a green-haired saxophonist from some corner of the world playing "You Give Me Fever" on a continuous loop, only broken occasionally by "Moondance."

Kicking myself for not remembering a camera, I took quick mental notes of the scene. Dutch pancakes; Bavarian cured meats; Greek olives; French cheeses; oodles of colorful gummy candy in large bins; broad German flags blowing in the rainy wind; hot British roast wagons; and could it really be...yes, an entire pig on a spit. Besides food, there were also flats and flats of cheerful plants and flowers; jewellery, jewellery, and more jewellery; scarves; lawn ornaments; two annoying market researchers (both of whom now believe I do not speak English); and a partridge in a pear tree. My Inspector-Gadget-like detective skills led me to believe this must be some sort of international festival celebrating the deliciousness that is Europe.

A quick trip to Wikipedia confirms my suspicions. Fargate apparently hosts a quarterly Continental Market, where European vendors grace Sheffield with cheeses, meats, confectioneries, clothing, plants, and jewellery. Additionally, Wikipedia supplies me with the creepy fact that mass medieval graves can be found underneath the whole of Fargate. I wonder what they think of Marks & Spencers new fall line and H&Ms fantastic pre-winter clearance.