I find myself fixating on an ornate gold angel carving, a tiny thing buried in among the opulent decor of the room, just above a fleur-de-lis and coat of arms. My glazed eyes bear into her blank gold ones, I stare at her peaceful smile and hope to share her calm mood.
My gaze drops back to the rest of the room, I tune in to the tour guide who is talking about King Louis XIV's dining hall. She begins to describe extravagant banquets the King hosted in this room; I start to feel a little ill. I think back to the night before, the heaped plates of kibbeh, tabouleh, vineleaves and grilled quail at a popular Lebanese restaurant in the eighth arrondissement.
Through the open doorway I can see back into the grand, almost overbearingly beautiful hall. I listen to the many languages mingle together in the hushed, amazed voices people use in places like the Palace of Versailles. Our guide is describing the King returning from the hunt to host his guests in this hall. A window is ajar, and through it I can make out immaculate gardens. They stretch out further than my eyes can focus; a fog has settled on the outlines of trees in the distance. I imagine King Louis riding in from these distant forests back to this very room. The way the perfectly groomed Cyprus trees are aligned reminds me of chess pieces, they are evenly spaced around the twisted, wave-shaped hedges.
Another terrible surge of nausea comes over me. I scan the room urgently, realising how far I am from anywhere remotely acceptable to be sick. I am wearing my winter beanie, and in a moment of desperate ingenuity, pull it from my head and bury my face in it, just in time to rediscover last night's dinner. In my post-nauseous state I reflect on my very unfortunate timing and yet how little this impacted the majesty of this place.
